Chapter One: The Night That Never Ended
The barrel of the gun rested steadily between the man’s eyebrows…
while my hands remained terrifyingly still, as though they no longer belonged to me.
He was trembling…
And I simply watched.
The strange thing was… I felt nothing.
No fear.
No pity.
Not even hesitation.
Only that black void inside me… swallowing everything whole.
“Please…”
That was how he said it—his voice shattered.
For a moment…
I saw myself in his place.
An eight-year-old girl, trembling the same way, waiting for someone to save her…
But no one came.
I spent my entire life searching for love.
Not the kind people speak about in fairytales… but the kind that saves you. The kind that rebuilds the broken pieces buried deep inside your soul. The kind that lets your chest breathe without suffocating on memories.
I fought for it.
Desperately.
Just to inhale a fragment of its warmth… something capable of reviving this exhausted heart and repairing what had been shattered inside me for countless years.
But every single time, I returned empty-handed.
As if I had been created only to search for it… never to find it.
My childhood?
My childhood was never normal.
It was a bottomless pit.
Darkness multiplying within darkness.
An endless night without dawn.
A void so deep that if light ever touched it, it would devour it without mercy.
A cruelty carved into me from the moment I first screamed into this world.
It was dark.
Brutal.
Painful enough for pain itself to become a permanent part of me.
I wasn’t living.
I was being consumed slowly.
I grew up in a family that never gave me love.
A family that knew nothing about warmth.
Everything between us was painfully materialistic—cold like lifeless walls, empty of affection, empty of anything worthy of being called a family.
It felt as though we lived beneath the same roof with souls that never truly met.
People say that if the world refuses to embrace you, your family will.
I think that’s nothing more than a beautiful lie told to comfort broken hearts.
Because me?
No one ever embraced me.
No one ever opened their arms for me—not a stranger, not even blood.
No voice ever whispered my name with love.
I was always alone.
Painfully alone.
Always the girl standing at the edge, watching others be loved… while remaining untouched herself.
They say family becomes your refuge when the world abandons you.
But what if the world is kinder than your own family?
My father abandoned me with a coldness that never melted, no matter how fiercely I burned inside.
And my mother?
She left me with a wound far crueler than absence.
Because she didn’t simply leave me.
She chose to leave this world without ever looking back.
The earth embraced her body…
And left behind an eight-year-old girl suspended between grief and waiting.
No goodbye.
No final glance.
No reason for me to either hate her… or forgive her.
She left me to fight life alone with tiny hands that didn’t even know how to hold onto hope.
And in that moment…
I didn’t only lose my mother.
I lost myself with her.
Since then, I’ve wandered through the brutal roads of this world, learning cruelty before kindness… memorizing pain before words.
I stumbled.
I fell.
And no one ever caught me.
Now, in public…
I sit upon the throne of a drug baroness.
A throne I built with my own hands.
I smuggle.
I control.
I sell.
I mastered the game until it became second nature.
I trade death with terrifying calmness, moving shipments across borders filled with the finest poisons money can buy.
I sell illusion.
I plant destruction.
As if I were never that little girl who once feared the sound of the wind.
But in secret…
I am the law itself.
I hunt them…
while standing among them.
Yes.
I work in narcotics enforcement, hidden among monsters.
I wear their masks.
Speak their language.
Laugh their laughter.
Only so I can destroy them when the time comes.
People might call me a coward.
But they don’t understand that I never hid out of fear.
I hid so I could get closer.
Close enough to strike where no one survives.
Because true cowardice isn’t entering hell.
It’s running away from it.
And I never ran.
I chose to walk into hell…
and learn how to breathe inside it.
I convinced myself that I could face anything.
That I was unbreakable.
Steel that never cracks.
Stone that never bends beneath the storm.
I do not lose.
I do not break.
Or maybe…
I simply learned how to hide the fractures.
Because the truth is…
I am nothing more than what remains of a dead child and a woman born from her ashes.
I became addicted to watching souls fade.
