The Severed Penis

He opened his eyes.

The attic greeted him once more —

but this time, it was unbearable.

Heavy.

The silence clung to him like a scream he couldn't hear.

The floorboards creaked under him —

the same as always.

Light filtered through cracks in the wood,

cold and distant,

casting faint beams across the dust swirling in the air.

But something had changed.

The pressure returned,

the phantom touch on his neck,

stronger this time.

More real.

It burned,

where the rope had once cut into his skin,

where the blade had sliced through.

He touched his throat, fingers trembling.

Nothing.

No scar.

No blood.

Just the memory.

Sticky.

Persisting.

Clinging like cobwebs woven into his thoughts.

The boxes.

The lamp.

The rope in the corner.

Everything remained the same.

But now it seemed different.

They no longer felt like objects.

They felt like silent witnesses —

too many things seen,

but never spoken.

Who am I?

The thought pierced his mind again.

But now it was hollow.

Empty, like a burned-out house.

He didn't expect an answer.

He knew better than to hope for one.

Instead, fragments of the past floated to the surface.

The smell of food.

Her voice.

Her eyes — huge, wet,

flickering with that same insane light.

Her body — pliable.

Her submission.

Her words — "Being your mother."

They burned through his mind like acid,

corroding everything left of his sanity.

I raped my mother,

the thought invaded him like a blade,

and it settled there,

growing deeper with each passing moment.

I've killed myself more than once.

He gripped his head in his hands.

Nails digging into his skin.

But pain couldn't drown the thought.

It buzzed in his mind like an insistent fly —

never leaving.

And as I think of this, I'm aroused.

His body responded,

and it filled him with a wave of disgust so strong it drowned him like dirty water.

How vile.

How utterly vile.

He collapsed back onto the mattress.

His body was heavy, as though molten lead had been poured into his veins.

He lay staring at the low slanted ceiling,

where cracks in the plaster spread like veins.

His breath was uneven,

but he couldn't move.

Thoughts spun in his head like a broken carousel

that refused to stop.

I raped my mother.

I've killed myself more than once.

How disgusting.

How utterly disgusting.

He shut his eyes.

But it didn't help.

The images flared before him like frames from a movie he couldn't turn off.

Her submission.

Her smile.

Her pliant body.

His own hands forcing her into it.

He clenched his fists.

Nails sinking into his palms,

leaving red crescents.

But the pain couldn't drown the disgust

that ate away at him from the inside.

He lay there, motionless.

Unable to rise.

Unable to escape.

Time stretched on,

like rubber,

and he lost himself in it,

like drowning in fog where there's no beginning or end.

How long had he been there?

An hour?

A day?

An eternity?

He didn't know.

His mind began to fray.

Thoughts tangled, like threads in a knot.

Did I die while I lay here?

The thought was cold,

like a blade pressed to his throat.

Or how many times have I died already?

He remembered the rope.

The knife.

The blood, hot and quick.

But he was still here.

Or maybe he wasn't.

He couldn't tell.

His body lay on the mattress,

but he felt himself slipping deeper,

into darkness.

A place where time didn't exist.

Where only endless self-reflection and accusation ripped him apart.

---

Light cut through the cracks in the ceiling.

Gray.

Cold.

It dragged him out of the suffocating dark,

where he had been sinking.

He opened his eyes again.

His body felt heavy,

as if he had been lying there forever.

The attic wrapped around him.

The floorboards creaked.

Dust spiraled in the thin beams of light.

The mattress beneath him was flattened,

cold,

discarded directly on the wooden floor.

The boxes, the lamp, the rope in the corner —

everything was in its place,

like a set that never changes.

His mind was overloaded.

Like a machine running too long on overload,

refusing to think anymore.

He didn't try to remember what he had done.

The memories were down there, somewhere,

but he didn't want to touch them.

They were like poison

that should stay locked away.

He stood,

his movements automatic,

like a puppet pulled by invisible strings.

He moved toward the hatch.

Opened it.

Down the shaky stairs he went.

The steps creaked beneath his weight.

But he hardly noticed.

His mind was too exhausted to care about details.

The smell of food —

eggs frying, toast —

rose from below, mingling with the hum of the refrigerator.

He stopped at the slightly open door to the kitchen.

