Not even in his dreams could Milan escape reality. His hands held Damien’s kitchen knife as he descended the stairs from his room. His father stood with his back to Milan, watching a crime show on TV. He must have heard Milan’s footsteps because he turned around.

“Hey there.” A grin flashed across his face. The perky grin he always wore, even if he was in a bad mood. Milan had never seen him mad before. Except for that time. “Did you meet your crush? The one who wrote the letter?”

Milan’s hands trembled. He’d forgotten all about the letter. Without it, he wouldn’t be able to do what he wanted to do now.

No. He didn’t want this. Milan tried to loosen his fingers around the knife, but it was attached to his hand. He tried to move his legs and go back to his room, but they remained steady in their place. His body wouldn’t listen. It was as if it acted on its own.

He bolted toward his father and thrust the knife into his abdomen. The blood spread on his green shirt in a matter of seconds. His mouth twitched, and his eyebrows parted.

“I’m the one who wrote the letter,” Milan said.

A plate dropped to the ground. His mother stood in the living room, her body quivering. Milan sprinted toward her and slit her throat with the knife. Blood spewed everywhere. On the ground, on Milan’s face and clothes. He wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

His mother slumped to the floor, her neck hanging by a few tendrils of skin. Milan hovered the knife over her, striking her all over her body. Blood gushed out, soaking the wooden floorboards.

“I hate you. Both you and Dad,” Milan said through clenched teeth. “But you. You’re the worst.”

And he kept plunging the knife through her raw flesh. He stopped keeping count after the seventh time.

By the time he was done, he was out of breath. His hands were stained with blood. As if he’d gained control of his body, he ran to the sink in the kitchen and let the cold water soak his skin. But no matter how many times he rubbed his hands together, the blood wouldn’t wash off, as if glued to his skin. He rubbed harder and harder, almost tearing his own flesh off, but it made no difference. And then, he realized why. It wasn’t water that gushed out of the tap. It was blood.

Milan jolted upright. He wheezed, and his sweaty clothes stuck to his body. What was going on? Where was he?

The memories returned to Milan.

He took a deep breath, and the earthy smell filled his nose. Rain fell to the ground. He laid his back against the stone, staring back at the ceiling. How long had it been since he last had a nightmare? He didn’t remember. Nightmares didn’t come easily to him. Until all this happened.

He thought it’d be impossible to fall asleep again, but as soon as he closed his eyes, sleep came over him.