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In a cramped house, where the sun only visited for a few minutes a day, pain was the first sound the child heard upon waking… and the last before sleep.
Icarus.
His name was never spoken in that house except with anger, mockery, or cruel shouting.
His father was a monster in human skin—face always scowling, reeking of alcohol and cigarettes. He only appeared at night, returning from his disgraceful outings to break the silence with a slammed door and drunken screams.
His mother… she was the only light in his darkness.
Pale face, frail body, yet always smiling at him—trying to plant hope in a place where nothing ever grew.
After every loud, violent night, he would run to her, crying into her arms:
"Why is he like this? Why didn't he ever love us?"
She wiped his tears with trembling hands, whispering:
"Not all fathers are truly fathers, my love… but I'm here. And I'll never leave you."
But illness was eating her away.
A silent leukemia—creeping slowly, stealing every piece of her. Yet she never complained. She just grew weaker… and Icarus noticed.
One night, he heard her vomiting blood in the bathroom.
He wanted to scream, to call someone—but there was no one. Only his father, passed out on the couch.
She walked in, trembling, held his face in her hands and whispered:
"Don't be scared… I'll be okay."
"You're dying!" he cried, shaking.
But she only smiled and said, "I promise I'll come back to you… even if it's between heaven and earth. I promise."
Days later, his aunt took her to the train station.
She was going to another city for treatment. The father protested, but no one listened to him this time.
Icarus clung to her hand until the very last second, crying:
"Don't go! Don't leave me like the rest!"
She whispered through her tears:
"I'll come back… I promise, my little one."
The train left.
Hours later, the news came.
A horrific crash. The train had derailed, smashed into a mountain. Screams, flames… then silence.
His aunt survived.
But his mother… burned beyond recognition.
At the hospital, Icarus stood in the corner, staring at the wall.
He didn't move. He didn't cry.
He just whispered, "But she promised…"
When they finally said the words—"Your mother is gone"—
He collapsed to the floor, screaming as if his throat was tearing open:
"Lies! You're lying… she promised me!"
But promises don't bring the dead back.