⚠️ Warning:
This chapter contains scenes of self-harm.
These moments are not meant to encourage or glorify such behavior.
They show the desperation of a character who is overwhelmed by hopelessness—
and how the love of his parents eventually brings him back from the edge.
Please read with care.
For a month, Egemed stopped going to university. He locked himself in his room and wrote day and night. A year later he had graduated, but his thesis was rejected again — three times in total. His dream of completing his Phd was gone. It broke him, but what shattered him most was the future he saw ahead: jobless, useless, unable to help the broken souls he carried in his heart. Every time he saw someone suffering, it stabbed him as if a blade were cutting straight through him.
For a week, he didn't step out of his room. It was the only time in his life he made his parents truly worry. Egemed was the kind of son who always protected their hearts, always hid his troubles — but not this time. He couldn't. He felt he had no talent, no intelligence like his brothers, nothing left in him. His father offered him a place in the office, but Egemed refused, not because he didn't want to work with his brothers, but because he had a plan for his life — a plan he now believed he would never reach. And he knew if he relied on others, even if they loved him, someday that love would slowly turn into resentment.
Alone in his room, he spoke only to himself, drowning in hopelessness.
"I've lost everything. I'm trash. Why did I make promises like a fool? Three theses rejected. A whole year wasted. Maybe I was meant to die seeing the world like this."
His heart twisted so painfully he almost couldn't breathe.
"If only I was like Mother… like everyone else. Why must I see people's pain so clearly? Why must it hurt me like this?"
His thoughts spiraled darker.
"Should I just pluck my eyes out so I won't see anymore?"
A bitter laugh escaped him. "No… then I'll burden my parents even more."
His chest tightened. He felt as if something inside him cracked completely.
"Fuck!"
The word slipped out before he could stop it. Shocked at himself, he slapped his own mouth—hard—stinging his lips as if punishing the sin. He never cursed in his life.
"Sorry…" he whispered to himself, voice cracking.
"Maybe this path I chose… maybe it's the wrong one". he mumbled
His breathing turned uneven.
"Why… why does it hurt so much to see someone in pain?"
His voice trembled, rising with the misery inside him.
"Someone at their lowest… someone living a life so broken… why does my hand want to reach out like I'm someone who can save them? WHY?"
Tears spilled before he could blink them away.
"Why God? WHY AM I LIKE THIS?"
His chest tightened, words shaking.
"I have no power… no talent… no magic… no money… nothing! And yet You let me see something so painful—so unbearable—what am I supposed to do?"
His vision blurred. He stared at the ceiling as if it could answer him.
A small, strangled sound escaped his throat—not quite a cry, not quite a gasp—his heart breaking in a silent explosion he could not voice aloud.
His hands trembled uncontrollably.
He felt helpless. Hopeless. Useless.
Yes, there were jobs he could work. He knew that. But he also knew himself—knew his weaknesses too well. He barely passed his exams; he failed more than he succeeded. How far could a small job take him? What change could someone like him ever bring?
And the cruelest thought whispered in the back of his mind:
Once I die… everything ends anyway.
And then… something in his mind snapped.
He whispered to himself, voice trembling, growing colder:
"From now on… I will stop being soft. I will stop feeling."
His gaze fell on the compass lying on his table.
He picked it up slowly.
He placed his left hand on the floor.
With his right hand, he played with the compass, brushing it along his skin, his breath unsteady — and then he pierced it.
"AHH—! IT HURTS ...IT HURTS"
The pain shot through him like fire.
A twisted, broken smile.
"Haa… I really forgot everything for a moment because of the pain… hahaha…"
Even in that moment, even with laughter trembling on his lips, his heart still hurt so deeply that it felt like it might tear itself apart.
He tied a long white cloth across his mouth so no one would hear him scream. He paced back and forth in the room, stabbing himself again every time his mind softened. The room filled with drops of blood. His left hand had nearly twenty to thirty small holes scattered across it.
He looked at the floor, at his trembling hands, then forced himself to laugh again — a laugh mixed with tears.
"If I had never seen the world this way… if I had never felt kindness… I would have been a king of happiness." he sobbed
He dropped to his knees.
His tears fell on the floor, mixing with blood.
Coming back to his senses, he whispered:
"Oh my… Mother would cry if she saw this. I'm sorry… I'm so sorry."
He cleaned the room desperately, wiping the floor before the blood dried. He picked up the compass and threw it into the bin, wrapped his wounds carefully, but the pain made him groan softly.
Soon, he heard footsteps — his mother.
He froze as she knocked gently.
"Egemed? You won't come out today also? I brought fruits. I won't enter… but please, don't end your life in there. I still love you. I don't hate you."
Egemed was silent.
She walked away.
He almost broke into tears again, pressing his wounded hand to halt the emotion.
When night came, she returned with his dinner.
"Egemed? Are you asleep?"
"…"
"Your dinner is here. It's been a week… please talk to me. Your father waits every day."
"I'm sorry, Mother."
"Why are you sorry? We don't hate you."
"I'm sorry I failed you."
"Don't say that. I know you tried. Tell me what you want, Egemed. I'm hurt seeing you like this."
