My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas
Chapter 97: Fire ( Emiliano’s POV )

Chapter 97: Fire ( Emiliano’s POV )

I was eight years old when my mother decided I was worthless.

Which is a far too young age even to comprehend what is going on around you, let alone to understand why the person who was supposed to love you the most in the whole world is treating you like an old, dirty rag.

And yet again, my mother was Lucrezia Akna.

If the devil were reincarnated in a woman, she would probably be scared of my mother.

Sure, my mother is a brilliant woman with a developed intelligence and a radiant presence, but that would not be why the devil would fear her.

No.

My mother is cruel. Crueler than the devil.

So she didn’t care when she threw her poor baby in a forgotten institute with not even an inkling of cleanliness or morals.

She didn’t research it before. Why would she bother? She would never come to get that baby.

But he— I survived.

I survived on nothing but rage and thirst. For what, I couldn’t exactly point to.

Revenge? Love? Justice?

Did it matter? No.

But, once in a while, between eating mushy God-knows-what a failed attempt at food, I would imagine what it would be to have a loving mother. You know, just a desperate eight-year-old longing to be loved.

Funnily enough, I could never quite picture it.

I didn’t have friends to tell me what a normal life looked like. My mother also forbade me from watching anything on TV.

Except for a handful of shows that depicted exactly how the "real world" worked so I wouldn’t get any ideas about ever talking or complaining about her parenting.

One of them was Bojack Horseman.

Which is a fine show, but not the type of cartoon you would want an eight-year-old to watch and take models from.

It taught me that I shouldn’t have expectations of my mother. That I should pity her, because I am the reason her life and body were destroyed.

And that I will never get her approval or love.

No matter how much money or fame I gather.

So when I pictured my mother in this whole fantasy of a loving mother, I imagined my mother before I was born.

The only fantasy of a happy family my eight-year-old self could imagine was not a family at all—

Was the erased face of a woman before getting pregnant.

Pretty pathetic, right?

Well, I snapped out of it pretty quickly.

Thanks to the long sessions of being injected with random substances by underpaid junkies with the same needle as other twenty kids were being poked with and the next forty would be poked as well, I rapidly grasped my situation.

Trauma could force your frontal lobe to develop. Of course, not the normal kind of development, but I digress.

Because just like any other kid stuck in that hellhole, I was happy when once in a while they would give us a mouldy cupcake. We didn’t bother to even pick up the mold.

Why would we?

It was so rare that we would get one, it was too precious to waste.

Living with starving rats trying to eat our ears when we slept, poked with the same needle, and injected with solutions only God and the devil could guess—

Life expectancy hasn’t surpassed a year since arriving.

Most died in the first week, but these were just the weak children. Kids who, maybe, at home they once experienced love.

Despite being years older than me, maybe fourteen, maybe eighteen, they were frail in the face of the institute.

Lack the motivation to get out. The thirst.

Or it could be that a developed body just couldn’t handle the different kinds of acids injected into its veins.

As for me?

I survived. Everything.

By the time I was ten, I thought my life would end there.

In a way, it did.

The random treatment performed by half-brain-dead addicts actually changed my secondary gender.

So like their elite employee, I’ve been promoted.

Into a cleaner room and to an just two or three times used needle.

This was the height of luxury!

Nonetheless, when Claus arrived, by the time I was already twelve and they almost reached the fullness of their research—

Before cutting me open to see how my organs changed and what exactly affected my change,

I was already prepared to burn the institution down.

With everyone inside.

Children, nurses, every last one.

The alarms were already screaming when I lit the first fire.

I moved fast.

There wasn’t time to think, only to act.

My body remembered the layout better than my mind did—the long halls, the heavy doors, the smell of bleach.

Every step was automatic.

I’d broken the lock on the supply closet two minutes before.

The crowbar was still in my hand, its weight dragging on my arm as I shoved it through the metal bar.

The hinges gave after three blows. Inside, rows of plastic jugs lined the shelves. I grabbed one, tore the cap off, and poured the liquid onto the floor.

