A Child in a Cage

Elias’s earliest memories were not of sunlight, nor laughter, nor the warmth of other children’s company. They were of shadows.

The shadow of curtains drawn too tightly, so thick that even the brightest summer light barely slipped through. The shadow of his father looming above him, always watching, always ready to strike. The shadow of silence that seemed to live inside the house—heavy, suffocating, pressing against the walls until laughter had no place to grow.

He remembered pressing his palms against the window glass, his breath fogging the pane as he stared out at the world he was forbidden to touch. From that small square of sky and cobblestone street, he watched the children of Alvernia play. They chased one another with bare feet slapping the stone, scraped their knees, wrestled in the grass, and shouted with voices so free that even the wind seemed to carry their joy. Elias’s small chest ached with longing. He wanted to know what it felt like to run until his legs burned, to fall and laugh instead of cry, to have a voice that carried without fear of being silenced.

But Kevin’s words always rang in his ears.

“Omegas don’t belong out there. Omegas serve. Omegas obey. You’ll stay inside until I say otherwise.”

Kevin’s rules were absolute. Jane never dared to question them, and Elias quickly learned that he should not either. The house was his world, and the house was a cage.

The rooms smelled of musty wood and dust that never seemed to go away, no matter how much Jane cleaned. The furniture was sparse, sturdy but cold, chosen not for comfort but for Kevin’s convenience. Jane softened it in little ways—she would drape embroidered cloths over the table, arrange flowers in chipped vases, and sing lullabies in the evenings as though the walls could be coaxed into remembering kindness. But no matter how hard she tried, Elias could feel it: the house was a prison.

Still, Jane gave him what she could. She sat with him near the fire during long winters, her voice gentle as she read from worn books that smelled of ink and age. She told him stories of heroes who fought against monsters, of kind kings and brave knights, of worlds where light conquered darkness. When he asked her questions—why do the heroes always win? Why are the monsters always defeated?—her eyes would grow sad, and she would brush his hair back from his forehead. “Because, my darling, stories remind us of what should be, even when it is not.”

She taught him to read before he was old enough to walk steadily. She showed him how to sew stitches into fabric, how to whisper prayers in the dark, how to hum to himself when silence pressed too heavy on his chest. She gave him lessons in kindness and strength, though she could never say them aloud in Kevin’s presence. Instead, she passed them in small ways—a touch on his shoulder, a whispered word when they were alone, the way she kissed his bruises after Kevin’s hand had fallen.

But Elias still felt the weight of his cage.

By the time he turned six, curiosity became too heavy to bear. That summer morning, the sound of children playing outside drifted through a crack in the curtains. Their laughter rang like bells, and the sunlight slipped into the house in narrow beams, painting golden dust across the wooden floor.

Elias sat cross-legged, staring at the light. He could almost hear the grass whispering in the breeze, almost feel the warmth of the sun on his face. His heart thudded in his small chest, faster and faster.

Just once, he thought. Just one breath of the outside air.

He rose to his feet, his hands trembling as he reached for the door. The wood creaked faintly beneath his touch, a sound so loud in the silence that it made him glance toward the staircase where Kevin slept. His breath caught, but no footsteps came.

Slowly, carefully, Elias pushed the door open.

The world met him in a rush. A warm breeze brushed against his skin, so different from the stale air of the house. The grass was cool beneath his bare toes, soft where the wood of the floors had always been hard. He tilted his face upward, eyes wide as the endless blue sky stretched above him. For the first time in his short life, he saw the world not through glass but with his own eyes.

Freedom.

It was sweet, it was wild, and it filled his chest until he thought it might burst. He took one small step into the yard, then another, each breath filling him with joy he had never known. His lips curved into a smile, hesitant at first, then blooming like dawn.

But freedom lasted only minutes.

“ELIAS!”

The voice cracked across the yard like thunder.

Elias froze, his small body stiffening as though the sound itself had struck him. He turned, heart plummeting, and there was Kevin—his broad frame filling the doorway, his shadow stretching long across the grass. Fury carved deep into his face, his eyes sharp enough to cut.

Before Elias could move, Kevin’s hand closed around his arm like iron.

The world blurred. He was dragged inside, the door slammed shut, and then the blows began.

Kevin struck him again and again, his voice a roar that shook the house.

“You dare disobey me?” Smack.

“Omegas don’t get to choose!” Kick.

“You are mine—mine—to command!” Fist.

Elias’s small body curled in on itself, but the blows kept coming. Pain lit across his skin like fire, sharp and merciless. His cries filled the house—thin, desperate, high-pitched with terror—but no help came.

Jane rushed forward, tears streaming down her face. “Please, Kevin! Please, he’s just a child!” Her hands reached out, desperate to shield her son, but Kevin shoved her back with such force she stumbled to the floor.

Her pleas were drowned by his rage.

When at last Kevin’s fury was spent, Elias lay gasping on the wooden boards, his body trembling, bruises blooming in purple and blue. Blood stained his lips, and his tiny hands twitched as he tried to breathe through shallow, wheezing sobs.

Jane crawled to him the moment Kevin stormed from the room. She gathered him in her arms, rocking him gently despite her own trembling. Her voice broke as she whispered apologies into his hair. “I’m so sorry, my love. I’m so sorry.” She dabbed his wounds with a cloth, kissed his forehead, and prayed desperately that he would survive until morning.

Elias did survive. But something inside him had changed.

The next day, sunlight streamed through the curtains again. The sound of children laughing carried through the glass. But Elias did not reach for the window. He did not press his palms to the pane, or watch with longing. He stayed close to his mother’s side, silent and obedient, his wide eyes dulled with fear.

He had learned the truth. His cage was not made of wood or iron. His cage was pain and fear, forged by his father’s hands.

It was invisible, but it was unbreakable.

And so Elias stopped trying.

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