To witnessing the exact moment life disappears from someone’s eyes…
That terrifying instant when fear turns into silence… and screams collapse into emptiness.
And the worst part?
I enjoyed it.
Coldly.
Inhumanly.
But I wasn’t always like this.
As a child, everything terrified me.
Darkness.
Blood.
Angry voices.
Even the sound of the wind used to make me tremble.
I was naïve enough to trust the world.
Naïve enough to believe kindness could protect me.
That was my greatest mistake.
Because the world was never kind to me.
But that version of me belongs to the past.
Now?
I am something else entirely.
A version forged from betrayal.
Shaped by pain.
Raised inside merciless darkness.
A version that no longer fears.
A version people fear instead.
Chapter One — ContinuedI still carried fragments of my childhood inside me…
But they were distorted fragments.
Ever since I was little, I had always been fascinated by guns and bullets.
Yeah… strangely enough, they were my favorite toys.
But I never truly played with them.
Because back then, blood terrified me.
And nothing frightened me more than my mother’s tears.
I couldn’t bear seeing her cry.
It felt as though her tears were falling inside me instead of down her cheeks.
So I stayed away from gunpowder.
But now?
Blood stirs nothing inside me.
And fire no longer scares me.
I play with it.
I burn my own hands… and watch silently without screaming.
What matters is that my fire never died.
And it never will.
Today, I write…
And my hands no longer tremble.
Even my tears abandoned me.
Just like everyone else did.
Just like my own shadow deserted me beneath the daylight and disappeared.
My feelings died.
My words died with them.
Then my childhood.
Then my innocence.
Then everything else.
With these very hands…
I killed that little girl.
The eight-year-old child inside me.
I buried her alive.
And despite everything…
Despite everything you did to me, Mother…
I still miss you.
Terribly.
A silent kind of longing that devours me from within.
A longing invisible to others, yet capable of destroying every remaining piece of me.
Do you know what loss truly is?
It’s wanting to see someone you love… while knowing the distance between you can no longer be measured in miles, but in impossibility itself.
It’s calling out to them…
only for your own broken voice to echo back at you.
It’s knowing…
they are never coming back.
But do you know what’s even worse?
Knowing that you were the reason.
People should understand that longing is not merely a feeling.
It’s an abyss.
A place where the heart falls endlessly without ever reaching the bottom.
It is being torn apart.
As though a piece of your soul has been ripped away… leaving behind a hollow emptiness that can never truly be filled.
A silent pain.
One that consumes the spirit slowly without leaving visible scars.
As if your soul had already left your body…
while your body remains standing simply because it no longer remembers how to collapse.
But even that…
fails to describe what I feel.
Because losing you, Mother…
didn’t leave me alive.
Nor did it allow me to die.
Everything in this house still reminds me of you.
Your breath trapped between the walls.
Your voice suffocating inside the corners.
The ugly remains of my childhood that refused to be buried, even after your death.
Your ghost never leaves me.
It stalks me.
Feeds on my weakness.
Even after death, your filth still clings to me.
As if you had planted it inside my blood… my skin… my soul.
And my pathetic heart still couldn’t move on.
Not after all the success I achieved.
Not after all the masks I wore pretending to be okay.
Darkness devoured my features.
It stole my beauty and left me with a face I barely recognize.
My eyes dried out.
Not because the tears ended…
but because the pain grew beyond the point of crying.
I need you.
Not as a memory.
Not as a ghost.
But as a mother.
Just… a mother.
Yet I could never forgive you.
Because you left me behind for life to punish me for your mistakes… and for your death.
And I never wanted you to leave.
I never wanted to kill you either.
I only wanted…
a normal life.
A life suitable for a girl my age.
I am not a murderer.
Do you understand?
It wasn’t my fault.
I never wanted your blood on my hands.
I killed myself instead.
I tore my own soul apart and became nothing more than a body walking without one.
You took my childhood with you…
and left me with the scissors.
Those scissors that punished you with death…
and punished me with destruction.