Through the crack, he could see the same scene:

the worn table,

the yellowed wallpaper,

the dried-up plant on the windowsill.

A voice, soft and warm, but trembling,

came from within:

— "Son, are you hungry?"

He froze.

Those words…

he had heard them.

Twice.

Maybe more.

I'm her son, he thought,

but now it didn't feel certain.

It felt like a guess.

Something he repeated because nothing else made sense.

Her voice was beautiful.

But there was something in it —

the same obedience that made his skin crawl.

He stepped forward.

— "Yes," he answered, his voice firmer than before.

He wanted to see her again.

He wanted to understand.

---

She turned.

And there she was —

just as he remembered.

Short.

Hunched.

Wearing that faded apron,

hanging on her like a burial shroud.

Her hair, long and dark,

was gathered into a careless bun,

but strands had escaped,

tracing her pale neck like black ink on ruined parchment.

Her skin was nearly translucent —

a marble statue forgotten in the rain.

Gray tones clung to her cheeks.

Dark hollows bloomed beneath her eyes like bruised fruit.

And her eyes...

They were too large.

Too wet.

Fringed with lashes that trembled under their own weight.

There was emptiness in them —

but also something burning far beneath,

like a wild animal that had forgotten the taste of freedom.

Her lips parted slightly,

pale and thin.

The corners of her mouth curved upward

into that same unnatural smile —

a fixed mask

learned, not felt.

It clung to her like something rotting.

Her movements were slow.

Unnatural.

Like someone walking inside a dream

they could never wake up from.

She looked at him.

And something in that gaze made his skin tighten —

not from desire,

but from fear.

From recognition.

His body betrayed him.

He felt it stir.

Felt it rise.

His erection returned,

and with it came the memory.

It surged up,

bursting through the dam he had built inside his mind —

the image of her bent over the stove,

of him behind her,

her submission,

his thrusts,

her silence.

Her voice afterward.

"Being your mother."

He paled.

But the arousal didn't vanish.

It remained,

throbbing,

vile,

like a tumor

he couldn't cut out.

How disgusting, he thought.

His mind was sticky with it.

Like tar.

How disgusting I am.

He wanted to rip the feeling out,

to claw it from his skin,

from his brain,

from between his legs.

He knew —

knew deep inside —

that if he let himself,

he would do it again.

His stomach turned.

The bile rose.

But he sat.

He sat and ate.

Fork in hand.

Chewing.

Swallowing.

Like a machine.

She sat across from him,

that same smile on her lips.

Watching.

Always watching.

---

The meal stretched on

like torture.

Each bite of toast felt like a stone.

Each chew scraped his throat raw.

He didn't taste anything.

Couldn't.

His eyes remained fixed on the plate,

but he felt her.

Felt her watching.

Her obedience.

That dead-eyed smile

like a slap across the face.

He was still hard.

Still disgusting.

And that knowledge stuck to him

like filth he couldn't wash away.

Thoughts spun again —

a record with a broken groove:

How disgusting.

How disgusting.

I raped her.

I killed myself.

Again and again.

He wanted to scream.

To rip out the memory.

But it clung tighter.

He gripped the fork so hard

his knuckles turned white.

But it didn't help.

Nothing helped.

Across the table,

she moved like a ghost.

Slow.

Detached.

As if she wasn't really there.

Her hand lifted the fork.

Lowered it.

Lifted it again.

Her eyes occasionally flicked up to meet his.

Quick.

Shallow.

Each glance held the same unbearable submission.

He couldn't take it anymore.

The meal ended.

His plate was empty.

But he felt more hollow than ever.

His gaze fell to the knife.

Still on the table.

Butter knife.

Blunt.

But sharp enough.

His hand reached for it.

Fingers curled around the handle.

He stood.

Movements erratic,

disjointed —

like a marionette stumbling off script.

He didn't look at her.

Didn't want to.

Couldn't bear her eyes.

He walked out.

The house creaked beneath his feet,

as if it groaned under the weight of what he carried.

He climbed the stairs.

Each step a drumbeat.

Each step an echo of everything he hated.

He reached the attic.

Closed the hatch behind him.

Silence swallowed him whole.

Only his breath remained —

ragged,

uneven.