The sharp, chemical stench hit my nose hard. My eyes watered, but I didn’t stop.

My hands moved quick.

Unscrew.

Pour.

Repeat.

The liquid spread across the linoleum in wide, slick arcs, seeping under the doors. My shoes slipped once, but I caught myself on the wall and kept going.

When the jug was empty, I dropped it and grabbed another.

The hall outside was quiet except for the sirens overhead.

Red lights flashed against the white walls.

I ducked low, pressed the jar to my chest, and ran. My breath rasped in my throat, harsh and dry. My pulse hammered in my ears.

I knew where the cameras were. I knew the blind spots.

It spread fast. My shoes left wet tracks behind me.

I left the jug in the center of the mess and moved again.

The storage wing was next.

I shoved the door hard, felt it give. Inside, bins lined the walls, stuffed with sheets and blankets.

I didn’t hesitate. I ripped the top bin open and pulled the fabric free, tossed it to the floor. It fell in a heap, pale and soft.

I drenched it with what was left in the container. The liquid soaked through, dripping onto my hands.

Cold at first. Then burning. I ignored it.

My fingers shook as I reached for the lighter I snatched from one of the junkies. The small metal body was slick with sweat, but it sparked on the first try.

The flame was small, almost nothing. But when I touched it to the edge of the blanket, it caught quick.

Orange crawled fast over the surface, climbing the folds. Heat hit my face.

I didn’t watch it spread. I ran.

The hall was brighter now.

Smoke rolled low across the floor, creeping up the walls.

The alarms were louder, a shrill pulse pounding through my head.

My throat burned when I sucked in air. I coughed hard, spat black onto the tiles, and kept moving.

I hit the next wing and kicked the door open.

The hinges groaned, but it gave way. Inside, rows of file cabinets stood like metal blocks. I grabbed the first drawer and yanked.

It jammed, but I ripped it free and dumped the papers onto the floor.

The second drawer came easier. More paper. I soaked everything. The liquid dripped between my fingers, down my wrists, into my sleeves.

My lungs screamed when I lit the next flame.

Fire raced through the pile, snapping and curling the paper in seconds. Heat roared up, hotter than before. It licked at the ceiling tiles, turning them black. Smoke thickened, choking the light from the room.

The first explosion hit when I was halfway down the hall. A deep boom shook the floor under my feet. Heat slammed into my back, shoving me forward.

I stumbled, caught the wall, and kept running.

My ears rang, but I didn’t stop.

The lights flickered.

Then they died.

Darkness swallowed the hall except for the glow of the fire spreading behind me. Red and orange bled across the walls, flickering in waves. Smoke filled every breath, thick and bitter.

My eyes stung so bad I could barely see, but I knew the path. I didn’t need sight for that.

I reached the final door and rammed my shoulder into it.

Pain shot through my arm, but the latch snapped.

Cold air hit my face as the door swung wide. I stumbled out onto wet grass, coughing hard enough to tear my throat raw.

Behind me, the building burned loud.

The sound wasn’t like the alarms—it was heavier, deeper, like the walls themselves were cracking apart.

Flames punched through windows, shattering glass.

The heat rolled in waves that seared my skin even from where I stood.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand. It came away black with soot. My shirt stuck to my body, soaked with sweat and chemicals.

Every breath hurt. My chest ached.

But I didn’t stop moving until I was past the tree line.

When I looked back, the institution was gone under the fire.

The roof collapsed in on itself, sparks shooting high into the dark sky.

Smoke rose in thick columns, swallowing the stars. The alarms still screamed, faint now, buried under the roar of the flames.

"Emi—"

Only then did I notice that Claus was beside me. He followed me through the hectic and came out alive.

He had the same thirst as me.

As I was now treating my burn wound, squeezing my teeth in pain, I could only recollect how my whole life was just a dodge of flames.

My mother.

The institute.

Survival on my own at twelve years old.

And now?

My wife.

Light of my eyes, fire in my loins.

Luther.