Now I suffer alone in this world.
With no companion…
except drugs.
Yes.
I became addicted.
I never wanted to become like you.
But fate mocks me.
It keeps reshaping you inside me…
as if it insists on turning me into your reflection despite how desperately I hate it.
Every day…
I drown myself in alcohol.
I drink until my mind escapes reality.
Until your face disappears.
But does it?
Never.
You always come back.
Crueler.
Clearer.
Covered in more blood.
I still see you lying on the floor.
Your blood everywhere.
And me…
curled up in the corner, trembling while clutching the scissors.
Watching your soul leave your body slowly.
And hearing your voice.
Your screams.
That sound never leaves me.
It lives inside me.
Punishing me every single night.
So I drink.
And drink.
And drink.
Trying to forget you.
And in the end?
The same thing always happens.
I wake up collapsed beside your photograph.
That photograph that refuses to leave me alone.
Not at night.
Not in the morning.
I see your bloody shadow grabbing my legs…
dragging me back…
keeping me trapped inside that day forever.
You won your death.
And I lost my life.
I am still trapped in—
February 22nd, 2011.
The day that never ended.
The day I could never escape.
And maybe never will.
How could I forgive you…
when I still cannot forgive myself?
How could I forget you…
when I was the reason?
I was the one who stole your soul.
I was the one who buried you beneath that cold earth during winter.
Every single day, I ask myself:
Did you forgive me?
Will you ever?
Will I?
Are you cold there?
Inside that grave?
Did you ever feel even a fraction of the bitterness you forced me to swallow?
Your final look still lives inside my chest like a blade.
Neither leaving… nor killing me.
The past burns me alive.
And my fire never fades.
As though there is an ember inside my heart that reignites every time your ghost returns.
And today…
I am here.
Sitting beside your grave for the first time since you died.
For the first time…
I finally have the courage to face you.
Even if only beneath the soil.
I am here, Mother.
Coloring your grave with my blood…
as if I am trying to return something to you.
Anything.
Because how could I visit the woman whose blood still stains my hands?
Yet today…
I lie above your grave, torn between weakness and strength.
Longing exhausted me.
Loss destroyed me.
I came here to tell you my story.
Everything that happened since you left me…
until now.
Today, I am twenty-four years old.
Sixteen years have passed.
Sixteen years…
and I am still trying to gather the shattered pieces of myself…
just to reach you again.
But you must understand—
these are not merely words I am writing.
Nor memories I suffer through.
There was a night…
a night that never truly ended.
A night where everything broke apart.
Where longing transformed into a crime.
And fear transformed into blood.
Since that moment…
I was no longer the little girl crying in corners.
I became someone born from pain itself.
Someone raised by darkness.
Everything I am now—
the cruelty, the coldness, the madness—
began on that night.
The night…
when it was only you…
me…
the blood…
and the scissors.
This is not a past meant to be told.
It is an open wound that bleeds inside me with every breath I take.
I once believed I had buried that eight-year-old girl alongside you beneath the earth.
But I was wrong.
I grew up.
Yes, I learned how to hide my weakness behind a mask of cruelty and ice.
But that child never died.
She remained trapped inside me, screaming every night and dragging me back to that moment…
to that cursed night…
the night you left me.
So let me begin the story there.
On that black night.
The night death stole you from my arms as though it had waited for that moment forever.
I never forgot.
And I never will.
That night…
the rain poured endlessly.
As though the sky itself was mourning you.
But my tears fell harder than the rain…
and hurt more than the thunder tearing through the darkness.
I sat on the balcony floor…
staring at the sky.
Watching it cry with me.
Or perhaps…
for me.
The cold gnawed at my bones until my blood nearly froze inside my veins.
But what terrified me most…
was the sound of my own heart.
Slamming violently against my chest as though it wanted to escape.
Louder than the thunder itself.
Loud enough to expose me.
The room…
was drowned in your blood.
And that blood was not merely red.
It carried pieces of me inside it…
pieces that no longer exist anymore.
