"You Finally Did It"

He collapsed to his knees.

His hands trembled.

The knife slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

Blood poured — dark, thick — soaking into his clothes.

But he felt no pain.

Only emptiness.

Deeper than anything he had ever known.

He stared at what was left of him.

And his thoughts were no louder than a whisper:

I got rid of it.

But the disgust didn't fade.

It grew sharper.

Stronger.

As if he had cut away not just a part of his body —

but a piece of his soul.

He lifted his head.

His eyes were empty — the eyes of someone who had lost everything they had.

Light from the window fell across him, casting a long shadow on the wall.

And in that shadow,

he looked smaller than before.

The blood kept flowing.

Warm. Sticky.

It gathered beneath him in a slow, growing pool.

But then the emptiness changed —

turned to pain.

Sharp. Burning.

As if someone had shoved a red-hot iron rod into his groin.

He clenched his teeth.

His breath came in sharp gasps —

the way a wounded animal breathes when caught in a trap and unable to escape.

The pain pulsed —

growing with every beat of his heart —

until his body started to shake,

unable to contain the agony.

He tried to stand,

but his legs buckled.

He collapsed onto his side.

His hands reached instinctively toward his groin —

but even the lightest touch

was a fresh stab of pain.

Like pressing a finger into an open wound.

Then he felt it —

warm liquid running down his thighs.

Not blood.

Urine.

He had lost control.

His bladder emptied itself.

He couldn't stop it.

The urine mixed with blood,

spreading across the floor and soaking into his clothes.

Sticky. Foul.

Real.

He clenched his fists,

nails digging into his palms, leaving crescent moons of pain —

but it didn't help.

The pain between his legs was unbearable —

like someone was still cutting,

long after he was done.

He tried to breathe,

but every breath was a fresh wave of agony,

ripping through him.

Tearing him apart.

He lay there,

trembling.

His body slick with sweat,

his temples soaked in blood and urine.

His thoughts were a broken mess —

shards of glass scattered on the floor,

too sharp to gather,

too many to ignore.

I did it, he thought.

But the thought was hollow —

like an echo in an abandoned house.

I got rid of it… but why?

The pain was still there.

The disgust remained.

And now,

he was more broken than ever.

He didn't know how much time had passed —

minutes,

hours,

an eternity —

but the pain never let go.

And he felt his mind slipping.

Drifting.

Like sand through his fingers.

He didn't know if he was still alive —

or if this was just another circle of his own private hell.

One that would never end.

---

He woke up.

Light filtered through the cracks in the wooden boards — gray and cold, as always — illuminating the dust as it danced slowly through the still air.

He lay on the mattress, sunken and old, thrown directly onto the wooden floor.

His body was heavy, but the pain that had torn through his groin was gone —

as if it had never been there at all.

He slowly sat up.

His hands still trembled,

but it wasn't from pain —

just echoes of what he'd done.

He looked down.

His pants had dried.

The blood and urine that had soaked through them had vanished —

as if someone had wiped it all away while he slept.

But the memory remained.

Sticky.

Clinging like a spiderweb that couldn't be brushed off.

Why? — he whispered to himself, barely audible in the silence of the attic.

To remove the interference,

he answered himself.

And in that answer, there was something cold.

Something resolute.

Like a man who cuts off his own hand to escape a trap.

Time passed.

He didn't know how much —

time in this house moved like fog, impossible to measure.

His stomach growled.

Hunger twisted his insides like an iron hand.

He stood.

His movements were slow, unsure —

like someone who didn't know where they were going,

but couldn't stay where they were.

He walked to the hatch, opened it,

and climbed down the unsteady stairs.

Each step groaned beneath him,

but he barely noticed.

The smell of food rose from below —

fried eggs, toast —

blending with the low hum of the refrigerator.

He stopped at the kitchen door, left slightly ajar.

A voice floated out.

Soft.

Warm.

But still trembling.

— "Son, are you hungry?"

He froze.

His body tensed,

as if struck.

Those words...

They were the same.

As yesterday.

As the day before.

As always.

But now they felt different.

After what he'd done to her.

After he raped her.

After he cut off his own penis to kill the impulse inside him.

How can she ask me that like nothing happened?

His mind spun.

A broken carousel of thought.

His knees weakened.

But the hunger was stronger.

Stronger than his confusion.

Stronger than his self-disgust.

— "Yeah… I'm coming. Give me extra rice,"

he said.

His voice was hoarse —

as if his throat still remembered the rope.

Still remembered the knife.

But instead of walking to the kitchen,

he turned toward the front door.

His steps were fast.

Panicked.

Like someone trying to escape what they already knew would catch them anyway.

Of course I want to see you, he thought,

his thoughts bitter, like poison.

