In this world…
truth is not measured by what is said, but by what is hidden.
Here… the guilty are not always those who wield the blade,
but those who stand in silence… and choose to watch.
Do not seek purity…
you will not find it.
Do not seek justice…
it does not come to those who wait.
If you wish to see this world as it truly is…
you must first endure its ugliness.
For what lies ahead…
is not a story.
It is a judgment… yet to be carried out.
Chapter One: Birth in Darkness
"How strange is a world…
where the soul grows old before the body.
Where the impure are revered…
and the pure are defiled.
I do not blame the one who lost his sight…
but I blame the one who saw… and chose to be blind.
You were born crying… because you could see,
and you grew up… learning how to laugh like them.
As for me… I never learned.
So… I will show you the truth."
"We… are the judge and the executioner."
In a time that held nothing worth remembering…
no great event, no tale to be told…
Elia was born.
A small child…
into a family that appeared ordinary to the outside world…
a modest, middle-class household…
Yet behind closed doors…
nothing was ever truly ordinary.
His father…
was a man who returned almost every night,
preceded by the scent of alcohol…
and followed by chaos.
He did not need to speak much…
his mere presence within the house…
was enough to silence everything.
His mother…
was a simple woman,
who lived only for her child.
She cooked… cleaned… endured…
and smiled in front of Elia…
even while she was breaking inside.
But every time…
the father returned drunk…
that smile would vanish.
The door would burst open violently…
heavy footsteps striking the ground…
unstable breathing…
The mother would freeze.
Her eyes fixed upon him…
she already knew what was coming…
yet she had nothing to stop it.
And then…
it would begin.
A slap…
then another…
then a storm of blows…
The sound filled the space…
flesh striking against flesh…
breath breaking…
screams…
that slowly turned into faint, shattered whispers.
All of this…
happened before Elia's eyes.
But he was just a child…
he did not understand…
nor did he know why it happened.
He only saw…
his mother being beaten…
crying…
then later lying beside him at night.
In the darkness…
she would hold him…
yet she was the one in need of comfort.
He felt her tears upon his shoulder…
heard her muffled sobs…
saw the bruises covering her body…
Yet he had nothing to offer…
except his presence.
And for her…
that was enough to endure another day.
One day…
the father returned…
more intoxicated than ever…
and far more furious.
Elia sat on the ground…
holding a piece of paper…
drawing.
Simple lines…
meaningless shapes…
yet to him—
it was a world.
He drew a sun…
though he never understood why it was always so far away.
He drew a face…
one that resembled his mother.
Suddenly—
the door slammed open.
The pencil trembled in his hand.
The father entered.
This time…
something darker lingered within him.
He looked at Elia…
then at the drawing…
And without a word—
a slap.
Elia's face struck the ground.
The pencil slipped from his fingers.
The paper tore.
He froze.
At that moment…
the mother snapped.
She rushed toward the father…
and pushed him.
"Why are you hitting him?!"
Her voice was different this time…
not fearful…
but burning.
But that did not stop him.
It only made him worse.
His rage twisted into brutality.
He grabbed her…
and threw her aside.
She fell.
Then the blows came…
again…
and again…
and again…
Her screams filled the room…
then weakened…
then broke…
Until they became nothing more than a suffocating whisper.
"Elia…"
He stood still.
His body refused to move…
his eyes wide open…
his heart pounding uncontrollably.
Then—
silence.
She lay still.
No movement.
No voice.
No breath.
The father stepped back…
then sat down…
as if nothing had happened.
Elia did not understand.
He approached her slowly…
his steps uncertain…
fragile…
He knelt beside her.
"Mother…?"
No answer.
He gently shook her shoulder.
"Mother… wake up…"
Silence.
"Let me wash your face…"
Tears began to fall.
"Or… sleep beside me… like always…"
He embraced her.
Her body was cold…
cold in a way…
that did not resemble sleep.
But his heart…
understood.
He cried…
silently.
As if he had already learned…
that screaming changes nothing.
Days passed.
But life…
was no longer the same.
His mother was gone.
And what remained…
was emptiness.
His father…
grew even crueler.
He forced Elia to work.
A child…
carrying burdens far beyond his strength.
He returned exhausted…
drained…
And if he brought no money—
"Get out."
He was cast outside.
The night became his bed.
The sky… his only shelter.
He looked upward…
and saw her face.
It never faded.
"Mother…"
One day…
he returned home.
He opened the door quietly…
but heard something…
something unfamiliar.
He stopped.
Then moved forward…
slowly…
Step…
by step…
Until—
he saw.
His father…
with a woman.
In a state he did not understand…
yet knew it was wrong.
He froze.
The father turned.
"Who allowed you in here?!"
Elia trembled.
"I… I didn't mean to…"
The woman laughed.
"He saw us…"
Her voice was cold.
"He must be punished."
The father stood up.
Slowly.
He did not shout.
He did not rage.
He was calm.
And that…
was far worse.
He reached for a knife.
And began to walk toward him.
Step…
by step…
Elia stepped back.
"Father… please…"
His voice shook.
"I won't do it again…"
But it was useless.
He grabbed his head.
"Learn."
The blade moved closer.
Slowly…
painfully slow.
Until—
it pierced his eye.
A scream tore through the air.
Blood streamed down his face.
The world… shattered.
"Not yet."
The blade was pulled out.
Then—
driven into the other eye.
Darkness.
Total darkness.
Elia collapsed.
He could no longer see.
But the pain…
was everything.
The woman laughed.
"What a beautiful sight…"
The father returned…
to his place.
As if…
nothing had happened.
Days passed.
Elia grew.
But the darkness…
did not leave him.
It settled within him.
He became known as:
The Blind One
He played the violin.
But…
not all sounds came from outside.
He began to hear whispers.
At first… faint.
Then clearer.
Then—
inside his head.
"Judge them…"
"They are all complicit…"
He held his head.
The pain intensified.
The voices never ceased.
Until…
one day…
He sat down.
Held the violin.
Took a breath.
And tried to play…
But—
He tried to play…
yet the silence was heavier than his strings
his fingers trembled…
not seeking a melody… but an escape
and a single note emerged…
distorted… suffocating
it was not music…
but pain… finding its way out at last
If you felt the weight of what you have read…
then know that you did not merely read… you saw.
And if you try to convince yourself that this was only fiction…
it is because the truth was far heavier than you could bear.
This world does not need to be described…
it needs to be confronted.
And perhaps…
as you turned these pages…
you were one of them.
Not the victim…
nor the executioner…
but…
the observer.