The curry tasted awful.

  Morbus could barely get another bite dow, he pushed the fork into his mouth and tried to suppress the disgustiion on his tongue.

  Taste is nothing more thaerpretation of electrical signals in your brain. Don't be fooled.

  Across from him at the kit table sat his father. He didn't seem to have any trouble with the lentil curry. Still, he didn't look good. His short bck hair, stig out in all dires, resembled a swarm of needles pierg his scalp. His gsses were crooked on his nose, and his forehead was marked with deep wrinkles. Behind the edge of his gsses, Morbus could just make out his father's dull, gray eyes.

  Morbus tried to lift the mood a bit. He scooped up another forkful and raised it to his mouth.

  "Delicious," he lied.

  His father raised one eyebrow.

  "...Mr. Horatio," Morbus added quickly.

  Without saying a word, Horatio tinued eating.

  Morbus forced himself to finish his meal. He was genuinely hungry, and that video from the m had made him appreciate that there was food oable.

  When his father was doing, he finally spoke, his voice heavy as though bearing the weight of the world.

  "I'll do the dishes."

  He stood up, the silver half-amulet around his neck swinging as he moved.

  Morbus nodded. "Then I'll get bay homework," he said. He stood up, walked to his room, and closed the door.

  Homework time.

  He sat down at his desk and opened his physics book. Just a few more exercises to go. He grabbed his formu sheet and got to work.

  trating was difficult: his mi drifting to Mora, with whom he had spent practically the whole afternoon talking. Explosions of excitement bloomed deep in his core.

  I hought someone could be this amazing.

  It took him nearly two hours to finish his homework. On a normal day, it would only take less than half so long. But then, on a normal day, you don't experience crazy moments like this.

  He ged into his pajamas and got into bed. It was already half past nine.

  But not before I write down this evening so I won't fet what I've learomorrow.

  He pulled the notebook from under his pillow and wrote dowire evening. Although it wasn't much except for dinner and homework.

  At least I'll remember everything about her, he thought with a thin smile while recalling Mora's face again in his minds eye.

  He pulled the covers over himself and fell asleep immediately, a sense of happiness warming him as he drifted off.

  * * *

  But the sleep didn't st long.

  Ten minutes after he had dozed off, someoered the room.

  Shit.

  A memory awoke in his mind. Pieces of fotten memories surfaced, and along with them, the feelings they stirred up grew more vivid.

  His father stood there, silhouetted against the hallway light. He took a few steps forward.

  "Morbus." His voice was dark and menag.

  His memories tinued flooding back, repying past events he'd pletely fotten.

  I've been through this before. Déjà vu?

  Morbus sat up in bed. He saw his father pull something from his pocket.

  Double shit.

  Morbus reized the object all too well. His father's pocket knife held more than just foldable tools. One of them was in fact—

  There it is!

  His father pressed a button, and a long, steel pin with a rounded, red-glowing tip extended from the handle.

  "How was school?" Father Horatio stepped closer. A twisted smile appeared on his face.

  Morbus kly what was ing.

  Stay calm. Don't provoke him.

  "Good," Morbus replied. "We had—"

  "No, how was it?", his father interrupted, moving closer until he was standing at the foot of the bed. "Did it make you happy?"

  Morbus swallowed, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin.

  What now?

  But it was too te. As Horatio shouted "ANSWER ME!" into his face, he shoved the pocket knife forward, and the searing hot pin pressed against Morbus's chest, letting out a hiss.

  "AAH!"

  The pain was unbearable. It wasn't just at the point of tact; his entire body seemed to relive this torment. Memories of previous burns exploded in his mind, like a fuse setting off a stick of dynamite.

  His chest ched, and he colpsed backward onto the bed. His father sat on the edge.

  "Feel it," he said with satisfa, lig his lips. "Admit it, school was miserable."

  "No!" Morbus protested. His father brought the pin down again.

  "AAH!"

  "What was it then, Morbus?"

