As long as i can remember, i have lived with My Father.
The house is too large for just the two of us. Its hallways stretch long and silent. And the floors remain cold even during the day. Every footstep echoes, as if the house itself is listening.
I have never seen my 'MOTHER'.
I asked about her many times when i was younger. The question always come out naturally. Innocently, the way questions do when asked by a child who does not yet understand the weight of answers.
"Dad, where's Mom?"
Every time i asked, My Father would stop whatever he was doing. Whatever he was reading the newspaper, drinking coffe, or standing by the window, his body would stiffen. His expression would harden into something cold and unfamiliar.
"Never," he would say, his voice flat but firm, "ask about a women who cheated and left this house with another man."
The word never changed. Not once.
When i was little, i didn't understand what cheating meant. I only knew it was something bad. Something that made My Father hate My Mother.
But as i grew older, believing his story became harder. If My Mother truly ran away with another man, why was there no proof of her existence?. Why did the house feel more like a tomb than a place abandoned by someone who chose to leave?
My Father was a strict man. Our life was ruled by rules.
I was not allowed to enter his study.
I was not allowed to open his personal wardrobe.
I was not allowed to ask about the past.
And most importanly 'i had to clean My Father bedroom every single day'.
That task had been mine since i was old enough to hold a cleaning cloth.
"This room must always be clean," My Father would say.
"No dust. Not disorder."
At first, i thought it was normal. I swept the floor, wiped the desk, made the bed. My Father inspected everything afterward. If even a single corner was missed, he would order me to start over.
But over time, something began to feel wrong. My Father bedroom felt….
Different.
There were no family photos.
No memories.
No signs of warmth.
And no matter how often i cleaned, a damp, moldy smell lingered in the air.
One day, while cleaning the drawer of My Father desk. I found something small.
A hairbrush.
It wasn't his. His hair was short. The brush was long and slender, with strands of long black hair tangled between its teeth.
My hands trembled as i held it.
If My Mother had truly left, why was her brush still here?
I hid it under my shirt, my heart pounding widly. For the first time in my life, i felt like i had touched something forbidden.
From that day on, i began to search.
———————————— MOTHER — CHAPTER II ——————————
I cleaned My Father's room more slowly, more carefully. I paid attention to everything the walls, the floor, the corners. I tapped the wood, listening for hollow sounds.
One afternoon, while My Father was out longer than usual, i discovered something behind his large wardrobe. Long scratches covered the floor. Marks left by something heavy being moved again and again. I pushed the wardrobe with all my strength. It was heavy, but it shifted slightly.
The floor beneath it was uneven.
I knelt down and knocked on it.
Thud…
Thud..
Hollow…
There was a space beneath the house.
I quickly shoved the wardrobe back into place when i heard My Father's car approaching.
That night, i couldn't sleep. My mind raced with question.
If My Mother didn't leave…then where was she?
In the following days, i found more things.
A ring hidden inside a small box. An old bottle of perfume tucked behind a bookshelf.
A torn photograph, only half remained, showing a woman's hand holding My Father's.
I became certain.
My father was lying….
***
One night, i heard him talking on the phone. His voice was low, different from the one he used with me.
"I told you not come near this house," he said.
"I don't want the past to resurface."
The past?
I waited until My Father fell asleep. He always took sleeping pills at night. I listening until his breathing became stready, then quietly got out of bed.
I entered his room.
My hands shook as i pushed the bookshelf that had always seemed out of place. There was a narrow gap behind it, nearly invisible. I pressed against the wall.
Click…
The shelf shifted.
Cold air rushed out, carrying the sharp smell of damp stone.
I swallowed hard.
Every step flet like i was walking deeper into a truth i was never meant to find. The stairs ended at a metal door. I heard something behind it.
Breathing. Slow. Weak.
"Mom?" I whispered.
The answer didn't come as words, but as a long, ragged breath, like a wound that had never healed.
I pushed the iron door open.
The basement was dark, narrow, and suffocating. The small of dampness mixed with old blood made my chest tighten. A small bulb hanging from the celling flickered weakly, as if it were unsure whether it should stay alive.
And there she was!
MY MOTHER…
She sat on the cold floor, her body thin and trembling. Marks of old restraints covered her wrists. Her skin was pale, her eyes hollow, but the moment she looked at me, i knew.
"Mom…" My voice broke.
I knelt in front of her and wrapped My arms around her freezing body. She sobbed quietly.
Then my gaze shifted.
And the world stopped.
In the corner of the room, a women was hanging. A rough rope was wrapped tightly around her neck, tied to an iron pipe on the celling. Her body was convered in wounds deep purple bruises, dried cuts, small burn marks along her arms and neck. Several of her fingers were broken, bent at impossible angles. Her dress was torn and stiff with dried blood.
She had not died peacefully.
She had been tortured.
"Mom…" i could barelly breathe.
"Wh..who..is..s..she?"
My Mother lowered her head. Her shoulders shock violently. "Sh..she's the wom..women your Father loved," She Whispered.
"The women he hide from us."
My heart felt like it had been struck.
"She..she was his mistress," My Mother continued softly. "And she..she found me down here."
My Mother slowly lifted her face, her eyes empty, as if staring straight into a memory too cruel to relive.
"One night, she came to this house," She said. "She heard my voice behind the walls. She was curious. She searched…and found the hidden door in your Father's bedroom."
My Mother took a deep breath, as if every word caused her poin. "She saw me locked in here. She cried. She held me. She said she would help me. She said she never knew your Father was this cruel."
I looked at the hanging body again. Now i understand why her wounds were so many.
"Your Father caught us," My Mother's voice trembled. "And from that moment on..that woman never left this place again."
My Mother covered her face with her hands. "She was tortured because she knew i was here," She whispered.
"Tortured because she saw the truth. Tortured to make me afraid. To keep me silent."
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms.
"Every scream she made," My Mother whispered, "was a threat meant for me,"
I stared at the woman face. Her eyes were still open, empty,nas if holding onto her final terror. She died not only as a victim, but a witness.
Footsteps echoed from above.
Heavy. Calm. Without guilt.
Father..
My Mother gripped my arm tightly. "He's coming," She whispered in panic.
I turned toward the dark staircase.
For the first time in my life, i felt no fear.
Because now, i know everything.
My Father was not a victim.
Not a hero.
Not a protector.
He was a monster who locked the truth beneath his own house.
And the truth
No metter how rotten
Can never be locked away forever.