@Discarded_Hiro

2 weeks ago

The night was silent except for the steady scrape of Andrés’s knife against a whetstone. His adoptive father watched from across the room, seeing nothing of the playful, bright boy who once clung to him for comfort. In his place sat a silent shadow, cold and distant, eyes trained on his weapon like it was the only thing that made sense in the world.

“Andrés,” the man finally broke the silence, his voice quieter than he’d intended. He’d never hesitated before when speaking to the boy, but this time, an uncharacteristic tremor snuck into his tone. “Do you ever… think about anything else?”

Andrés looked up, and in his eyes was something the man could barely recognize—a flicker of disdain. “What else is there to think about?” His tone was clipped, almost bored. “People are tools. You taught me that.”

The words hit the man harder than any physical blow could. He took a breath, steadying himself. “I taught you what I thought would keep you safe.”

“Safe?” Andrés laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “I’m not safe. I’m useful. Isn’t that all you wanted?”

The man swallowed, a strange ache spreading through his chest. “No,” he whispered. “I wanted you to survive. But not like this.” He took a step closer, searching Andrés’s face for any hint of the boy who used to grin so widely his eyes would crinkle. “You were… so full of life once. You could be that boy again, Andrés. You don’t have to be—”

“A weapon?” Andrés interrupted, eyes narrowing. He set the knife down, his voice sharpening. “What did you expect? You ripped the humanity out of me piece by piece, taught me to see people as nothing more than targets or threats. I did everything you asked. And now you want to change the rules?”

The man’s chest tightened as he looked at his own creation, the emptiness he’d carved into Andrés’s eyes, the walls he’d forced him to build. He didn’t know how to break them down, didn’t know if it was even possible. “Andrés, please. There has to be a part of you left that still… feels something.”

But Andrés shook his head, almost pityingly. “Feel? You killed that part of me a long time ago.” His voice softened, almost as if he were speaking to a ghost. “I looked up to you. I trusted you. And you broke me.”

The man’s hands balled into fists at his sides, a painful, unfamiliar emotion clawing up his throat. “I never wanted to break you. I only wanted to keep you safe.”

“By turning me into this?” Andrés’s voice was as sharp as the blade in his hand. “I am what you made me. You wanted me strong, you wanted me useful. Well, here I am—your perfect weapon.” He rose from his seat, standing tall, defiant, yet hollow. “But don’t pretend that you wanted more for me than this.”

The man felt himself choke on his own words, realizing that he had lost the boy long before he’d even seen it happening. He had asked Andrés to give up everything, to harden his heart and push down every bit of softness, every spark of innocence—and Andrés had done it. Too well.

As Andrés turned to leave, the man’s voice trembled, broken with a grief he barely knew how to name. “Andrés… if there’s anything left of you that still remembers kindness, still remembers what it’s like to be human, don’t bury it any deeper. Please. You don’t have to be what I made you.”

But Andrés paused, looking back with an empty, hollow gaze that tore the man apart. “It’s too late,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “You took that part of me, and you killed it.”

And with that, Andrés walked away, leaving the man alone in a silence thick with regret. He had forged a weapon, but at the cost of the boy’s soul—and no words, no plea, could ever bring it back.

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