The Stained Dagger of Gratitude

[Content warning: this short story includes symptoms of physchosis and other mental disorders, mention of domestic abuse & violence, mild graphic descriptions of violence, gore. Reading is not advised for readers who might be sensitive to any of the mentioned.]

I have arrived.

The weight in my chest dragged my entire being down, and my legs sank weakly into the ground; I anchored myself like an ancient tree. My roots spread through the earth, weaving beneath the foundation of the house, entwining it completely—twisting, branching, and endless. They bound me and the house in a tight, warm embrace, and I feared they will never let go.

The mansion was magnificent—every detail meticulously crafted and polished to perfection. I knew every corner of it, like an old friend unchanged by time. The house seemed aware of this; it looked down on me, almost proud, as if my being beneath it made me subordinate to its grandeur.

But that was not the case. I returned to my parents' house with a heart full of irreplaceable, sincere gratitude. Now, It was time to express my thankfulness to them.

My legs still trembled. Like a clumsy doe, I walked along the cobbled path towards the ornate main entrance. With each step, my determination grew, along with the desire for revenge and the anger—a seething, blood-red fury.

I had to muster all my strength to move the door, and at last, I succeeded: every corner of my childhood home lay revealed before me. The familiar scent struck me—cinnamon and musk, my mother's perfume. Nostalgia washed over me, yet I felt like a mere intruder, an uninvited guest, nothing more than a stranger. The ornate corridor was lined with old pictures and paintings, yet my face was absent from them. I had been erased, edges where I once smiled cut away, as if the past itself had been cleaved. Perhaps it was fitting: that night, nothing remained but stained, tangled memories, growing vaguer with the death of their guardians.

The hall remained brilliantly lit, like the window of a captivating shop, perfectly furnished and exuding happiness; it beckoned one to enter, to delve deeper, for everything appeared so beautiful and flawless. It was almost nauseating; I feared to breathe, worried I might disrupt the illusion. I felt inadequate, out of place in this perfect tableau. These people had worth, and I had marred their image. Like a citadel or a soap bubble, it was a sight to behold but not to touch.

Nevertheless, I pressed on. The click of my heel echoed through the vast silence of the house, reminiscent of the calm before a storm. Though I remembered where everything was, I scrutinized it all anew, unable to trust my memory entirely.

I arrived in the ornate, lavish living room. My eyes swept over the TV, recalling how I stared at it, seeking escape to another reality. The velvet sofa where I tried to calm myself, such a dear child, while my mother's screams tore through the air as my father raised his hand. The old, weathered newspapers bore the stains of dried blood, remnants of long-past violence. The full moon's light half-illuminated the room, casting it in a dreamlike glow, a distant reverie from which I seemed to awaken in the dead of night.

But this is no dream; I am truly here, truly doing this.

Beyond lies the kitchen, from where the living room is visible, though the back remains obscured. The kitchen, once a place of sustenance, were a reservoir of bitter memories—a slow, insidious poison that has seeped into my soul, destroying all that once remained of my innocence. Even then, the sound of shattering plates was haunting me, the edge of a knife cutting relentlessly into my psyche, tearing through the epidermis of my mind until I could no longer sit at the table, until I had consumed every last morsel of this slow poison. It is toxic, painful, and has slowly destroyed me. I have never regretted forsaking that table and its bitter communion.

I continued through the silent night along the corridor. Everything felt distant yet disturbingly near; each time I approached something, it seemed to vanish. The closer I got to the shabby dresser with its traces of former shine, the dimmer it grew. The hallway was both empty and filled with the echoes of screams, blows, and, most poignantly, memories.

One such memory seized me—a relic of the black past that clutched my wrist, refusing to release me. It seemed to sniff at me as I fled, racing to the nearest room, slamming the familiar door behind me and leaning against it, panting.

My bedroom. My childhood sanctuary. The room where they rocked me to sleep each night only to later push me away with the same force. From here, the clatter of plates in the kitchen—their rhythm burning into me—was ever present; where the monsters did not lurk beneath the bed but stood watch over me by its side.

