I can't recall when I lost the ability to smile.
Probably a long time ago.
Many people used to visit our house.
The house wasn't visible to everyone, nor was it well known. It was a cabin in the forest—spacious, with many rooms—but worn-down, soaked with the smell of damp wood.
On rainy days, pots were scattered everywhere to catch the dripping water, and in spring, it filled with customers.
It was an old cabin.
Every piece of furniture creaked at all hours, but the creaking grew louder after midnight.
On some nights, the customers crowded in, and shortly before that time, my mother would take me to my room and leave me there alone.
One day, when I was fourteen, I stole a cigarette from my mother and snuck out the back door.
I sat on the doorstep, gazing at the cigarette with contemplative eyes, the forest before me cloaked in mist.
At night, the forest surrounding the backyard was pitch dark. Nothing was visible—only sounds filled the void.
The croaks of frogs, the chirps of crickets, the creaking of beds inside the house, the moans of my aunts, my mother, and the customers—all of them crystal clear in the stillness of the night.
"Not in your room this time?" said a familiar voice.
I looked to the side and saw Mike standing by the step, leaning against the cabin wall, his cigarette glowing red.
I never sensed Mike's arrival—he just... appeared.
"I wanted to try smoking," I said as I stared at his cigarette. "My mother's obsessed with them. At first, a few cigarettes a day were enough for her, but lately, she smokes two packs a day."
"Hmm," Mike muttered, then calmly stepped closer, took my cigarette with two fingers, and pulled it from my hand.
"Why?" I asked, my face tightening slightly, confused but speaking softly so no one inside would hear.
I was supposed to be asleep by now.
"Smoke this one. It's better," Mike said, offering me one of his own cigarettes.
I took it, and he lit it for me. I sat back down, watching the dark forest.
"What do you think of life, Cindy?" Mike asked.
"Why do you always ask me that?"
"So I can observe your state."
"And? What do you observe?" I asked.
"What do I observe, Cindy? You're a beautiful boy. Your mother is my favorite wh*re. I consider you like a son. Who knows, maybe you really are my son."
"I'm no one's son," I replied, eyes drifting into the darkness of the forest. "I'm the son of the dark."
Yes… that darkness ahead of me… the forest that swallowed everything in its shadows—that's where I wanted to disappear. In its darkness, no one would know me. If I didn't speak, no one would hear me. I wouldn't be anyone's child or anyone's customer.
I am the son of the dark.
"So? How's life?" Mike repeated, both of us drawing from our cigarettes.
"Miserable. I want it to end."
"What about school?"
"Everything changed when the rumor spread that I'm a wh*re's son." I took another drag. "Now, no one respects me. The bullying follows me. If I resist, I get beaten. If I come home beaten, my mother ignores me, and the misery grows."
"You've got no one in this world, Cindy." Mike chuckled.
I could feel his eyes tilting toward me even without turning to look at him.
He was right. I had no one. I was alone—just me and the dark. If I died in that darkness one day… no one would find me.
"Cindy," Mike said, taking another puff. "Life is shit. Dreams never come true. We sit in the corner and watch others take ours. Thirty-six years I've spent dreaming—and the rest is joint pain, heart problems, and sometimes my dick doesn't even work, so I pop pills to forget those wasted years with your mother."
"What are you trying to say?" I asked. "What do you want me to do with that story?"
"Kill yourself," Mike said, nodding with the glowing tip of his cigarette toward the forest. "There. No one will look for you."
I stayed silent.
It's not like I hadn't thought about it before. I had, many times.
I didn't look like a man. I was forced to grow my hair out. My skin was clear, and my cheeks took after my mother—flushed at the slightest touch, cold or heat.
When I walked past car exhausts in traffic, the smoke would irritate my skin for days.
The only clothes I got were pink, and even now, I was wearing pink pajamas covered in hearts and bananas.
Why bananas? I'd asked myself that many times before.
