darkness

By fourteen, James understood that fairness was a childish idea his house had cured him of. His parents never said he was unwanted. They said he was advanced. Advanced children didn’t need allowances. They didn’t need electronics. They didn’t need rest. Those things were for kids who still had to be managed. James managed everything. He cleaned the house from top to bottom every day. Meals prepared. Floors scrubbed until they passed inspection. Errands run without complaint. If something went wrong, the blame was automatic. Not because he caused it, but because responsibility had already been assigned. His sister lived under different rules. Her chores were suggestions. Her mistakes were stress. Her wants were needs. When she wanted something new, James was reminded that sacrifice built character and envy was ugly. The manipulation was constant and polite. “You’re not like other boys.” “You don’t need rewards.” “Don’t embarrass us by acting jealous.” They never raised their voices. They removed things instead. Light. Privacy. Sleep. Approval. Each removal explained calmly as consequence, never punishment. When he asked why the rules didn’t apply to his sister, his mother smiled and said, “You’re stronger than that.” Eventually, he stopped asking. James learned how to move through the house without making noise. How to finish work before it was assigned. How to accept praise that sounded like dismissal. He learned that obedience kept the peace, and silence kept him safe. They believed they were shaping a man. What they actually shaped was a child who measured his worth by how invisible he could become.