Of course I'll hate myself again the moment I see you. But I can't stay here anymore.

He had to leave.

Had to escape the house.

The cycle.

The chains.

He reached the front door.

His hand gripped the handle —

but it didn't move.

Locked.

Old.

Rusty.

The key was nowhere to be found.

He pulled harder —

nothing.

Only the sound of creaking metal.

A cruel sound.

Like the house laughing at him.

His breath grew shallow.

Panic tightened around his throat.

But he knew.

He had no choice.

He had to go back to the kitchen.

He had to see her.

But just as he turned,

his eyes caught on a photo hanging beside the door.

A man.

Tall.

Severe expression.

Old shirt.

And a little girl —

holding his hand.

She smiled.

Her eyes were bright.

Innocent.

But something in the photo made him stop.

He didn't know who they were —

but their faces cast a shadow across his mind.

A quiet warning of something he couldn't yet understand.

He looked away.

And with heavy steps,

as if the entire house sat on his shoulders,

he walked back toward the kitchen.

---

He stepped into the kitchen.

His footsteps were heavy —

each one like a step toward a cliff's edge.

She was standing at the stove.

Her slouched shoulders.

The faded apron.

The long dark hair falling loose from her bun —

all exactly the same,

as if nothing had changed.

She turned.

Her face was pale,

touched with a faint grayish tint.

Her eyes were wide,

with a flicker of madness buried deep within.

And her smile —

unnatural,

like a mannequin trained to mimic the living.

She placed a plate in front of him —

eggs, toast, rice —

just as he'd asked.

Then sat across from him,

her movements slow and dreamlike,

as though she weren't fully there —

as though she existed in some other world entirely.

He sat.

Picked up his fork.

But his thoughts were far away.

He ate mechanically.

No taste.

No hunger.

His eyes fixed on the plate,

yet he couldn't help but notice her —

her presence,

her calmness,

her refusal to acknowledge the truth.

She acted like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn't raped her.

Like he hadn't mutilated himself.

Like today wasn't just another loop in a nightmare that would never end.

Her obedience,

her smile,

her voice —

all the same.

Just like yesterday.

Just like the day before.

Just like always.

And it unraveled something inside him.

He felt his mind fraying —

like old fabric pulled too tight for too long.

I raped her,

he thought.

And the thought pierced his mind again —

again —

again —

like a knife driven in over and over.

I cut it off to make it stop…

But she acts like nothing happened.

Like I did nothing.

His hands began to shake.

The fork clinked against the plate.

He gripped it tighter, trying to hide the tremble.

He wanted to scream.

To ask her why.

Why she didn't hate him.

Why she still smiled.

But the words stuck in his throat —

a lump of guilt and horror he couldn't swallow.

He set the fork down.

His voice came out rough,

like his throat still remembered the rope.

Still remembered the knife.

— "I want to go outside," he said.

His eyes were empty,

but something desperate flickered inside them —

like a drowning man gasping for air.

She looked up.

Her smile widened.

Almost deranged.

But her voice remained soft,

like silk on the verge of tearing.

— "Oh… that would be your father," she said lightly.

— "He should be upstairs now, with your sister."

Sister, he thought.

And the word hit him like a splash of cold water.

Huh… alright then.

He didn't know who she was.

Didn't remember her.

But the photo by the door floated into his mind —

the man,

the little girl with bright, innocent eyes.

Is that them?

He didn't know.

But something inside him tightened —

as if he were standing on the edge of something vast and black.

— "Then I'll go to them," he said.

His voice was hollow,

like an echo from far away.

He stood.

His movements were jerky —

like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

He walked toward the stairs.

They creaked under his weight,

but he didn't notice.

His mind was too full.

Too full of her words.

Too full of what he'd done.

Too full of the fact that he remembered neither a father nor a sister —

and yet now, he was going to find them.

He reached the second floor.

A narrow corridor stretched out before him —

dim, lined with doors.

Each one the same:

old, with peeling paint and rusted handles.

He stopped.

His breathing was unsteady —

as if he'd just finished running.

Which one are they in?

he wondered.

His eyes darted from door to door.

He didn't know what was waiting behind them.

But he could feel it —

whatever it was,

it would change something.

Or maybe change nothing.

In this house,

in this cycle,

anything was possible.

He stepped toward the first door.

His hand reached for the handle.

And froze.

As if he were suddenly terrified of what he might find.

---

Instead of opening the door,

he knocked.

His knuckles trembled —

like those of someone terrified of what waited on the other side.

A man's voice answered from within.

Low.

Rough.

Like rusted metal grinding against stone.

— "Yes."

That must be my father, he thought.

And the thought was cold.

Like ice locking around his organs.

He didn't remember him.