The crib remains unchanged; my comforter untouched, the dream catcher still jingling though there are no dreams left to catch. Everything was precisely as I left it, yet the feelings that accompanied those days overwhelmed me. I was suffocating; each breath was a struggle, and I felt as though I might have died there. I had to escape, to fill my dying lungs with the fresh air of freedom.

My path led to the garden; I stumbled through the back door and out into the open night. The cool, wet, and humid breeze struck my face, showering me like a delicate spray. This was my solace; the scent of freedom, the realization that this house was no longer my home, but a structure of bloody memories feeding on the past. I scanned the yard; old toys, now as forlorn as I am, a small shovel that once built sandcastles, and a larger one that nearly ended my life.

That’s enough.

I gripped the knife at my side, turned around, and summoned all my strength to walk away. Ignoring the noise, I ran, nearly fleeing, with a furious mix of revenge and adrenaline coursing through my veins, propelling me onward.

Ran with all the force left, simply straight up the stairs covered in velvet carpets, each step evoking the nostalgic, familiar sensation of falling. I licked my wounds, remembering how I was thrown down from here to shatter what little remained whole. While they lived above, I remained below, a mere spectator to their lives. It was all an illusion, a showcase, a cruel role-playing game.

I never had a family.

I kicked open the bedroom door. My thoughts raced even faster than my movements, flooding every corner of my mind with a thousand vengeful images every second. I could taste the revenge; my blood surged with the fiery resolve, and the shadows that flitted past me became inconsequential. I excluded everything from my consciousness but one singular purpose.

I stood at my parents' bedside. The high-class, four-poster bed, an opulent piece that concealed hundreds of secrets beneath its plush mattress, lay before me. They slept so peacefully, so innocently; yet, I felt no pity for them. They were merely puppets in a grotesque drama. Indeed, I had to ensure they were not just held together by threads, pieces of linen, and padding. These were sentient beings, living souls—but not for much longer, if I had my way.

My mother laid in a silk nightgown, her hair carefully pinned up with curlers. It was no wonder she maintained her appearance so well, even at her advanced age. She invested an incredible amount of time in her exterior, ensuring that no one glimpsed the gaping void behind her long, lush hair and curled eyelashes.

As I approached her, her eyes snapped open—large hazel eyes, just like mine. In that instant, she mirrored me, or rather, I mirrored her. As friends had always remarked, I was her perfect likeness. I was her reflection. I saw her as weak and clumsy, a victim much like myself, yet I loathed her, hated her, and today, I would end her life as well.

I plunged the dagger into her chest. Her scream pierced the silence, followed by a groan of pain. Warm, boiling blood flowed over my hands, seeping into every corner as I gripped her, my hands climbing up to her neck. She struggled for her life, but her efforts were futile. Before my eyes, the light drained from her face, her eyes glazing over like wet blisters, and she exhaled her final breath. She had given me life, and now I had taken hers.

I was the last thing she saw in her final moments. I wondered what thoughts crossed her mind as she faced her end. Did it matter at all? Did she regret birthing her own ruin within her womb?

I deflected my father's desperate blows with a practiced foresight; I knew precisely how he sought to inflict pain. Every movement, every beat of his intent lived within me, lying in wait for this solitary moment. I understood his every desire to harm me, yet he was blind to my own methods. He could not perceive the fierce, unyielding fire within me—one he himself had kindled—and he failed to recognize that I knew him far better than he ever knew me.

I pressed my weight down upon his chest, forcing him to endure the crushing pressure that had burdened me throughout my life—a weight from which I would never escape. I had wished to shatter his ribs into fragments like shattered glass, but I had devised other plans for him. I encircled his neck with my hands, smearing it with my mother’s blood. I tightened my grip with every ounce of my strength until his face turned crimson, until he grew dim, and until the salty tears cascading down my cheeks also trickled into his throat.

As his final breath escaped him, he called me a monster. 

I am grateful, they have made me a monster.