His words froze in the air, his mouth opening and closing without a sound: "What?"
He tried to justify, to build a wall of excuses between his absence and his guilt, but the words were weak: "What happened between me and you… was natural. People leave each other. You grew up. Your mother wasn't bad… but I wasn't happy with her."
The words spilled from me like an old shame dragged into the light: "If she's the one above now, then are you happy with her? Father… you left her sick because she had no use for you. You left her and left me, a child of ten, to work while she was suffering. Every day she came home smiling despite the pain, bringing me things, carrying her suffering alone. And I would stand at her door, watching her in pain—unable to do anything."
I collapsed to the ground, shoulders shaking, my tears pouring as though all of yesterday flowed out of my eyes. My voice broke with bitterness: "I was a failure… never special. All I wanted was to save her. But she kept smiling, even through the pain."
A long silence fell, heavy, as if time itself stopped to hear my heart crash into reality. The night whispered things unsaid, and the blood on my claws reminded me there was no return—every action carried its price.
I saw the truth clearly: loneliness is better than being among people who only pretend to care. In the end, humans are merchandise. If your value is high, they'll love you, stand beside you even if you're wrong. But if you're a broken product, they'll throw you into the discount bin. Strange creatures, humans. Why do they always search for someone to fill their emptiness, instead of finding someone to share it?
A voice inside me rose, sharp and merciless: Kill him. Don't let him live to weave his excuses.
I stood. I stepped forward. He stammered, reaching out, begging, as if life could grant him one more chance. In his eyes, I no longer saw a father. I saw the faces of all those his absence had left behind, the pain of my mother I still couldn't bear. Mercy shriveled inside me.
I lunged without hesitation. Black claws ripped through his chest, the sound tearing the silence apart. His scream came too late: "Forgive me… my son… I wish I could carry all your sins, so you may go to heaven… I believe your mother will be there." He placed a trembling hand on my shoulder, whispering through blood: "She truly was perfect… but I was never complete…"
His words drowned in blood. Letters choked before they could reach me. He fell, his cries swallowed by the shadows as though the night itself devoured them.
I stood over him, my reflection fractured—half human, half ruin. I whispered, staring at the curtain-like sky: "My sins… no one can carry them. But you must know, the world devours those who leave emptiness behind."
He died. But his death did not extinguish anything inside me; the walls grew darker, and the emptiness became a deeper abyss.