Monsters aren’t born. They’re built. Not in sterile, bright laboratories with syringes of vile thoughts or bitter goals. No. They’re made in dark, crumbling homes where hope rots beneath the weight of silence. Where the walls echo with the cruel words of gossip and the scorn of those too cowardly to confront their own sins. Monsters start as children. Wide-eyed and defenseless, too small to understand why the world is always sharper to them. They are sculpted by hands that never knew how to hold them gently, by the shame pressed into their skin like fingerprints. The kind of shame that leaves
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