Everything in my life moved against my will—or worse, moved in a spiral to show me more of what I didn't want to see.
When I saw people smile, I couldn't understand how. How do they lift the corners of their mouths?
I couldn't even fake it.
Life and I were both miserable.
My heart had grown used to clenching, my eyes had tired of tears, and my gaze had wearied of people.
Even Mike next to me—I couldn't see him. For a long time now, I'd only seen people's eyes.
Their forms were just shadows. I could only tell them apart by their voices and eyes.
"If I hear about your death, I'll pray for you. You're a good kid. But the world isn't," said Mike.
…
…
The seasons passed. I spent part of my day on the doorstep—usually after coming home from school.
A voice within me, fainter by the day, kept saying to hold on until graduation and find a better life elsewhere. But I didn't think that voice would last until graduation.
At seventeen, in my final year of high school, my routine became this:
I'd arrive at school, find my desk full of trash, clean it, and ignore the stares and bullying.
My eyes couldn't see faces, which made things easier. My ears that let insults pass like light through glass softened the hours.
No teacher or principal would stand up for a wh*re's son. Everyone despised me.
And I no longer cared.
If I got hit, I wouldn't fight back.
If I fainted, a good feeling would creep in—hoping I wouldn't wake up.
... ...
On a miserable night, I came home through the back door.
There was a customer smoking in the kitchen, and my aunt was sucking his d*ck.
"Hey Cindy, cute as ever," said the customer. "What do you think?" he added, gesturing at his crotch. "Tonight? Before I go?"
"No thanks," I replied.
"You sure?" He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, hinting at money.
I stayed silent for a moment.
Then repeated, "No thanks."
I never saw what the customer really looked like—just a dark shadow getting head from another shadow.
His eyes were blue, beautiful—but they held deep unease, like a man haunted by his past.
At night, I spent time in my room. The cracked mirror in the corner was the result of a hysterical outburst once during a conversation with myself.
Since then, I haven't looked in any mirror. Every mirror spoke back to me and reminded me of my talk with Mike years ago.
They told me to kill me.
I'd stare out the window at the forest.
The darkness… it was beautiful. It dragged me in every night.
And I painted my dreams on it.
Sometimes, I imagined a man—taller than me, with a massive, muscular build, short hair, and rugged features.
Strong. So strong, nothing could stop him from doing what he wanted.
And I wished to be that man.
Then I blinked and returned to reality.
"What are you wishing for?" I asked the empty air, remembering the offer from the blue-eyed man. "What are you wishing for—like this? Just now… you hesitated when the man offered you money…"
You thought maybe it would be okay to give in to his offer; he offered... money.
Money was A big weakness.
I needed it more than anything right now.
What would I do if I ran away?
No one else managed to escape.
But if I had money, maybe I could buy something…
Maybe I could buy freedom.
Or a weapon to claim it.
Or a new life, somewhere far away—where no one knew me, and no one knew my past.
Dying here was easy. Bodies got dumped, and no one noticed.
No one would ask about a wh*re or her kin.
"You're so stupid… so stupid… so stupid…"
I muttered under my breath like I was trying to talk to myself.
This had happened before—if I kept muttering, I'd start replying to myself.
I'd argue. I'd scream. I'd slap myself again and again.
I'd fall into a pointless debate between me and myself, one that no side could resolve.
I wanted to answer myself this time. But if I did, it would start again.
I'd lose control.
If that strange fire ignited inside me again, I wouldn't be able to put it out.
I had to smother it before it sparked.
Yes… I had to smother it—with a dream.
I lay on my bed and closed my eyes.
Sat among my dreams, flipping through what I wished for.
In one dream, my mother looked more beautiful.
She had no dark circles.
She didn't smoke.
And I was just a little boy.
She laughed every time she saw me, held my hand, and we walked—a bright path with no end…
Until we disappeared into the light.
And I woke up.
My body was drenched in sweat, my breath heaving as I leaped from the bed.
