登入The silence in the house after my father’s death was deafening.I was upstairs in the bedroom, finishing packing the small backpack I would take with me. A few clothes, the money I had managed to gather, a new phone, and the almost empty bottle of poisoned lotion — kept as proof of what I had done. My movements were mechanical, precise. There was no rush, but there was also no room for hesitation. Every second I spent in that house was one more second I didn’t want to live.I looked at myself in the cracked mirror one last time. The artificial blonde still felt strange, but it was necessary. The black-haired woman who had entered this hell weeks ago was dead. The one who would leave would be someone new. Someone who had killed her own demon.I went down the stairs slowly, the backpack slung over my shoulder. The house was submerged in a heavy silence, broken only by the distant ticking of the living room clock. Margaret was in the kitchen, with her back to me, washing the dishes with
The silence after his death is heavier than I imagined.I stand beside the bed for several minutes, staring at the motionless body. His chest no longer rises. His eyes are half-open, fixed on the ceiling, lifeless. His mouth is slightly agape, as if he had tried to say something in the final second. The smell of death is already beginning to spread — sweet, sickening, final.Margaret remains on the floor, curled up against the wall, sobbing quietly. Her shoulders tremble, but no loud sound escapes. She learned long ago how to cry in silence.I take a deep breath. Once. Twice. The air enters clean for the first time in weeks.“He’s dead,” I say out loud, testing the words. They sound strange, almost unreal.Margaret slowly lifts her head. Her face is destroyed, swollen, wet.“What are we going to do?” she whispers, her voice hoarse from crying so much. “The police… the doctor… people will ask questions.”I turn to her. My gaze is calm, almost serene.“We’ll do what normal people do whe
The twenty-fourth day dawns gray and heavy.The air inside the room feels thick, almost suffocating, heavy with the scent of impending death. My father hasn’t properly woken up since the early hours. His breathing is now a wet, irregular rattle, as if his lungs are filled with water. His chest rises and falls in short spasms, fighting for every millimeter of air.I’m sitting in the armchair beside the bed, legs crossed, watching him with a calmness that frightens me. I feel no joy. No hatred. Only a cold, empty vastness, as if every feeling had been drained from me during these days.Margaret is curled up in the corner of the room, knees against her chest, rocking slightly back and forth. Her eyes are red and swollen, with no tears left. She looks like an empty shell of the woman who once pretended to be my mother.“He’s going to die today,” I murmur, without taking my eyes off his face.Margaret doesn’t respond. She just rocks harder.My father lets out a low, hoarse groan. His eyes
The twenty-second day is when he starts begging.Not with words—he's too weak for that now. But with his eyes. Those once-cruel, commanding eyes that ruled my childhood are now glassy, desperate, silently pleading every time I enter the room.I sit beside his bed, feeding him spoonfuls of broth that Margaret prepared. My hand is steady. My face is calm. Inside, something cold and satisfied uncoils like a snake finally stretching after years of being caged.He coughs violently, spitting up a mix of broth and blood onto the white sheets. Margaret rushes forward with a towel, but I raise my hand, stopping her.— I’ll do it — I say quietly.She hesitates, then steps back. Her eyes are hollow now. She barely sleeps. The woman who once chose silence over her daughter’s screams is finally paying the price in full.I
The twentieth day feels like an eternity stretched thin.I sit beside his bed for hours, watching the slow unraveling of the man who once held my entire world in his cruel hands. The room smells of sickness now—medicine, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of blood he keeps coughing up. The doctor came again this morning and left with a grim face, muttering about organ failure and the need for immediate hospitalization. My father refused, as expected. He still believes he’s in control.He’s wrong.Margaret has become a ghost in her own home. She moves silently between rooms, bringing trays of food he can barely eat, changing sheets stained with sweat and worse. Her eyes are sunken, red-rimmed. She no longer tries to speak to me. She just watches — a mixture of horror and resignation on her face.I don’t blame her for her silence anymore. I understand it
The nineteenth day is when death begins to take shape in his eyes.I wake up to silence — the kind of silence that feels heavier than any scream. My father is lying on his back, chest rising and falling in shallow, irregular bursts. His skin has taken on a waxy, grayish tone, like old candle wax left too long in the heat. The veins on his neck and hands stand out dark against the pallor. He looks smaller. Diminished. Like the monster I feared my whole life is finally shrinking into something almost pathetic.Margaret is asleep in the armchair beside the bed, her head fallen to the side, mouth slightly open. She looks exhausted. Broken. Good.I slip out of bed carefully, my body still aching from the night before. Every movement reminds me of what he did — the weight, the force, the possession even as his body fails him. I push the memory down. Not now. Not yet.In the bathroom, I wash my face with cold water and look at myself in the mirror. The blonde hair still feels foreign, but th







