He collapsed to his knees.
His hands trembled.
The knife slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor with a dull thud.
Blood poured out—dark, thick—soaking his clothes.
But he didn't feel pain.
Only emptiness.
A void 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 vanish.
It sharpened.
Intensified.
As if he had not just severed a piece of flesh—
but a piece of his very soul.
He lifted his head.
His eyes were empty—the eyes of a man who had lost everything he had.
The light from the window fell over him, casting a long shadow on the wall.
And in that shadow,
he seemed smaller than he had ever been.
The blood kept flowing.
Warm. Sticky.
Pooling beneath him, slowly spreading.
But then the void was replaced—
by pain.
Sharp. Burning.
As if a red-hot iron rod had been thrust into his groin.
He clenched his teeth.
His breathing turned ragged—
like a wounded animal caught in a trap, unable to escape.
The pain pulsed—
growing with each heartbeat—
until his body began to convulse,
unable to contain the agony any longer.
He tried to stand,
but his legs buckled.
He collapsed onto his side.
His hands instinctively reached for his groin—
but even the lightest touch
unleashed a fresh wave of pain,
as if pressing down on an open wound.
And then he felt it—
the warm liquid trickling down his thighs.
Not blood.
Urine.
He had lost control.
His bladder emptied itself.
He couldn't stop it.
The urine mixed with the blood,
spreading across the floor and soaking into his clothes.
Sticky. Foul-smelling.
Real.
He clenched his fists,
his nails digging crescent-shaped wounds into his palms—
but it did no good.
The pain between his legs was unbearable—
as if someone kept cutting him,
long after he had finished.
He tried to breathe,
but every inhale brought a fresh surge of agony,
tearing him apart.
He lay there,
shaking.
His body drenched in sweat,
his temples wet with a mix of blood and urine.
His thoughts were shattered—
like shards of glass,
too sharp to gather,
too many to ignore.
I did it, he thought.
But the thought was hollow—
an echo in an abandoned house.
I got rid of it... but why?
The pain was still there.
The disgust never left.
And now,
he was more broken than ever before.
He didn't know how much time passed—
minutes,
hours,
an eternity—
but the pain never eased.
And he felt his mind slipping away.
Drifting off.
Like sand pouring through his fingers.
He didn't know if he was still alive—
or if he had entered another cycle of his personal hell,
one that would never end.
---
He woke up.
Light seeped through the gaps between the wooden boards—gray and cold, as always—highlighting the dust swirling lazily in the still air.
He was lying on a mattress—sagging and old, simply thrown onto the wooden floor.
His body felt 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 now it wasn't pain—
only the lingering echo of what he had done.
He looked down.
His pants had dried.
The blood and urine that had soaked the fabric were gone—
as if someone had wiped them away while he slept.
But the memory remained.
Sticky.
Clinging like a spiderweb he couldn't shake off.
Why? he whispered barely audibly into the silence of the attic.
To remove an obstacle, he answered himself.
And in that answer was something cold.
Something resolute.
Like a man cutting off his own hand to escape a trap.
Time passed.
He didn't know how much—
in this house, time moved like fog—impossible to measure.
His stomach growled.
Hunger twisted his insides like an iron hand.
He rose.
His movements were slow, uncertain—
as if he didn't know where he was going,
only that he couldn't stay here.
He approached the hatch, opened it,
and descended the rickety ladder.
Every step creaked under his weight,
but he barely noticed.
From the kitchen came the smell of food—
fried eggs, toast—
mingling with the low hum of the refrigerator.
He stopped at the kitchen door, leaving it slightly ajar.
A voice floated out.
Soft.
Warm.
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 had done to her.
After he had raped her.
After he had cut off his own member to kill that part of himself.
How could she speak as if nothing had happened?
His mind spun,
like a broken carousel.
His knees buckled.
But hunger was stronger.
Stronger than confusion.
Stronger than the disgust toward himself.
"Yeah… I'm coming. Pile on extra rice,"
he said.
His voice was hoarse—
as if his throat still remembered the rope.
