The Bound Demon

The bell rang, signaling the end of class. The teacher left without a backward glance, her heels clicking rhythmically against the cold linoleum floor. The classroom emptied quickly, students shuffling out in groups, their laughter echoing through the corridors.

But Elyon stayed behind, his head lowered, his green eyes staring blankly at his desk. His fingers traced the scratches in the wood, the etchings of past students—names, hearts, and little drawings faded by time.

A shadow loomed over him.

"Not going home, orphan?"

Elyon tensed, his grip tightening around his pencil. Before he could react, a rough hand twisted into his dark hair, yanking his head back. Pain flared across his scalp, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out.

"Look at him," another voice chimed in, mocking and cold. "Pathetic. Like a stray dog waiting for scraps."

They pulled him from his seat, his knees hitting the floor hard. The world spun, colors smudging at the edges of his vision. His breathing came in short, shallow gasps as they surrounded him, blocking out the light.

"You're nothing," the leader hissed, shoving Elyon back down. His cheek struck the floor, a sharp sting blossoming along his skin.

Books and bags were thrown on top of him, heavy and uncaring. The weight pressed down on him, and for a moment, he didn't move.

He had learned early that resisting only made things worse.

The room was empty, devoid of any sympathy. Even the teachers turned a blind eye, their indifference as sharp as any blade.

Hours passed. The world outside the window shifted from the pale hues of afternoon to the deep blues of twilight. The classroom, once bustling with life, now stood still, a silent witness to his suffering.

It wasn't until the night guard made his rounds that Elyon stirred. The door creaked open, and a flashlight beam swept across the room, catching on his curled-up form.

"Hey, kid. School's closed. Time to go home."

Elyon forced himself to move, every muscle aching. He pushed off the ground, the weight of the bags tumbling away. His legs wobbled, but he steadied himself, brushing off the dirt and the remnants of shame.

"Yeah," he whispered, his voice rough. "Home."

He stepped into the night, the cold biting through his thin clothes. His footsteps echoed along the empty streets, the city lights casting long, lonely shadows.

His home was a small, crumbling building on the edge of town. The paint peeled from the walls, and the windows were clouded with dust. He slipped through the rusted gate, the creak of metal the only greeting he received.

Inside, the room was sparse. A thin mattress lay in the corner, covered by a threadbare blanket. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, its dim light barely reaching the corners of the room.

Elyon sat on the mattress, pulling his knees to his chest. His head throbbed where they had pulled his hair, and he could feel the bruises forming beneath his skin.

But the pain was nothing new.

He stared at the ceiling, the cracks forming shapes only he could see. His mind drifted, the edges of reality blurring.

In the silence, he heard it again—a voice, soft and distant.

"Find me... I will always find you."

Elyon's eyes drifted shut, the heaviness pulling him into sleep. And as he fell, his dreams reached out to him, a silver-haired figure standing amidst a field of flowers, his red eyes filled with a longing that mirrored Elyon's own.