  Tears streamed down his face. His voice shattered as he begged for his life. "Please, s-stop, father—"

  "AAAAH!"

  "DON'T CALL ME THAT!" His voice thundered like a jet engine. "It's Mr. Horatio", he said through ched teeth. "How many times have I told you I don't want to hear 'dad,' 'father,' or even my first name? Is that clear?"

  Morbus's voice was barely audible. "Y-y-yes, M-mr. Horatio," he mao excim.

  His father ughed coldly, a heartless, chilling sound.

  "Alright, Morbus. You know the drill. Turn around."

  No, not again.

  But he had little choice.

  "DO WHAT I SAY!" Horatio roared while bringing the burning tip to his chest again.

  "AEWH!" Morbus's cries had transformed into i sounds. Quickly, he rolled over so that he y on his stomach, his back exposed.

  How many times has this happened? How many scars? It doesn't matter. It never matters...

  Horatio grinned, clearly sav his power. "Listen," he began.

  Here we go.

  Horatio's voice took oone of a cult leader perf a ritual, pressing the burning steel pin in his back with every sentence. "Our world is a hell, with Aquinox as the only one remaining stronghold above the water. Here, everyone is happy. But happiness is fually wrong. Being happy blinds you to others' pain. Therefore happiness creates inequality." He leaned close, whispering into Morbus's ear. "You were happy today, weren't you, Morbus? I could tell. It was all in your as, the way you looked, how you moved, the pitch of your voice. So you enjoy inequality. The safety ihe Walls while others suffer outside. You take pleasure in this hell, like everyone else here." He straightened back up. "The people before the disaster would be amazed at how good we have it. They would…"

  Morbus let his father's words drift in one ear and out the other. Every stab sent new jolts through his body, so intense he could no longer scream; his nerves were overloaded.

  It was as if he were falling into a bottomless pit, an endless dest into pain. Falling, falling, without end. As he fell, it grew hotter and hotter. The heat became unbearable, and though his body should have given out, it kept going. His skin scorched bck, his lungs roasted, his ans charred and withered, his heart exploded. Yet his nerves tio rey trauma signals to his brain, stretg time into something unbearable.

  Time lost meaning. Space vanished entirely. The further he fell, the more unbearable it felt to be alive in a body that had already died. Trapped in the echoes of his own thoughts.

  * * *

  Somewhere at the bottom of the pit, rhythmic hissing sounds echoed.

  "...disappointed in you." His father's voice sounded far away.

  He opened his eyes.

  "You are not allowed to be happy, Morbus..."

  That smell... that horrible smell...

  "You are fually fwed and useless..."

  How long have I been gone?

  "I WISH YOU WERE DEAD!"

  The bed creaked, footsteps left the room, and the door smmed shut.

  It was dead silent.

  Morbus tried to feel his body, but immediately he was overwhelmed by the burn wounds. He tried to scream, but his throat only permitted a high, croaky rasp. His body was broken.

  Father's words echoed through his skull: You are fually fwed and useless.

  Maybe he was right.

  Morbus tried to sit up, in vain. His body refused to obey, every nerve screaming in protest. Still, he dragged himself toward the desk, biting down on his lip to keep fr out. His trembling fingers fumbled with the drawer, searg blindly.

  There. The pencil case.

  He seized it, his breath ragged, and pulled out the pass. The metal felt ice-cold against his burning skin.

  Just once. A si, as if making the pain visible could help him uand it. But deep down, he k wouldn't.

  He pressed the point against his palm. A sharp sting. Then ahen a third. Blood welled in tiny red beads. But the weight inside him remained.

  He pushed harder. It didn't help.

  The agony in his chest swallowed everything else. The bruises, the burns, his father's voione of it faded. The pass slipped from his fingers, cttering onto the desk.

  But it didn't ge anything. The weight inside him remained, unshaken.

  Morbus stared at his shaking hands, his breath hitg. His mind screamed for escape, for something—anything—to drown out the torment. But all he felt was the crushi of exhaustion pressing down on him.