"Monsters aren't born. They are created.
Not from the imagination of someone's deepest fears, but from tangible negative energy. Darkness formed from cruelty, pain, and evil.
That is how Devil was made; How I came to be."
----
"When I was a child...
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I remember him....
I was just a boy when I lost saw him.
I don't think he knew this, but my room was right next to his.
... and I saw everything.
Father never allowed me to leave my room. After my birth giver left me with him, he left me down here and my only human interaction was with Fathers henchman and with an older woman who was just as much a prisoner as I was. She mostly just cleaned, but when her hands weren't in cased in a pair of yellow rubber gloves to protect her fragile skin from the harsh cleaning products, she was using them to teach me hand speech.
Her husband had owed a debt to father and paid for it by selling her to him, not much good that did though, as father ended up murdering him shortly after.
No debt went unpaid.
Ever.
That is how all of the working staff at the Harbor ended up here. Unpaid debt, blackmail, or the worst of reason of all.
Trafficking.
I don't know much of what happened before I came into the care of the the older woman, just that my mother was a victim of Fathers sexual trafficking and ended up pregnant with me. We lived in a brothel for the majority of my infancy. Then one day, we were brought here and I was pulled from my mothers home and she was taken away.
I know she is dead.
I have refused to acknowledge that fact, choosing to think she didn't want me was much easier than the alternative.
The older woman became the mother figure a child like me needed desperately, because I was different.
Of course, I knew this, Father never let me forget it. His falcons, a ridiculous name given to the men who worked underneath him, surely never passed up an opportunity to degrade me for being a retard. I was never able to form words, I'd open my mouth to vocalize my thoughts and opinions, but it was like it was stuck inside my brain, refusing to push past my lips. The only time my voice was heard was through grunts of frustration or cries of pain.
Which was always more fuel for them to use as ammunition to ridicule me.
To laugh at me.
To hurt me.
As I grew up, I learned to keep my eyes turned downwards and to ignore all the hateful things spouted in my direction.
Up until the day the older lady, who I never knew the name of, protected me against the wrong person, and she was dragged away from me just like my brith giver was, and hung up in the pit and tied to the pole and whipped until she took her last breath.
That wrong person was Carmelos, a monster. I remembered him and what he used to do to my savior.
The vile, despicable, and heinous things he would do to him...
