Ishaq sits alone in his small apartment. He’s 33. The ceiling is cracked, and the clock ticks loud. Time moves, but he’s stuck, like he’s caught in a trap. His parents didn’t raise him with love—they hurt him with words and worse.
They wanted him to be a what they wanted , no choice, but they were confused what they wanted. “You’re not good enough,” they’d say when he got a B, not an A. They taught him: “You’re not good enough”—he heard it all the time. They had strict rules, and breaking them meant trouble.
He was seven. He went to his uncle’s house. His cousin showed him a cool watch—silver, shiny, ticking loud. Ishaq got excited. “I want one!” he said, pulling his dad’s sleeve. His dad got mad fast. “You don’t deserve it,” he shouted. He took a knife, heated it on the stove until it turned red, and pressed it on Ishaq’s leg. It burned bad. Ishaq yelled in pain. His mom just stood there, quiet. Then it was silent. They taught him: “Wanting things leads to pain”—asking got him hurt. They taught him: “Obey or else”—do what they say, or suffer. They taught him: “Silence is expected”—no one helped, no one spoke.
Now, Ishaq feels sad all the time. Loud voices scare him. He says sorry a lot, then stops himself. That burn still hurts—not just his leg, but inside.
He’s angry, real angry, but it’s quiet. He wants to shout, “You did this! Your rules, your knife—it’s why I’m stuck!” But he doesn’t. He’s afraid they’ll hate him more. They still control him, even from far away.
His dad could’ve said, “That watch is nice, huh? Maybe later.” He could’ve smiled, been kind. But he picked the knife instead.
Ishaq thinks about being different. Maybe he could stop saying sorry. Maybe he could hope a little. Maybe a friend could help. But right now, he’s still that kid, holding his burned leg, waiting for someone to say he’s okay.
They don’t care. They don’t say sorry. They blame him. They taught him: “You’re alone in this”—no love, just pointing fingers. They tried to break him. But he’s still here, writing this. Maybe it’s a small step. Maybe it’s how he starts.
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