Still remembered the knife.
But instead of going into the kitchen,
he moved toward the front door.
His steps were quick.
Panicked.
As if trying to run from something he knew would catch up to him anyway.
Of course, I want to see you, he thought,
his mind bitter like poison.
Of course, I'll hate myself again the moment I see you. But I can't stay here any longer.
He had to leave.
Escape the house.
The cycle.
The chains.
He reached the door.
Grabbed the handle—
but it didn't budge.
Locked.
Old.
Rusty.
No key in sight.
He pulled harder—
nothing.
Only the harsh creak of metal.
A cruel sound.
As if the house was laughing at him.
His breathing became erratic.
Panic tightened his throat.
But he knew.
He had no choice.
He had to go back to the kitchen.
He had to face her.
But turning around,
his gaze fell on a photo next to the door.
A man.
Tall.
With a stern expression.
An old shirt.
And a little girl—
holding his hand.
She was smiling.
Her eyes were bright.
Innocent.
But there was something in the photograph that made him stop.
He didn't know who they were—
but their faces cast a shadow over his mind.
A silent warning of something he couldn't yet understand.
He turned away.
And with heavy steps,
as if the entire house collapsed onto his shoulders,
he walked back to the kitchen.
---
He entered the kitchen.
His steps were heavy—
each one like a step toward the edge of a cliff.
She stood by the stove.
Slumped shoulders.
A faded apron.
Long dark hair spilling out from a messy bun—
everything was exactly the same,
as if nothing had changed.
She turned around.
Her face was pale,
with a faint grayish tint.
Her eyes were wide,
and deep inside them trembled madness.
And her smile—
unnatural,
like that of a mannequin taught to mimic the living.
She placed a plate before him—
eggs, toast, rice—
everything he had asked for.
Then she sat down across from him,
moving slowly,
as if her movements did not belong to her—
as if she lived in another world entirely.
He sat down.
Picked up a fork.
But his thoughts drifted far away.
He ate mechanically.
Without taste.
Without hunger.
His gaze fixed on the plate,
yet he couldn't help but notice her—
her presence,
her calm,
her refusal to acknowledge the truth.
She acted
as if nothing had happened.
As if he hadn't raped her.
As if he hadn't mutilated himself.
As if today was just another day in the nightmare
that would never end.
Her obedience,
her smile,
her voice—
all remained unchanged.
Like yesterday.
Like the day before.
Like always.
And it began to break something inside him.
He felt his mind tearing at the seams—
like an old fabric stretched too far for too long.
I raped her, he thought.
And that thought stabbed into his consciousness again—
and again—
and again—
like a knife plunging endlessly into flesh.
I cut it off to stop myself...
But she acts like nothing happened.
As if I did nothing.
His hands trembled.
The fork clattered against the plate.
He gripped it tighter,
trying to hide the shaking.
He wanted to scream.
To ask her why.
Why she didn't hate him.
Why she was still smiling.
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 hoarse—
as if his throat still remembered the rope.
Remembered the knife.
"I want to go outside," he said.
His eyes were empty,
but within them flickered a desperate spark—
like that of a drowning man gasping for air.
She lifted her eyes.
Her smile grew wider.
Almost manic.
But her voice remained soft,
like silk stretched thin to the point of tearing.
"Oh… that's to your father," she said lightly.
"He should be upstairs with your sister."
Sister? he thought.
And that word hit him
like a bucket of ice-cold water.
Huh... alright.
He didn't know who she was.
He couldn't remember her.
But the photo by the door resurfaced in his mind—
the man,
the little girl with bright, innocent eyes.
Was it them?
He didn't know.
But something inside him clenched—
as if he stood on the edge of something bottomless and black.
"Then I'll go to them," he said.
His voice was hollow,
like a distant echo.
He stood up.
His movements were jerky—
like a puppet with severed strings.
He headed toward the stairs.
The steps creaked beneath his weight,
but he didn't notice.
His mind was overflowing.
Overflowing with her words.
Overflowing with what he had done.
