As I walked home, I noticed the roses in the garden of a house I passed and went straight to a red one near the garden wall. When I plucked it, its thorn pierced my hand. That prick unlocked an old memory in my mind: years ago, I had fallen from the roof of a two-story house onto a rose vine. The thorns pierced my body, but they slowed my fall and kept me from breaking any bones. After pulling the thorn from my finger, I carefully held the rose without harming it and continued walking home.
A few minutes later, when I reached my house, I knocked twice. Footsteps echoed inside, moving toward the door. As I hid the flower behind my back, the door opened. My mother, her wrinkled face bearing the proof of her hardships, greeted me with a smile. "Welcome home, son. You're early today. Did something happen?" Handing her the single rose I had hidden, I said, "Mademoiselle, such beauty could only suit you." Her smile deepened. "Go on, son, take a shower. I made your favorite içli köfte," she said.
As I stepped inside, brushing the sanding dust from my clothes, I said, "Nevzat let us off early today." My mother replied, "Good, good. Dinner was ready anyway." In the bathroom, I set my dirty clothes aside and waited for the bucket to fill from the tap. Thinking the hot water would wash away all my fatigue, I slowly poured it over my head. No matter how much I soaped and scrubbed, the smell of sanding dust mixed with car oil clung stubbornly to me. After thoroughly washing, I went to the living room. My mother had set the floor table and piled my plate high with içli köfte. I crouched down and began to eat.
When my mother entered the room, she carried a vase with the single rose I had brought. Placing it on the TV shelf, she let out a deep sigh. "Your father bought a television. They called from the store—he hasn't paid the debt." The food lodged in my throat. "Mom, he didn't bring it to us. Who did he buy it for this time? What else?" My mother said, "I asked. They said your father came with a woman," and she sank to the floor.
I didn't know what to say, how to console her. All I could think of was killing that bastard. Just then, the door opened and the bastard walked into the living room. As he entered, he sighed, "What a tiring day…" and immediately sat down, eating the içli köfte. Rage was boiling inside me. Then my mother finally said, "Murat, a man called me today. You bought a television and didn't pay." The bastard replied carelessly, "I vouched for a friend, that's all. The kid will pay tomorrow, don't worry." When my mother pressed further, "They said there was a young woman with you," he hurled his fork and shouted, "You're ruining the meal, woman!"
I snapped. I lunged at him—I wanted to kill him. I was unleashing years of bottled-up fury. Pinning him down, I rained punches on his body. Then my mother pulled me off. Tears streamed down her face as she cried, "Son, you'll become a murderer! Please stop!" That's when I realized I had shattered his face—blood was pouring from it. What had I done? Had I lost control again? As he rose from the floor, he screamed, "What kind of son are you? What son strikes his father?" Blood gushed from his mouth. What had I done again? My body trembled with rage, and I tried to steady myself. The first words that came to my mind burst out: "If you don't pay that debt, I'll kill you! Compared to everything you've put us through, this is nothing!" I stormed out of the house.
The sky had already darkened. When I came to my senses, I found myself standing before a desolate field—one where no one would know if someone were killed there.
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