Damien liked cloudy mornings and warm bread.
He liked making paper boats when it rained and watching them float through the muddy streets.
He liked laughter—especially the kind that came from people's bellies, real and full.
He wasn't perfect, but he was **normal**.
A little clumsy. A little too curious. But full of light.
At five years old, Damien believed the world was good. He believed kind people outnumbered the cruel, and that grown-ups always kept their promises. His favorite question was **"Why?"**, and he asked it so often the orphanage workers nicknamed him *Professor*.
Why do the clouds move so fast?
Why do people hug?
Why do birds sing if they don't have mouths like us?
He didn't know much about his parents—only that they had died in a car crash when he was very small. But he never cried about it. The other kids told him he was lucky. "You don't even remember them. That's easier." Damien never said anything back. He didn't think forgetting someone you're supposed to love made things easier. It just made the world feel… hollow.
Still, he smiled a lot. Played soccer with the others. Helped the younger ones tie their shoes.
He dreamed of becoming an inventor.
"Something that helps people breathe without pain," he once said to the staff nurse, placing his hand on her chest as she coughed from her bad lungs.
He was *gentle*.
He was **bright*.
He was *human.*
---
Everything changed when the Johnsons took him in.
"They're a good family," the caseworker said. "They have a nice home, a garden, a dog. You'll like them."
Damien had packed his tiny bag with a book, a drawing, and a heart full of hope.
He waved goodbye to the other kids.
He looked out the car window the entire ride, smiling like the sun lived in his chest.
This was it.
*A family. Finally.*
---
For the first few days, things seemed okay.
They let him sleep in a room with a window. They had a dog named Bear who liked to nap near Damien's feet. Mrs. Johnson even gave him warm pancakes one morning with syrup shaped like a smiley face.
But that smile didn't last long.
By the second week, things began to shift.
The warmth in Mrs. Johnson's voice turned sharp.
Mr. Johnson's stare lasted too long. Too quiet.
Damien learned fast.
Eat fast.
Speak softly.
Don't touch anything without permission.
Don't cry. Crying gets you locked in the closet.
By the third month, the smiles were gone.
So were the meals.
So was Bear.
---
It happened on a Tuesday. Damien remembered because it was raining and he had left his paper boat outside.
He broke a cup—just a small glass. It slipped from his hands while washing dishes.
He immediately turned to apologize.
But Mr. Johnson didn't want an apology. He wanted silence.
His hand came down like a hammer across Damien's face. Then again. And again.
Damien screamed. Cried. Begged.
That made it worse.
He was dragged to the basement, thrown onto the cold cement floor, and the door slammed shut behind him. He curled into a ball, but the kicks still found him. One cracked his rib. Another made something inside his head flash white.
Then… darkness.
Then… stillness.
---
He woke up in a hospital three days later.
His lungs hurt. His face was swollen. His right eye couldn't open. Tubes ran into his arms, and his chest was tightly wrapped.
They said he almost died.
Broken ribs. Head trauma. Internal bleeding.
The social workers cried. The nurses whispered.
But Damien just stared.
No more questions.
No more curiosity.
Just silence.
Something inside him had *snapped*.
Not loudly. Not with anger.
But with a soft, final **click**—like a door closing behind you.
---
He was placed back into the orphanage after that.
They treated him kindly. Carefully. They gave him new clothes and a warm bed. But Damien didn't play anymore. He didn't ask "why." He didn't smile when the sun came up or cry when the lights went out.
He was thirteen years old.
And he had already lost two things:
*Joy*– the kind that dances in your chest.
*Trust – the kind that lets you sleep easy near others.
---
He was never adopted again.
He wasn't aggressive. He wasn't angry.
He was just… unreachable.
Quiet. Obedient.
A shell.
Some of the staff said he was "healing."
But others saw the truth.
**He wasn't healing. He was fading.**
---
And somewhere deep inside that fading soul,
a strange fire was beginning to burn—
silent, ancient, waiting to rise when the world least expected it.
Because Damien would not die.
Not truly.
Not ever.
"There is nothing more dangerous than a child who once loved the world… and was taught not to."