THEY TREATED ME KINDLY

In the days just before Christmas, everyone became gentle.

That was the strangest part.

Voices softened when they spoke near me. Hands touched me with care. Someone even brushed dust from my side once, the way you might straighten a shirt before a photograph. I was fed early, then again later, as if hunger itself had been removed from my responsibilities.

If I didn’t know better, I might have thought I was loved.

The house buzzed with anticipation. Not frantic, not rushed—happy. Plans were repeated aloud like prayers. Guests were expected. Drinks were counted. Chairs were arranged and rearranged. Everyone seemed to be preparing for a moment they could already taste.

I listened from my place in the corner, still, obedient, learning the rhythm of their joy.

No one looked at me with cruelty.

That confused me.

Cruelty, I understood. Cruelty had a shape. A sound. A warning. This—this was something else. This was intention wrapped in warmth. This was kindness with an ending already decided.

On the evening before Christmas, a man stood beside me for a long time. He said nothing. Just nodded to himself, once. Satisfied. As if I had done exactly what was expected of me simply by surviving this long.

I wondered, briefly, if my brother had ever been looked at that way.

The thought made my chest ache.

That night, the house did not sleep. Music floated through the compound, louder than before. Laughter spilled into the open air. Somewhere nearby, people were already celebrating—early joy, impatient joy.

I lay awake, watching shadows dance across the wall.

I realized then that no one was pretending anymore. The waiting room had reached its final page. Whatever came next was not a possibility—it was a schedule.

Still, they treated me kindly.

And that was how I knew, with a clarity that scared me, that tomorrow was not mine.