"?????????'? ??????"

The five years passed like a blur, a never-ending cycle of captivity and suffering. I was kept in a cage, small and cramped, barely enough space to move or lie down. It was a world of confinement and isolation, the only sounds the cries and screams of the other anomalies around me.

I was a novelty, a source of entertainment and curiosity for the man and his associates. They would come and stare at me, their eyes filled with sadistic glee and perverse satisfaction. They would poke and prod, taunt and mock, take me out of the cage and test my limits, all for their own amusement.

Like a mindless slave, I was forced to clean the tents, tend to the other anomalies, and do whatever chore the man and his associates demanded. I was treated like a servant, my value determined solely by my ability to perform tasks and obey commands.

One day, another group of individuals arrived at the camp. Buyers. They were there to select and purchase anomalies for their own collections. I watched them enter the tent, their eyes roaming over the cages, inspecting the various anomalies like one would inspect a piece of artwork.

They lingered in front of my cage, their gazes heavy with curiosity and hunger. The man watched from the side, his expression carefully neutral, though a flicker of anticipation danced in his eyes.

He barked an order at me, his voice gruff and commanding.

"Feed them," he said, motioning toward the other anomalies. "They're your siblings now, so treat them accordingly."

I was given a small bowl of food—scraps and bits of leftover meat and vegetables. I had to offer it to the other anomalies, my fellow prisoners, one by one. It felt humiliating, a cruel mockery of a family.

The others accepted the food with varying levels of desperation, some taking the offered morsel with hesitant gratitude, others snatching it away and scarfing it down greedily. I hated every moment of it, feeling a strange mix of guilt and revulsion as I fed them like animals in a zoo.

But more than that, I felt empathy. Despite our physical and mental differences, we were still human in some way, each of us carrying our own pain and suffering. It was a cruel irony that we, like so many before us, were victims of prejudice—treated like objects and possessions rather than sentient beings.

The buyers continued inspecting the anomalies, their eyes moving from cage to cage with calculating gazes. I could see their greed, their desire for ownership, not unlike the man’s. The realization sank in—this was just a business to them. We were just currency.

The man walked up to one of the buyers, a sly smile on his face. He pointed to an anomaly in the cage beside me, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

"This one," he said smoothly. "Strong and unique. I demand 100 gold pieces for it."

One of the buyers, a tall man with a cold, assessing gaze, stepped forward. He tilted his head, eyeing the anomaly critically.

"100 gold, you say?" he asked, skepticism lacing his voice. "It better be worth that much."

I watched as they haggled, their voices rising and falling in tense negotiations. My heart clenched as a deal was finally struck. The anomaly—a boy, barely older than me—was dragged from the cage. His face twisted in fear and defiance, but there was nothing he could do.

The man turned to me, his smirk widening.

"One less mouth to feed," he muttered with mock satisfaction.

I clenched my fists. The boy had just turned fourteen. Just a child.

The words escaped me before I could stop them, my voice barely a whisper. "He just turned fourteen."

The man heard me. His expression darkened as he stepped closer to my cage, his eyes narrowing with irritation.

"So what?" he said, his voice sharp and cold. "All the same to me. Young or old, they're just anomalies. Just things to be bought and sold."

He stopped suddenly, his gaze locking onto me with something darker than irritation. He had seen the sympathy in my voice, the defiance in my eyes. And he hated it.

"Clean it," he ordered, pointing at the now-empty cage. "Every speck of dirt, every drop of blood. I want it spotless."

I nodded silently, my heart heavy as I stepped forward. The boy’s terrified face was burned into my memory, a fresh wound that refused to heal.

As I worked, I whispered under my breath, barely audible even to myself. "Mom…"

The ache of loneliness crashed over me like a tidal wave. I missed her—the warmth of her presence, the sound of her voice, the comfort of home. Memories of my childhood clawed at me, a stark contrast to the cold, harsh reality I lived in now.

But I couldn’t break down. Not while the man was watching me like a hawk. I swallowed back my emotions and kept working, my hands moving mechanically, my heart numbing itself to the grief.

For five years, this had been my life—routine and monotony. A never-ending cycle of cleaning, feeding, and surviving. Each day blended into the next, the only break in the dull repetition being the arrival of buyers or the addition of new prisoners.

But I had learned. I had adapted. I had grown.

I became stronger—physically and mentally. I learned how to blend in, to keep my thoughts to myself, to hide my emotions where no one could reach them. I became invisible, unnoticed, a ghost in the camp.

And now, at ten years old, I had reached a milestone. It should have been a moment of joy, a celebration. Instead, it was nothing but a grim reminder of the years I had lost, the childhood I had been robbed of.

I had long stopped counting the days. But the anniversaries still came, haunting me like ghosts I couldn’t escape.