THE RISE OF THE FALLEN GENIUS

I had always believed geniuses were supposed to notice everything. That I was supposed to hear every little thing. Every shift in expressions. Every unusual silence. Every glance that lasted a second too long.

That evening, I noticed it too.

The house smelled of fried plantain and pepper stew, thick and warm, wrapping around every corner like comfort itself. It was my comfort . The aroma drifted from the kitchen and settled into the sitting room where I sat with a book open on my lap, though my eyes had barely moved past the same paragraph in the last ten minutes.

My mother was humming. She always hummed when she cooked. It was a soft tune, one of those old songs she never seemed to finish, just the same lines over and over again, almost like she was speaking to herself through music.

The sound should have calmed me. It usually did. But that evening, something felt wrong.

I looked up from my book. My father sat in his usual chair near the window, one leg crossed over the other, a newspaper spread wide in his hands.

“Did you know,” he suddenly said, peering over the top of the paper, “that if your mother keeps feeding us like this, I’ll soon become too handsome for my own good?”

From the kitchen, my mother scoffed.

“You’re already too old for your own good.”

I smiled.

Normally, Father would have laughed loudly, clapped his hands, and thrown in another joke just to annoy her. Instead, his smile faded too quickly. I watched his eyes flicker to the window. Then to the door. Then back to the newspaper.

I frowned.

He had been doing that for days now. Looking over his shoulder, checking the windows. Sometimes he would pause mid-sentence as though he had heard something only he could hear.

At first, I had thought it was work. Father handled important matters. Important people. Men with polished shoes and cold smiles often came to see him, speaking in low voices behind closed doors.

But this felt different. This was fear. I could see it in his eyes. He looked like a man being followed by something invisible. Like a ghost had fixed its eyes on him and refused to look away.

It started four days ago. Before then, Father had been loud, confident, and impossible to unsettle. Then suddenly, he became restless. He barely slept. I heard him pacing at night.

Sometimes I would wake to the sound of his footsteps moving across the hallway outside my room. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like a prisoner in his own home.

I closed my book and watched him more closely.

His fingers tightened around the edge of the newspaper. A bead of sweat glistened near his temple. It was strange because the evening was cool.

“Father,” I said.

He looked up too quickly.

For a moment, his eyes widened, almost startled.

Then he forced a smile.

“Yes, son?”

“Is everything alright?” I asked.

He held my gaze for a second too long. Then he chuckled.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

I didn’t answer. Because I knew he was lying. And I knew he knew I knew.

Before I could say anything else, a body launched itself at me. I grunted as my little brother crashed into my side.

“Got you!”

I looked down at him and sighed. Daniel grinned up at me, all missing front teeth and endless mischief. He was eight and had somehow made it his life’s mission to interrupt every serious moment in the house. That didn't make me love him any less.

“Do you ever walk like a normal person?” I asked.

He shook his head proudly. “No.”

I laughed. That was Daniel. He was all noise, all joy, all trouble. He snatched the book from my lap and held it upside down.

“Do you actually read all these?”

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

I've memorized 120,000 words.

“Yes.”

His eyes widened as if I had just confessed to sorcery.

“You’re strange!”, he said with a laugh. Not like my friends who said with a frown and a dark look in their eyes. I ruffled his hair.

“So I’ve been told.”

Mother stepped out of the kitchen with a wooden spoon in hand.

“Daniel, leave your brother alone before I use this spoon for something other than cooking.”

He darted behind me immediately.

“See? She loves me best,” I said.

“Liar,” Daniel muttered.

For a moment, everything felt normal again. Warm. Safe, like home.

I should have paid more attention to how precious that moment was. I should have stayed. Instead, I stood.

“I’m going out.”

Mother turned sharply.

“At this hour?”She raised her brow and tucked her brown hair behind her ear. She was so beautiful.

“It’s still early, mom.”

“It won’t be for long.”, she argued.

“I’ll be back soon. I promise”

Father looked up again, his expression tightened.

“Don’t stay out late.”

Something in the way he said it made me pause. It was not a warning. It felt more like a plea. I frowned.

“I won’t.”

Daniel sprang forward immediately. “I’m coming with you!”

“No.”

His face fell.

“Why?”

“Because where I’m going is boring.”

“I like boring things.”, he said and I laughed.

“No, you don’t.”

“I do!”

I crouched to his level and ruffled his hair. “Next time.”

He pouted..“You always say that.”

I smiled.

“Next time. I mean it, Dan ”

Those words would haunt me for years. The bookshop sat three streets away from our house.

It was old and narrow, squeezed between a tailoring shop and a newspaper stand, but to me, it was paradise. My paradise.

The moment I stepped inside, the familiar smell of paper and dust wrapped around me.

“Ah,” Mr. Kane said from behind the counter. “The genius has arrived.”

I smiled faintly. Everyone in the neighborhood knew me. Some called me strange. Others called me brilliant. Most just stared.

At sixteen, I had read more books than many grown men in the district. History, law, mathematics, politics, literature. Anything I could get my hands on.

Mr. Kane liked to boast that I had read half his shop. He was wrong. It was closer to three quarters.

A man standing near the newspaper rack looked at me and laughed.

“Is it true you finished yesterday’s paper in under five minutes?”

“It was six,” Mr. Kane corrected.

I

picked up the latest newspaper. The headlines were already predictable. Politics. Corruption. A missing government fund. A senator denying allegations. Same lies, different font. I scanned the page quickly. Three minutes later, I placed it back.

The man blinked.

“You’re done?”

“Yes.”

He laughed again, this time with disbelief.

“You actually read it?”

I recited the main headlines, the names mentioned in the article, and the statistics in the economic column. His mouth fell open.

Mr. Kane chuckled.

“I told you.”

People always looked at me like that. With surprise. Some with curiosity. Some with expectation. Everyone believed I would become something great. Sometimes I believed it too.

I spent longer than I intended in the shop. One book became two. Then three. Time slipped. It always does when I am engulfed by books like this. As it always did when I read.

By the time I finally looked up, the sky outside had darkened. My chest tightened. I'm too late now. Father’s words echoed in my head.

“Don’t stay out late”

I hurried out. Halfway home, Daniel’s face flashed in my mind. His pout. His voice.

“I’m coming with you”.

A sharp wave of guilt hit me. I should have taken him. At least he would have stopped me from staying out so long. I quickened my pace.

The streets were quieter now. I was too quiet.

As I turned the corner to our house, something felt wrong immediately.

There were people outside. Too many people.

A crowd. I heard the whispers. Faces I knew. Some faces I didn’t. My steps slowed.

No.

No.

A cold dread crawled up my spine.

I pushed through the crowd and someone grabbed my arm.

“Don’t—”

I yanked free.

The front door was open. It was wide open.

The house was dark. I stepped inside. The smell hit me first. Not food. Not home.

Metal. It was something sharp. Something was wrong.

Blood.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

“Mother?”

No answer.

“Father?”

Silence.

My breath quickened. I rushed toward the sitting room. And I froze.

The newspaper lay on the floor. Father’s chair had been overturned. A cup was shattered beside it. Glass everywhere. My hands began to shake.

“Daniel?”

Still nothing.

Then I looked up. And the world stopped.

My father hung from the ceiling. The rope dug into his neck and his body swayed slightly.

My mind refused to understand what my eyes were seeing.

No.

No.

No.

Then

I saw the blood on the floor.

A trail leading deeper into the house. Toward the kitchen. Toward where my mother had been.

Toward where Daniel—

I took one step forward. Then another. My entire body trembled and then I screamed.