I HATE YOU! The words blazed in my mind, searing like a firestorm. It was the first thought I ever truly understood—raw, unfiltered, and all-consuming.
I was barely able to walk when I was first thrown into slavery. There was talk of a war, but such things meant nothing to a child. To me, survival was all that mattered, an instinct shared by every creature that breathes. The master, a man who looked much like I did, treated me far differently than the other creatures on the farm.
The others, I noticed, slept in the master’s house. One was slightly shorter than him, with long brown hair. Two others were smaller, about my height. The taller of the two had short hair like mine, while the shorter had long hair. I didn’t know what it meant at first, but as more creatures visited the farm, I began to understand: short hair meant I was male, and long hair marked the others as female. These details were patterns, nothing more, in a world I was learning to decode.
The farm was filled with other creatures too—some with four legs, others with two. Each served a purpose. The tall four-legged ones carried the master wherever he wished, and the smaller two-legged creatures laid round objects that the master used to create food. The smell of that food made my stomach ache with hunger whenever I wandered too close to the house.
I learned quickly that the house was forbidden to me. My first attempt to enter earned me the whip, and the pain of that lesson lingered for days. When my tears and exhaustion left me unable to work, the whip came again. It didn’t take long for me to realize that the other creatures like me avoided punishment by obeying the master’s commands.
He would point at something, sometimes speaking as he did, but the sounds he made were meaningless to me. When I didn’t understand, the whip always followed. I began to watch closely, studying how the others responded to his gestures. Over time, I learned the patterns. If he pointed at the pile of yellow stuff and then at the four-legged creatures, I was meant to feed them. If he pointed at the stick with yellow strands at the end, I was to sweep the dirt from the wooden floor.
Survival meant imitation. I mimicked everything—how they moved, how they worked, and even how they used their mouths to create those strange sounds.
“No.” The word came from one of the servants, spoken sharply to the master. I practiced saying it under my breath until I dared to try it aloud. The whip’s bite reminded me that understanding context was as important as the word itself.
Eventually, I discovered the word “yes.” It became a shield, a safe response when I didn’t understand what was expected. Over time, the sounds formed into language, and I could finally communicate—at least enough to avoid constant punishment.
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Two winters passed, and with each season, I learned more. I took on more work as the other servants disappeared. One fell ill, their body growing weaker until they didn’t rise from their bed one morning. The other, driven by desperation, attacked the master with a kitchen knife. The master disarmed him easily, throwing the blade to the ground. What followed was unlike anything I had seen before.
The master’s rage was different this time—calm, deliberate. He raised his hand, and light erupted from his fingers. It wasn’t fire or anything I understood, but a quick, blinding flash that pierced the servant’s head. The body crumpled at the master’s feet, lifeless. The light lingered, faint and ethereal, before vanishing like smoke caught in sunlight.
The master’s hands trembled afterward, but his anger did not subside. He found me watching from the stable and unleashed his fury. He struck me with his fists, blow after blow, until my body ached with every breath. When he was finished, he ordered me to dig a hole for the servant’s body, just as I had done for the other. I didn’t understand the purpose of burying them, but I knew disobedience would land me in the same shallow grave.
The chores of the others now fell to me, and with them came more mistakes. The master’s rage grew, and so did mine. I came to understand his hatred of me because I felt it too. Those words he screamed at me became my own mantra.
- Hate. You.
The hatred fueled me, shaping everything I did. Yet fear—the basic instinct that keeps creatures from challenging their fate—was absent. Whether I was born without it or had lost it through endless suffering, I didn’t know. But I began to dream of rebellion, of retaliating against the master. In my dreams, I planned every detail, replaying every possible outcome.
But someone else acted before I could. One night, the sharp scent of smoke woke me. Fire clawed at my lungs and heat pulsed from the haymow. Flames rose higher than I had ever seen, twisting and roaring as they consumed the barn. Embers floated through the air like tiny, burning stars. The sight was terrifying—and beautiful.
I heard voices and turned to see the master and his family climbing into a carriage. Their shouts were frantic, but one word stood out: "Devil." The sound of it stirred something deep inside me, a primal sense that this word carried unimaginable danger.
And then I saw it. The creature emerged, its massive form demolishing the shed I had called home. It was red, almost pink, with leathery wings and curled horns. Its grotesque face—a blend of goat and pig—should have filled me with terror. But I felt nothing. No fear, only curiosity. How could something so massive move? How did it fly? What gave it such destructive power?
The creature’s glowing eyes locked onto mine, studying me as if searching for something. When it found no fear, its expression shifted. A silent understanding passed between us. No blood would be spilled here.
With a single beat of its wings, the creature turned toward the master’s carriage. The screams of the family and the shrieks of the horses ended quickly, leaving only the crackling of flames.
I sat in the hay, watching as the fire crept closer. The heat wrapped around me like an embrace, but the flames never touched me. They danced and twisted, wild and untamed, as though they knew me. For the first time, I felt a kinship—with the flames, with their relentless, consuming beauty.
The barn groaned and collapsed, the flames whispering their message: "Run. You’re free."
I stayed until the fire’s song was etched into my soul. Then, I rose and walked into the dark forest, leaving the blaze behind.