He stood up, his movements jagged and erratic—
like someone unsure how many seconds he had left.
The thought of his sister burned in his mind
like a trembling flame he was terrified to let die out.
He had to find her.
He had to try.
To break the cycle.
To shatter this loop.
She was his only hope.
He walked to the hatch, opened it,
and began to descend the rickety ladder.
Each step creaked under his weight,
each sound echoing through his bones
like a reminder:
this house is alive.
Watching him.
Gripping him.
But he didn't stop.
The idea of his sister pulled him forward—
like a compass needle in endless dark.
Now, with her,
I'll stand against him,
he thought.
His mind clung to it like a drowning man to a broken raft.
He's probably raping her too,
just like he raped me.
Just like he raped our mother.
I'll save her.
The thought tasted bitter,
but inside it—
a flicker of something he hadn't felt in ages.
Hope.
He reached the first floor.
The smell of food—eggs, toast—rose up from the kitchen,
weaving into the constant drone of the refrigerator.
He stopped at the half-open kitchen door.
And then—
that voice.
Soft. Warm.
But trembling.
"Son, are you hungry?"
He froze.
His entire body locked up,
as if those words had struck him like a whip.
That voice.
Those words.
A hook, dragging him back
into the nightmare he'd been trying to outrun.
But not today.
"No,"
he answered, his voice rough—
as though his throat still remembered rope and knives.
He didn't look inside.
Didn't want to see her face.
Her obedience.
Her broken smile.
He turned away,
heading toward the staircase that led to the second floor.
His footsteps were fast, almost frantic—
like prey trying to outrun something
that was already inside him.
All the way up,
the thought of his sister refused to leave him.
Now, with her,
I'll stand against him,
he kept whispering to himself,
a mantra holding his sanity together like cracked glue.
He's hurting her too,
just like he hurt me,
just like he hurt mother.
I'll save her.
He pictured her—
that little girl from the photo.
Bright, innocent eyes.
Eyes that didn't belong in this house.
Eyes that must've seen the same horrors.
She was suffering.
Just like him.
Just like their mother.
Under their father's hand—
that monster who didn't know what mercy meant.
He had to find her.
He had to protect her.
He had to give her a chance—
a future.
Something he himself never had.
He reached the second floor,
breathless,
like he'd been sprinting instead of walking.
A narrow hallway unfolded before him—
dimly lit.
Several doors on each side.
All the same.
Old wood.
Peeling paint.
Rusty doorknobs.
He stopped,
his eyes darting between each one.
And the thought of his sister cut deeper.
Now, with her,
I'll stand against him...
But now,
that thought tasted more like fear than hope.
What was waiting behind those doors?
He didn't know.
But he had to try.
He had to find her.
He had to.
---
He stood on the second floor.
The narrow corridor pressed down on him with its darkness,
as if the walls themselves were closing in,
squeezing the air out of his lungs.
In front of him were six doors.
Each one looked the same—
old, with peeling paint that had once been white
but now was the color of old bone.
Their handles were coated in rust,
flaking off in tiny orange specks at the slightest touch.
The light overhead flickered.
A single bulb on the ceiling cast long, quivering shadows
that crawled along the walls like living things,
like the house itself was watching,
waiting.
His breath was shallow.
His body trembled.
But the thought of his sister burned inside him—
a fragile flame he couldn't let die.
Now, with her,
I'll stand against him,
he repeated in his mind.
A mantra.
The only thread holding his sanity together.
He's probably raping her too,
just like he did me,
just like he did mother.
I'll save her.
He stepped toward the first door.
The one where his father had been the last time.
His hand reached for the handle—
—but something clicked in his head.
Like a switch had been flipped.
And his body froze.
If I knock,
he'll come out,
and everything will start again.
That thought sliced through him like ice.
He remembered—
the rough hands,
the mad joy,
the voice:
"Finally, you did it."
And what followed after...
The rape.
Even after death.
His father thrusting like a machine that didn't understand death.
Terror crashed over him like a wave,
pulling him under.
He couldn't face that again.
Not him.
Not now.
He needed to find his sister—
but not like this.
Not with that risk.
Better to try another door,
silently,
without warning,
he thought,
and the decision felt like a desperate shot in the dark—
but it was all he had.
He turned to the next door—
second from the left.
His hand shook,
but he made himself move.
He yanked the handle.
The door opened with a dull groan,
the sound echoing down the corridor
like the dying breath of the house itself.
And in that same instant—
his body lost its head.
It happened in a flash.
So fast
he didn't even have time to understand it.
Something sharp—
invisible—
sliced through his neck
like a guillotine blade waiting in silence.
Blood erupted,
a thick, dark fountain.
It sprayed across the floor,
splattered the walls,
painted the trembling doorframe in red.
His body collapsed.
Like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
His head rolled away,
eyes still open—
wide with terror and confusion—
but lifeless.
He didn't feel it.
Didn't process it.
Just—
Darkness.
It swallowed him
like a starving beast
finally fed.
The corridor remained still.
Silent.
Only the blood kept flowing,
seeping into the worn wooden planks,
like a river searching for the sea.
The light bulb flickered one last time—
and died.
The hallway was left in darkness.
Six doors stood quietly,
like sentinels.
Waiting.
Knowing
he'd come back
to try again.