CHAPTER 41: REN’S MEMORIES [4]

Several days passed since little Ren’s sister had left the Lysandra family mansion.

But Ren... he wasn’t free.

He was just out of the cell, not out of Celestine’s dominance. His every day was hell. Eating shattered glass, then getting healed. Chewing raw meat, getting stomach aches, then healed again. His body used as a test subject for Celestine’s cruel curiosities. She had nailed many swears—actual nails—into his skin.

The only sliver of heaven in that cursed place was one person.

A maid.

The only one who ever gave him warmth when Celestine wasn’t around. She fed him real food. She talked with him. For little Ren, even in the deepest depths of hell... there was an angel.

She wasn’t like the other maids. She looked older, maybe in her late thirties. Wore the same black-and-white uniform, but her face had faint wrinkles, her hands always trembling a little. Her body frail, like one hard wind could blow her away.

Her name was Ruthie.

That day, she sat on an old creaky chair, little Ren curled up on her lap like a kitten.

"When were you born?" she asked softly.

"Me? I was born... on the 23rd day of the 4th month."

"Only twelve days left then."

"Yeah, but why’d you ask?"

"Out of habit," she smiled faintly.

Ren just nodded.

She kept patting his head, slow, warm strokes. Then she began humming... a quiet song. Soft. Old. Gentle.

It made Ren’s eyelids heavy. His mind drifted. He fell asleep in her arms.

She turned him over gently. Looked at his worn-out face. Leaned down... and kissed his forehead.

---

Several days later.

In the garden of the Lysandra family’s mansion.

Little Ren was down on his knees, yanking weeds—not with tools, not with gloves, but with his mouth. That was Celestine’s order.

Then, a soft touch on his shoulder.

Ren flinched, terrified.

"I-It’s me... not Celestine," Ruthie’s voice whispered behind him. Her voice... even softer than his own mother’s.

"Ruthie... why are you here?"

She gave a smile, hands tucked behind her back like she was hiding something.

Then she stepped closer... and extended her hands.

In them was a tiny pastry. On top of it—a single, small candle.

Ren’s eyes widened.

"I-Is this... for me?"

"Happy birthday, Ren." She smiled gently.

"That’s why... you asked me my birthday..."

She nodded.

Ren froze. His throat locked up. He stared at the little candle, the crumbling pastry. Then clenched his fists, took a deep breath—fighting back the tears.

Then... he hugged her. Tight. Wordless. Ruthie looked surprised at first... then wrapped her arms around him. And patted his head.

"Now blow the candle, sweetheart—before the wind does," Ruthie said with a soft chuckle.

Little Ren backed off a bit, took a breath, and leaned forward to blow the candle—

SMACK!

A hand came out of nowhere, slapping the pastry to the ground.

THUD!

A sudden kick slammed into Ren’s stomach, throwing him back into the dirt.

"Ren!" Ruthie gasped, rushing to him, hands trembling as she knelt beside his small, curled-up form. His body was trembling. Still conscious... still hearing.

She turned—and froze.

Celestine stood there.

Smiling.

Surrounded by her guards.

"What were you trying to do, old hag?" Celestine asked, tilting her head with a grin too sweet to be real.

"I—I..." Ruthie stammered, eyes wide, voice trembling.

A guard marched forward, grabbed Little Ren by the neck like lifting a ragdoll, and yanked him away from her. Ruthie instinctively reached out—but she couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t stop them.

Ren, still conscious, heard everything.

"How dare you feed my dog such filth?" Celestine said, her voice laced with amusement. "You should know his favorite meal is raw meat and shattered glass."

She looked down at Ren with a twisted smirk.

"So-sorry, Celes—" ruthie tried to form an apologise.

SLAP.

"Don’t call me by my name, you old hag." Celestine grabbed Ruthie’s face with her hand. Nails digging into her skin.

Then she turned to Ren. "You tried to break your diet, dog. You’ll be punished."

Then her eyes narrowed back at Ruthie. "And as for you... I’m sparing you only because you’re somehow my mother. That’s why I banned you from being near my dog in the first place."

She leaned in, whispered into Ruthie’s ear—

"But remember this. I don’t consider you my mother."

Ruthie flinched.

Little Ren, still clutching his gut, managed to croak through gritted teeth, "W-What... Ruthie... is your mom?"

Confused. Pained. Angry.

Celestine didn’t even look at him.

"How... can you call your mother... an old hag?" Ren asked again, breathing heavy.

Celestine’s smile sharpened like a blade. "She’s only my mother because of my father’s mistake."

She clenched her teeth—but the smile never left her lips.

"That old bastard didn’t even know his own worth. Imagine—sleeping with a maid."

She muttered it like poison. As if the very thought disgusted her to her core.

Hearing Celestine’s words, Ruthie’s eyes began to glisten.

Her lips trembled. She lowered her head, voice soft, broken.

"I’m sorry... Princess. I couldn’t... become the mother you wanted."

She didn’t let the tears fall—but they shimmered at the edge, trembling like a dam about to burst.

Celestine turned to her with a smirk, tilting her head.

"Spare me the emotional drama."

Then she snapped her fingers once.

