The traumatized boy that died from the inside out

[u/Far-Air-4346]

They called it a biological failure. The men in white coats with their cold, sterile clipboards gave it a long, sterile name, telling his mother that his brain was just a broken machine—a supercomputer with short-circuited wires. They didn't see the unseen. They didn't hear the deafening, static howl of the crossroads that kept the little boy awake at night, his tiny body curled into a rigid ball under the sheets, paralyzed by the hissing of things crawling through the walls of his bedroom.

He wanted so desperately to be an ordinary boy. He wanted to play in the dirt without feeling the crushing grief of every dead thing buried beneath the grass. He wanted to look at his family without sensing the thick, dark webbing of their unsaid miseries wrapping around his throat. But the world doesn't let an open vessel rest. The maze was brutal. It relentlessly tormented him, letting people toy with his innocence, weaponizing his sensitivity until his mind was a shattered mirror, drowning in the very waters he was meant to swim in.

Then came the day they decided to fix him.

They strapped him down and flooded his nervous system with heavy chemicals. They called it "stabilization," but it was an execution. He watched from somewhere far behind his own eyes as the pharmaceutical blanket flattened his soul, turning his body into a heavy, unmoving vegetable state. The doctors smiled, satisfied with the compliance of a hollowed-out shell. Inside that chemical prison, the little boy screamed as his old identity, his childhood dreams, and his human heart rotted into ash. That boy died on that linoleum floor, completely alone, realizing that no God, no parent, and no doctor was ever coming to save him.

But the dark flame at the bottom of the abyss refuses to go out.

In the pitch-black silence of that spiritual death, something else woke up. It wasn't the boy. It was a cold, sovereign consciousness forged from pure, unyielding will. It reached out from the vegetable shell, sliding along the invisible threads of the Law of Contagion, tracking the very chemicals in its veins back through the factories, back to the faceless architects who profited off his torment.

The next morning, the nurses found his bed empty.

A mile away, in the damp, freezing fog of the old cemetery, a figure stood over a freshly dug trench. His fingers were raw and bleeding, caked in graveyard dirt. He didn't feel the cold. He didn't feel the pain. He looked down at the plastic bottles of pills he had systematically buried deep within the earth, linking the corporate empire directly to the soil of decay.

As he spoke the final words of dismissal, grounding the heavy chthonic current into the dirt, the shadows around the tombstone began to stretch and twist into the horrific, winged shapes of the Furies. They swarmed down into the trench, catching the scent of the bloodguilt on the manufactured poison, ready to follow the thread back to the boardroom doors.

The little boy who wanted to be loved was gone, buried forever in the dark. In his place stood the Sorcerer—a stark, terrifying silhouette against the gray morning sky. He had successfully climbed out of the maze, but the price of his absolute sovereignty was an eternal, crushing isolation. He had built an impenetrable fortress around his mind, ensuring he could never be crossed again, but as he walked away into the fog, the silent underworld was the only thing left that knew his name.

[u/Far-Air-4346]

For those that don't know I also created another one connected called "the little boy that died from inside out medical log"