But something in that voice sounded familiar —

like an echo from the past he couldn't quite grasp.

— "Father… may I come in?"

he asked softly,

his voice barely louder than wind whispering through a ruined house.

— "Yes."

The tone was indifferent —

as if it didn't matter who stood outside the door.

He entered.

His hand shook as he pushed the door open.

He expected horror.

After everything with his mother,

he was ready for blood, for madness, for something that would tear his mind apart.

But instead…

the room looked ordinary.

Like an office.

And that confused him more than any nightmare could.

The walls were covered in dark wooden paneling,

faded by time,

cracked like veins.

A rug lay across the floor —

worn into a dull gray-brown,

stained in ways he didn't want to understand.

In one corner stood a bookcase

packed with dusty books —

their spines faded,

some pages jutting out,

as if torn in haste.

A small window let in a sliver of light,

filtered through dirty glass,

casting long shadows across the walls.

A single bulb hung from the ceiling,

no shade,

its light cold —

like something you'd find in a morgue.

In the center stood a desk,

cluttered with papers,

an inkwell,

old pens that hadn't been touched in years.

Everything here felt frozen,

as if time itself had stopped.

But the air…

it was heavy.

Saturated with something he couldn't name.

His father sat at the desk.

Back straight —

like someone used to command.

He was writing —

his hand moving fast.

The pen scratched across the paper,

leaving black lines too sharp for such a dead room.

He was tall, broad-shouldered,

with short, dark hair streaked with gray.

His face looked carved from stone —

hard,

furrowed,

the face of a man worn down by years of anger and exhaustion.

The son stood in the doorway.

A guest.

A stranger.

His body tense,

unsure what to expect.

His father didn't look up.

He kept writing —

as if the presence of his son mattered no more than a buzzing fly.

— "Sit on the couch,"

the man said.

Cold.

Emotionless.

Like he was talking to no one at all.

The son obeyed.

His movements were jerky,

like a puppet whose strings had snapped.

He sank into the old couch —

its fabric rough, damp, dusty.

The springs creaked under his weight.

The cushion swallowed him whole —

as if the couch itself wanted to keep him there.

His father finished writing,

put down the pen,

and finally looked up.

His eyes were dark —

almost black —

with a glint of coldness that made the son shrink inside.

— "Why did you come?"

The voice was sharp —

like a blade just unsheathed.

— "Father, I… I want to go outside,"

the son stammered.

His voice trembled —

a leaf caught in the wind.

He didn't know why he said it.

It was the only thing he could manage to push out.

His father frowned.

His face twisted in fury —

as if those words had offended something sacred.

— "How many times have I told you—"

he began,

his voice booming like thunder —

but he cut himself off.

He had turned.

Stared at his son's pants.

And froze.

There,

a dark stain had bloomed around the crotch —

where the boy's penis no longer existed.

— "So it's true,"

the father muttered.

His voice dropped to a whisper —

but there was something in it.

Joy.

A strange, unsettling joy —

like a man finding something he'd long been searching for.

He stood.

His footsteps were heavy —

like hammer strikes —

as he walked toward the boy.

The son tensed.

His whole body trembling.

He tried to back away,

but the couch held him in place —

like a trap.

The father leaned down.

His hand reached for the boy's pants —

and shoved inside,

roughly,

without warning.

His fingers searched

and found…

nothing.

Only emptiness.

Where something used to be.

His eyes widened —

lit up with something close to madness.

— "You finally did it,"

he said.

His voice brimming with satisfaction —

like a man watching his long-laid plan come true.

— "Father…"

the boy whispered,

horrified.

But he didn't have time to say more.

The father grabbed his shoulders.

His strength was monstrous —

like that of a beast who had never learned mercy.

He bent the boy forward —

ripped his pants with a single motion.

The fabric tore like paper,

revealing pale skin,

and the raw, bleeding wound

where a penis used to be.

The boy struggled,

his hands clawing at the couch.

But he was nothing —

a child fighting a giant.

The father didn't stop.

His movements were brutal.

Mechanical.

Without hesitation.

Without remorse.

Blood returned.

Fast.

Thick.

Dark.

It poured across the couch.

The floor.

His body.

The pain came back —

sharp, searing —

like hot metal driven deep into flesh.

He screamed.

But his scream was faint —

a whisper the wind would carry away.

Blood flowed.

And flowed.

Its smell filled the room —

iron and dampness and rot.

It mingled with dust and mold.

It soaked everything.

His eyes began to close.

His body weakened.

Blood spilled from him like water from a shattered jar.

He died from blood loss.

His breath stopped.

His limbs went limp.

But the father did not stop.

His motions went on —

mechanical,

unfeeling,

like a machine that didn't know what death meant.

As if nothing had happened at all.