He stood in the center of the room,

knife in hand.

The light cut through the boards —

gray,

cold —

casting long shadows like bars.

The boxes,

the lamp,

the rope...

They were all watching now.

All waiting.

The thought repeated,

over and over:

How disgusting.

How disgusting.

I raped her.

I want to be free.

He looked down.

Still hard.

Still there.

Still the thing that betrayed him.

I hate it.

I hate myself.

It needs to go.

His hand trembled,

but there was resolve now.

This wasn't about death.

Not this time.

It was punishment.

It was erasure.

He fumbled with his pants.

Pulled them down.

Exposed the thing that had ruined him.

Still erect.

Still throbbing.

And with a hatred deeper than anything he had ever felt,

he pressed the blade against its base.

His breath caught.

Then —

he cut.

---

The first cut was shallow.

But the pain—

The pain was instant.

It wasn't just sharp —

it consumed him.

A wave of fire exploded from between his legs,

racing up his spine,

into his chest,

his throat,

his skull.

He clenched his jaw,

hard,

grinding his teeth

until they ached.

But no sound escaped.

He didn't scream.

Couldn't.

Wouldn't.

The knife pressed deeper.

The trembling steel tore flesh,

and blood erupted —

thick, hot, dark.

It splattered his thighs.

Soaked the floor.

Ran down his legs like punishment.

He staggered but stayed standing,

his hands soaked in himself.

The pain blurred his vision.

Each movement became jerky, uneven.

But he kept cutting.

Kept going.

Not because he wanted to,

but because he had to.

There was no turning back.

He wasn't just cutting skin.

He was cutting sin.

Shame.

Memory.

It took time.

More than he expected.

He fumbled.

He sawed.

The dull knife slipped.

Bit him in new places.

Ripped.

But he kept going.

Until finally —

with a wet, dull thud —

it dropped.

His severed member hit the wood floor,

bounced once,

then rested in a pool of its own blood.

He stared at it.

His vision swam.

His breathing slowed.

Then the weight in his knees gave out.

He collapsed.

Hard.

The knife clattered beside him,

slipping from his blood-slick hands.

He fell forward,

hands landing in the warm, sticky mess.

His chest rose and fell,

unevenly,

each breath a battle.

He wanted to vomit.

To disappear.

To stop existing altogether.

But he was still there.

Still conscious.

Still bleeding.

Still disgusting.

Blood oozed from between his legs in steady pulses.

It soaked through his clothes,

spread across the floor.

It smelled of metal and rot,

mixing with the attic's dust

and the scent of old wood.

The air grew thick.

Hard to breathe.

He lay in the mess,

motionless.

His limbs numb.

His skin cold.

He tried to think,

but the thoughts wouldn't form.

Only fragments.

It's gone.

I did it.

Why… didn't it help?

Because it hadn't.

The hatred remained.

The shame.

The images.

The silence.

The meal.

The smile.

Her smile.

He whimpered.

Not from pain —

but from the truth.

He had hoped mutilation would be enough.

That it would erase the urge.

The memory.

The guilt.

But now it was worse.

Now he was broken and empty.

Tears slid down his face.

He didn't notice them until they hit the floor,

diluting the blood.

He stared at the severed piece of himself,

still lying in the pool.

That was me, he thought.

That was everything wrong with me.

But even without it,

the rot remained.

Inside.

Deeper than skin.

Deeper than muscle.

In the soul.

If he had one.

The light from the window shifted,

catching the blood,

making it glisten like oil.

His body began to shake again,

but not from pain.

From cold.

From loss.

From knowing that there was no salvation.

He dragged himself a few inches back,

leaving streaks across the floor.

He leaned his head against the wall,

closed his eyes.

Maybe this would be it.

Maybe he would bleed out.

Fade away.

Finally be done with this place.

But he knew better.

He had bled before.

He had died before.

And every time —

he woke up.

Here.

Again.

The attic.

The rope.

The lamp.

The dust.

Her voice.

The kitchen.

The question.

"Son, are you hungry?"

He let out a ragged, dry laugh.

It echoed off the beams

like a dying cough.

Then he whispered,

to no one —

to everything:

"No, Thank You. I'm Not Hungry."

And the darkness returned.