The room was dark. Not because there wasn't a light switch — we had electricity. But because I never turned it on.
I liked the dark. It made everything feel the same. The couch, the walls, my skin. Nothing stood out. Nothing was special.
I was small then. Seven, maybe. Sitting on the floor with my knees pulled to my chest. The blue glow from the television flickered across my face as cartoons played without sound. I never turned the volume up. It was better that way. Quieter.
My eyes stung. I hadn't slept the night before. Or the one before that. Or the one before that. I don't remember. The skin beneath my eyes was swollen and dark like someone had punched me in my sleep.
I think I cried once. I don't remember what for. Maybe I stopped crying because no one answered.
Then the door slammed open.
Hard footsteps. Fast breathing.
My father came in first, dragging something heavy by the arms. My mother followed, holding its legs. They were both covered in dirt and blood — his hands shaking, her shirt soaked.
They were carrying a man.
A police officer.
He wasn't moving. His head lolled to the side, his eyes open but blank, like he was still watching something that wasn't there anymore. One side of his skull was crushed in, leaking dark red.
They dropped the body in the middle of the floor.
My mother immediately started pacing, her hands trembling.
"Shit! We didn't mean to kill him—! He saw the basement, I thought he was going to—"
"Stop. Just stop," my father growled. "He's dead. It's done. You hit him too hard—"
"You said to make sure he didn't call backup!"
"And not bash his fucking head in!"
Their words blurred together, loud, messy, scared. I didn't understand most of it. But I understood one thing.
That man wasn't breathing anymore.
I stood up quietly and walked to his side. My bare feet made soft sounds on the wooden floor. I stared down at the twisted face. Something about him was different from when I saw people on the street. His mouth didn't move. His chest didn't rise.
I tilted my head.
"What happened to him?" I asked softly.
They both froze.
I looked up at my father. "What… is death?"
He turned to me. His face changed. It softened — not because he was calm, but because he always did that when he talked to me. Like he didn't want to scare me more than he already had.
He kneeled down, eye to eye.
"Death is…" he hesitated, "when a person stops forever. Their body… their heart… everything inside them just… stops."
"Do they wake up later?" i asked.
He shook his head slowly. "No, princess. They don't wake up. They don't dream. There's nothing after death. It's just… gone. All gone."
I blinked. Looked back at the man. His uniform was stained red now. My mother walked past us quietly. She didn't say anything. She went into the kitchen and came back with a knife. A big one.
I watched as she knelt beside the body. Her hands didn't tremble anymore. She stabbed the knife into his side with force, then began sawing through muscle and bone. His flesh made wet, sick sounds as it split.
My eyes widened. My chest felt tight. I didn't look away.
"…It's sad," I whispered. "If something dies… because there's nothing after."
My father gently touched my head. "Yes. That's why you must never die, my little princess."
He stood, turned to my mother.
"We need to get rid of him before morning. What about the woods?"
"No," she replied, not looking up. Her arms were soaked to the elbows. "Too far. The furnace?"
"We'll try the furnace."
I sat back down slowly.
The TV still played its silent cartoons.
I didn't understand them, but I liked the colors. They moved fast and didn't bleed.
Behind me, the knife kept moving. Bones cracked. Flesh tore.
I hugged my knees again.
And quietly, I said to myself:
"Death is the end. And it's sad when something ends."
I turned the volume up for the first time in days. Just loud enough to cover the sound of a man being cut into pieces...