The boy crept towards the village with his head down, hoping to go unnoticed.
But as soon as the first villagers saw his forehead, the usual chaos erupted, mothers grabbed their children and fled, while men wielded weapons and cursed his name.
He hurried to the market, not taking his eyes off the dust at his feet, but even empty, the stalls seemed to pass judgement.
Why should he alone bear this curse, evident for all to revile him?
What sins of past lives could have thus condemned him?
Exhausted and sick, he gathered what provisions he could: a loaf of stale bread, some bruised fruit about to spoil.
When he left some money that no one would touch, screams of rage followed him to the outskirts of the city.
He ran, tears mingling with the sweat on his face, but their insults could hurt no deeper than the question eternally etched in his soul:
Why was he born with the mark that labelled him a monster?