I looked out the window, panting.
Every time I woke from those dreams, the real world felt like a bigger nightmare—and I couldn't stop gasping for air.
I was dying of thirst.
I looked at my room's door.
Most likely, someone was being f*cked in the kitchen, but I had never felt thirst like this before.
It was like something was calling me—to the kitchen.
I opened my door quietly.
The cabin's doors creaked, but mine—perhaps from little use—creaked the least.
I descended the stairs one step at a time.
Strange moans echoed from the kitchen door, growing clearer with each step.
Then I saw them.
Beautiful blue eyes standing before a man with silver ones.
"Give me more," the woman said, her hand scratching the opposite shoulder harshly.
"It's been seven hours without a cigarette. I can't. Everything itches. My head is pounding. I can't see right. I'm starting to forget who I am."
It was my mother.
In front of me, the man slapped her white cheek so hard the sound shook the kitchen.
She fell to the floor, but at this hour, while everyone was busy, I was probably the only one who heard it.
"Shut up!" the man barked. "How many times do I have to tell you? The cigs became expensive."
"B-but I can't!" my mother's voice cracked.
She held her burning cheek, tears pouring from her eyes. "They're too expensive now. A single cigarette costs as much as three packs. No matter how many I sell my body, I can't make enough. Please, just one…"
Silence.
A long moment of silence.
My mother clutched her cheek and sobbed.
"Please, please," she begged in a fading voice.
The man laughed. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, then tossed the lighter to the floor.
He extended the cigarette toward her.
And I watched.
Before I realized it, I was peeking through the kitchen door.
Both of them too drunk to notice me.
The man yanked the cigarette back before it reached her and took a long drag.
"Work more, you wh*re."
My mother, hand still outstretched—perhaps realizing she wasn't going to get it—began to tremble.
Her eyes lost what little shine remained.
She stood, gnashing her teeth like winter had arrived and frost was biting her skin.
My mother—despite lacking humanity—looked, in that moment, like she had forgotten what it meant to be human.
She no longer spoke our language.
"Kr-r-r, rr-rrr…" she muttered, scratching her hair, pulling strands from the roots.
Her eyes darted wildly until she spotted the dining table…
In an instant, without hesitation, she grabbed a knife from the table and leaped at the man.
Before he could react, the knife plunged into his gut and was yanked out.
"AAAH!" he screamed.
The cigarette dropped from his hand.
"You wh*re!"
The scream echoed through the cabin. Doors creaked open everywhere.
Everyone poured out.
My mother dropped the knife and snatched the cigarette with both hands as if it were warmth in a frozen winter… a shining lamp in endless night… a light at the end of a choking tunnel…
As if it were happiness.
She smiled—a wide, full smile—as if she'd finally found her haven.
She inhaled deeply.
The man screamed, picked the knife off the floor, and charged at her.
But my mother didn't care.
It was as if she had finally found peace.
Peace she had never known.
Since my earliest memories, she never smiled.
The circles under her eyes had grown darker day by day until I couldn't see her face anymore.
My mother wasn't so different from me…
We were both miserable.
And maybe I understood that.
I leaped in.
But in the slow seconds of my lunge, a voice echoed in my mind:
Why did you enter the kitchen?
Why did you try to push the tall, burly man when you knew how frail you were?
Why…
Why did you try to protect your mother?
And why…
Why couldn't this useless body protect her?
Before I could hold him off for even a few seconds, the knife plunged into my neck.
I fell to the floor, gasping, writhing like a fish yanked from water.
All I saw was blood spraying—
And shadows screaming from the kitchen door—
And my mother pulled another drag, her pupils spinning in ecstasy—
And she didn't look at me.
It was as if she'd forgotten everything.
Good.
Finally…
It's all over.
Everyone screamed around me. But I did not.
The screams faded.
The light dimmed
.
And the darkest dark wrapped around me…
And for the first time ever,
I felt peace.