Overflowing with the fact
that he didn't remember a father or a sister—
yet now was about to find them.
He climbed to the second floor.
A narrow corridor stretched before him—
dim, lined with doors.
Each door the same:
old, peeling paint, rusty handles.
He stopped.
His breathing was uneven—
as if he had just run a marathon.
Which door are they behind? he thought.
His gaze darted from door to door.
He didn't know what awaited him beyond them.
But he felt—
whatever it was,
it would either change something
or change nothing at all.
In this house,
in this cycle,
anything was possible.
He approached the first door.
Reached for the handle.
And froze.
As if suddenly terrified
of what he might find.
---
Instead of opening the door,
he knocked.
His knuckles trembled—
like a man
terrified of what might answer.
A man's voice answered from inside.
Low.
Raspy.
Like rust scraping against metal.
"Yes."
That's my father, he thought.
And the thought was cold,
like ice locking up his insides.
He didn't remember him.
But there was something eerily familiar in that voice—
an echo of a long-forgotten past.
"Father… may I come in?"
His voice was barely audible,
like the wind whispering through an abandoned house.
"Yes."
The tone was indifferent—
as if it didn't matter who stood on the other side.
He pressed down on the handle.
The door creaked.
He expected to see something horrific.
After everything that had happened with his mother,
he was ready for blood, for madness, for anything.
But before him was just an ordinary room.
A study.
And that terrified him more than any nightmare.
Faded wooden panels,
a worn carpet,
a dusty bookshelf,
a window caked with grime,
the dim light of a lonely lamp—
everything seemed frozen in time.
But the air was heavy.
Thick.
Saturated with something unseen.
At the center of the room sat his father.
A straight back.
Quick, jagged strokes of a pen across paper.
Broad shoulders, short dark hair streaked with the first threads of gray.
A face like stone,
etched with cracks of exhaustion and anger.
The son stood frozen in the doorway.
A guest.
A stranger.
The father didn't look up.
"Sit," he barked indifferently.
The son obeyed.
He dropped onto a dusty, creaking couch.
The fabric clung unpleasantly to his skin.
The springs groaned in protest.
The father finished writing,
set the pen aside,
and finally lifted his gaze.
His eyes were dark, almost black,
with a cold glint
that made the boy want to shrink away.
"Why are you here?"
"Father… I… I want to go outside," he stammered,
like a lost child in a strange house.
The father frowned.
A fleeting flash of rage crossed his face,
but then he froze.
His gaze dropped downward.
He noticed the mark on his son's pants—
the emptiness left from that night.
"So it's true," he said quietly.
And in his voice, there was something strange.
Something close to satisfaction.
He slowly rose.
His steps were heavy.
Like hammer blows.
The son tensed.
His body shook.
He wanted to retreat—
but the couch held him, alive and unrelenting.
The father came closer.
He leaned over.
And without a word, he grabbed the boy by the shoulders.
His grip was iron,
giving no chance to break free.
The boy gasped,
tried to push him away—
but it was useless.
The father pulled him closer.
Tears welled up in the boy's eyes from the pain and fear.
He felt the air thicken—
as if the house itself was holding its breath.
But at the moment when the boy expected the worst,
the father suddenly released him.
He stepped back,
his face twisted in a strange mixture of madness and triumph.
"You finally did it," he whispered.
The boy trembled.
He understood nothing.
The father stood silently for a few more moments,
then, as if forgetting the boy altogether, returned to his desk.
He picked up the pen again.
And continued writing,
as if nothing had happened.
The son sat on the couch,
shaking all over,
feeling something inside him finally, irreparably shatter.
The room sank into cold.
Into dampness.
Into despair.
He hadn't died physically.
But something inside him had snapped.
Unseen.
Silent.
Irreversible.
---
Sometimes, the most terrifying moments are left off-screen.
The original scene was different.
But due to the risk of the story being blocked, it had to be censored.
Only shadows, whispers, echoes remain.
The full, uncensored version can be found here: https://t.me/Nefollin_Tales