Note: This chapter contains themes of violence, tread carefully. Summary given below.

Timeline: Maya's childhood

Maya's POV:

The chipped enamel of the sink gleamed under the dim flicker of the kerosene lamp, reflecting the disarray of dirty dishes piled high. My hair was a tangled mess and eyes swollen from unshed tears, my face buried in a worn copy of "Room 13," desperate for an escape from the cacophony erupting from the other room.

❛Ella crept through the darkened hallway, her heart racing as she approached the door marked '13'. She'd heard the rumors about the room - the strange noises, the unexplained disappearances - but she couldn't resist the urge to investigate. As she grasped the doorknob, a chill ran down her spine. Would she find out the truth behind the mystery, or was she about to open a door to something far more sinister?❜

I felt a welcome distraction from the tension in the other room as my curiosity about Room 13 took hold.

❛A flicker of movement from the corner of my eye caught her attention. The light cast an elongated shadow, stretching across the cluttered table and reaching towards the door marked '13'. The room had always held an air of mystery, filled with whispered rumors of strange noises and unexplained disappearances. Curiosity tugged at me, a momentary escape from the turmoil within my own home.❜

Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring the words on the page of my book. My escape into the fictional world offered only a fleeting respite from the harsh reality that surrounded me. I longed for a life filled with love and laughter, a life where my heart wasn't a barren wasteland but a vibrant garden overflowing with hope and joy.

The sharp edge of my mother's voice sliced through the fragile veil of fantasy, severing my connection to Room 13. The tantalizing secrets I craved were within reach, yet just out of grasp. The frustration was palpable, a bitter taste on my tongue, as I resigned myself to waiting for another chance to unlock the door to the unknown.

"You promised, Rajesh!" my mother's voice cut through the air like a sharp knife. "Another shirt ruined by your filth! And you still haven't taken the tobacco out of your shirt!"

Rajesh, my father, sat slumped at the table with his head buried in his hands. "I'll get to it, Rani. Just give me a moment."

"A moment? You've had years, Rajesh! Years to choose your family over that wretched weed!"

The argument in the next room escalated, punctuated by angry shouts and the shattering of glass. Fear coiled in my stomach, like a cold serpent slithering its way through me. I forced myself to focus on the book, seeking solace in the fictional world beyond the walls.

Suddenly, the kitchen door swung open, and my mother stood there, her face etched with a desperate resolve that sent shivers down my spine.

⚠️

"Maya!" she commands, the warmth gone from her voice. "Get the kerosene from the shed."

"But mom..." I stammered, the words caught in my throat.

"Don't argue with me, child!" The harshness in her voice chilled me to the bone. "Do as I say!"

My dad rises abruptly, his face etched with worry. "Rani, don't be rash. This isn't the answer."

His face etched with worry, I steal a fleeting glance at the kerosene can clutched in my mother's hand. Beneath her anger and frustration, I glimpsed a shadow of the woman I once knew, the woman who loved me unconditionally.

I longed for her touch, her warmth, her whispered reassurances that everything would be alright. A flicker of defiance sparks within me, a tiny flame struggling against the darkness. This isn't the end, I tell myself. This is just the beginning.

The unsteady kerosene lamp cast long, wavering shadows across the kitchen walls, mimicking the fractured state of my own heart. Each crackle of the flame was a reminder of the warmth I craved so desperately, a warmth that remained perpetually just out of reach. Like a forgotten weed in a desolate garden, my love had withered and died, leaving only the bitter taste of neglect.

⚠️

The hallway's dusty air danced with sunlight, each mote a tiny world in itself. The scent of old paper and worn leather filled my nostrils as I navigated the dimly lit hallway, my oversized clothes dragging behind me.

Suddenly, a jarring cry shattered the peaceful hum within me. My head snapped up, drawn to a small boy crumpled on the floor a few feet ahead. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the snot trailing down his nose. His knee was raw, bleeding onto the scuffed linoleum.

Every fiber of my being screamed at me to help. To comfort the crying boy, to ease his pain. Yet, as I looked at him, a strange sensation coiled in my stomach. It wasn't the familiar discomfort of pity, but something else. Something... darker.

It was the power to see him hurt, to witness his vulnerability without feeling compelled to intervene. The power to control his pain, to hold him in this state of helplessness with just a mere thought.

A thrill shot through me, so intense it eclipsed the ache in my own heart. It was a raw, intoxicating pleasure unlike anything I had ever known.

I stood frozen, the book clutched tightly in my hand. The boy whimpered, his eyes searching for help. But I held my ground, a chilling smile playing on my lips. In that moment, I wasn't just Maya, a lonely child ignored by the world. I was a puppeteer, pulling the strings of another's suffering.

The boy, sensing my inaction, let out a final, choked sob and struggled to his feet. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, his eyes red and puffy. With a sniffle, he turned and ran towards his classroom, the echo of his tears hanging in the air.

I watched him go, the smile on my face widening. The pain in my own life, the neglect and loneliness, faded into the background. All that remained was the exhilarating taste of power, the knowledge that I could evoke such emotions in others, that I could control their suffering with a single thought.

It was a revelation, a dark and sinister awakening within my young heart. But as I walked on, the thrill coursing through my veins, I knew this was the beginning, like a blossoming flower, it would turn to something beautiful - except nothing about power was ever beautiful.

❛for all this nothingness, yet for all this immortality, the
grave was still a home, and the corrosive hours, co-mates.❜
— Edgar Allan Poe

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Summary of part between two "⚠️" : Maya's mother, Rani, goes into her room and instructs her to get kerosene from the shed. This indicates self-incineration as a method of making someone gullible about their conduct.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

A/N:

AAAAND- here it is, a bit of Maya's backstory, it took me so much time, research and a whole lot of those things, cause, i wasn't able to decide what motivated her to become who she is. And after a lot of discussion with my friends, digging into questionable stories, documentaries and crime psychology, it hit me that, the inspiration i was looking for, couldn't have been found outside, but, inside of me.

a small confession: Maya could've been me if I had chosen a different lane of life. and as much as it is disturbing, i cannot back off from the fact that the story is, and will somewhere still align with who i am. that's being an author, twisting parts of our lives to pages of the unknown, hoping to create something that lasts beyond the pages.

how do you like (or should i say, dislike xD) the character Maya?

feel free to leave loads of suggestions, comments and feedback <3