"Let’s go, guards. We’ll give our dog some special treatment today..." She paused, smiled wider. "The nail pulling."

Ruthie’s eyes shot open.

"No..." she whispered under her breath, voice caught in her throat.

She knew what that meant. She’d seen it done before. Not even grown men stayed conscious through it.

She reached out, instinctively stepping forward—but stopped herself. Her legs froze, heart pounding.

She wanted to scream.

To stop them.

To beg.

But she knew—if she did, it would only get worse for him.

Celestine walked away humming, guards dragging the small, trembling Ren behind them.

Ruthie stood there. Silent. Powerless.

And for the first time since she entered the mansion years ago, she let a single tear fall.

That night, Ruthie lay curled up in the corner of the cold, damp storage room—right above the cell where Little Ren was being punished.

THAK!

"AAAAAHHHHH!!"

The scream pierced through the stone floor like a dagger through cloth.

Ruthie’s eyes shot open. She recognized the sound. The same hollow echo of metal yanked against flesh, the same crack followed by a child’s wailing.

But this time—it was him.

She clasped her trembling hand over her mouth, heart pounding in her chest like a war drum. She couldn’t take it. She couldn’t pretend not to hear.

She bolted out of the room, rushing down the narrow servant hallway. She kicked open the door to the maid’s bathroom, fell to her knees at the sink—and vomited.

Tears streamed from her eyes, the helplessness clawing at her like wild dogs.

---

Below, in the bowels of the mansion, the last of Little Ren’s fingernails hit the blood-stained floor.

One by one.

All ten.

Pulled out.

A healer stood behind him, pale as ash, muttering spells to regenerate the damage. And as soon as one nail healed—Celestine grew bored.

"This is dull," she sighed. "It’s not fun if someone else does it."

She stepped forward and snatched the bloodied pliers from the guard’s hand, eyes glowing with twisted delight.

"Be honoured," she said with a grin. "Your princess is going to do it herself."

She laughed—a melody so out of place, it chilled the air.

Little Ren looked up at her with bloodshot eyes, his soul on the edge. His body trembled, not from pain anymore—but despair.

Celestine crouched, placing the pliers on a newly healed finger.

"Say it with me—one... two..."

She didn’t wait for three.

CRACK!

"AAAAAAGGGHHH!!!"

The pain wasn’t just physical—it tore something inside. His scream came so violently, it ruptured something in his throat.

A faint pop in his neck.

The healer rushed over, checking his throat. His face paled further.

"H-His voice box—it just burst."

Celestine only smiled wider. "Then heal it."

The healer hesitated. She looked at him.

He obeyed.

A faint green glow restored Ren’s voice.

And the pliers went back in.

One more.

Then another.

And another.

All through the night.

Until the screams became the only lullaby in the dark halls of the Lysandra mansion.

Several days had passed.

Little Ren hadn’t seen Ruthie.

His meals came from silent maids now—expressionless, stiff, distant.

No humming.

No smile.

No warm hands brushing his hair.

One evening, when the guards were distracted, he quietly crept through the servant corridors.

He reached the old storage room Ruthie called her own. The door creaked slightly as he pushed it open.

She was there.

Lying still under a blanket.

A soft smile curled on Ren’s lips.

He tiptoed forward like a sneaky fox, mischief gleaming in his tired eyes.

"Ruthie..." he whispered.

No answer.

He pouted.

"You’re no fun... You never get scared when I try..."

Still, silence.

He huffed, then leaned forward. "Answer me, Ruthie!"

A boyish grin spread across his face as he tugged the blanket away.

Then—

his smile froze.

A dagger rested loosely in her hand.

Her stomach was drenched in deep red.

The blood had dried, dark and crusted—she had been gone for hours.

Ren’s lips trembled. His body didn’t move.

"Ru...ru-Ruthie...is this..."

He blinked.

His voice cracked.

"...a prank?"

"You... know... I’m a coward... don’t scare... me..."

He stumbled back, but noticed a folded paper beside her.

Hands trembling, he picked it up.

---

To my sweet little Ren,

Thank you.

Thank you for being with me.

Thank you for talking with me.

Thank you for eating what I made, without complaint.

Thank you for sitting on my lap and letting me pat your head.

You are more than what my own daughter ever meant to me.

But because of me... you suffered.

I couldn’t take it.

I couldn’t watch my son suffer.

That’s why... I’m leaving this cruel world.

Thank you, Ren.

For being my son.

And—

I love you.

---

The letter slipped from his hands.

Tap.

It hit the floor as his fingers shook violently.

Tears splashed against the stone, one after another.

"AAAAAAHHHHH!! RUTHIE!! RUTHIEEE!!"

He fell to his knees, slamming his fists against the cold floor, over and over.

His voice cracked, heart shattering with every word:

"Mother!! Father!! Sister!! Ruthie!!

Why is everyone leaving me?!"

"Am I not a good son?! A good brother?!"

He held his head, sobbing.

"I PROMISE I’LL TRY HARDER! I’LL DO EVERYTHING YOU WANT!!

JUST—PLEASE COME BACK!!! PLEASE!! AAAAAHHH!!!"

His voice echoed through the empty halls.

But no one came.

No one answered.

He was alone again.

More alone than ever.