"..."
"I love you so much," she whispered. "I will bring your food every day until you come out. Just tell me what burden you carry."
He calmly replied, "I am fine, Mother."
"Okay… goodnight, Egemed."
"Goodnight, Mother."
His mother was hurting deeply, seeing him lock himself inside his room. She tried, again and again, but he wouldn't open the door. So she could only wait—quietly, painfully—hoping that eventually he would step out on his own.
The next morning — before the rooster crowed — Egemed looked into the mirror. Eight days without bathing. Hair sticky and messy. His body smelled of sweat and dried blood. His room smelled like a place where something terrible happened.
He washed, cleaned himself, scrubbed the room, sprayed perfume so the smell of blood disappeared.
Before six, he stood in the kitchen, preparing tea for his parents.
With his hand clutching his chest, he stood quietly near the door outside the dining room.
He took a slow breath, steadying himself.
Then, as always, he put on that gentle smile.
"Good morning, Mother… Father."
He lifted his hands slightly, showing them the tea he had prepared.
"Your tea is ready," he said softly.
Both of his parents fell still.
They had feared their son would not return to them the same after shutting himself away.
But here he was again—standing with familiar warmth in his voice.
His mother's eyes filled with tears.
His father reached over and held her shoulder gently.
Seeing them like this, he stepped closer and wrapped both of them in a tight embrace.
"I'm sorry… I'm really sorry. This immature kid made his own parents worry so much. Mother, please don't cry. I've solved my problem now. I'm okay… see?"
His mother could only tremble; words wouldn't come.
He pulled out their chairs.
"Sit, my King. Sit here, my Queen."
They sat down as he guided them, and quietly began sipping the tea he had made.
A soft silence settled over the room.
"…Why are you wearing gloves?" his mother asked.
"Oh—these?" he replied with a small giggle. "I wanted to feel like a butler serving tea for you."
His father smiled and exchanged a knowing look with his wife.
"And how did you solve your problem?" his mother asked gently.
"Because you both love me so much. I realised I should keep living… and take care of you until I grow old."
"If you want to work," his father said softly, "just tell me. Anytime. You're always welcome. You're my son."
He smirked lightly.
"What if I embarrass you with my foolishness? I can't even remember how division works in mathematics."
His father laughed quietly.
"Then just help me staple papers."
He blinked, then let out a soft burst of laughter.
"…Hahaha… really?"
"Of course. I can't bear to see my son lose hope so badly that he shuts himself away for a week, leaving not even a shadow for us to see."
"I'm sorry… Father." his heart soften.
"You're only twenty-two," his father said. "You still have so much time. I'll always support you."
He lowered his eyes.
"Even if I become your stapler… big brother will cast me out once you're gone."
"That's nonsense," his father said firmly. "I will always find a way for you to live happily and have a stable income, even if I'm not here."
A small, tender smile appeared on his lips.
"I have such a good father… thank you." nodded
Days passed, then weeks. Egemed stayed home, jobless. He drifted through life with no purpose. His kindness faded. His love faded. He felt numb.
Whenever sorrow stirred in his heart, he carried something sharp and hurt himself quietly, just enough to stop his emotions from rising.
He didn't want to live.
But he didn't want to hurt his parents by dying. There were moments when the world felt too heavy, when breathing felt like dragging stones, when the numbness swallowed everything. But each time he came close, something stopped him—love.
He loved his family too much to leave them with that kind of wound.
He remembered how his mother would stand outside his locked door, day after day, carrying food with trembling hands, whispering comfort through her tears.
He remembered his father knocking softly, trying his best to sound strong while suggesting jobs Egemed could try, hoping to pull him back into life.
He remembered his little brother's voice—small, innocent, sincere:
"Brother Ege… don't you want to see the woman you want to marry anymore?" (his mother)
Those words pierced him deeper than any blade.
Seeing his family's kindness, their patience, their unwavering love… it pulled him away from the edge every time.
So he kept living.
Not because life was easy.
Not because he was healed.
But because he couldn't bear to give them that pain.
So he lived in between.
"If I live, I live. If I die, I die," he whispered.
Whenever his father asked him to accompany him to the city, he always refused. He even refused to go with his mother on market days. And even though he turned them down again and again, his parents accepted his choice—they never forced him. Egemed had always been an obedient, gentle, and soft‑hearted son, but after the incident he went through, something in him changed.
Most of his days were spent alone, far from people, far from relatives, far from any noise. He still carried the same kindness, still treated anyone he met with the same warmth—especially his parents—but no one saw the pain behind it. No one saw the numbness in his heart, the quiet breaking that left him no longer the same. He lived only to reach his end. He kept being kind simply because he felt kindness was the only right thing left to do while he was alive.
But even then, he didn't understand what kind of kindness he was giving. He never felt whole, yet he ignored that emptiness and forced himself to appear whole, no matter what it cost him.
Every day, two hours before sunset, he would climb to the top of the hills.
There, he would close his eyes and breathe in the pure, quiet air—
trying to fit into a world where everyone else seemed to belong,
yet he never truly did.