⚠️ 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 spent most of his time in his room, studying and writing, shaping his thesis day and night. A year later, despite all his effort, his thesis was rejected three times. Defeated, he dropped out of college. 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 witnessed someone suffer, it felt like a blade cutting straight through him.
The rejection of his thesis left him overwhelmed by sadness and hopelessness, and for a week, he did not 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. Even if his father tried to comfort and offered him a place in the office, 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, lying on the bed with his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"I've lost everything. I'm trash," his voice low and broken.
His thoughts drifted to the promises he had made to the children in the city, and regret washed over him.
"Why did I make promises like a fool?"
After a moment's pause, he continued,
"I did my very best—yet three theses were rejected. A whole year wasted. Maybe I was meant to see the world like this… and die with it."
His heart twisted so painfully that he could barely breathe.
"If only I were like Mother… like everyone else," he whispered, his voice trembling.
"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 have to see anymore?"
The thought gnawed at him. If he could see nothing, perhaps the pain would loosen its grip. Perhaps he would not suffer like this.
A bitter laugh slipped out.
"No… that would only make me an even heavier burden to my parents."
His chest constricted, as though something inside him had finally shattered.
Frustration surged, spilling past restraint—
"Fuck."
The word escaped before he could stop it. Startled by his own voice, he struck his mouth—hard. Pain stings across his lips, a punishment for the sin he believed he had committed. He had 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 still want to reach out, as if I were someone who could save them? Why?'
Tears spilled before he could blink them away.
He clutched his face with both hands as tears fell freely. In a cracked, broken voice, he began to question God. The pain was too much—he could no longer bear it.
"Why, God? Why am I like this?" he asked, his voice nearly losing itself to the sobs.
His hands trembled as he wiped his eyes, trying to clear his blurred vision.
"I have no power… no talent… no magic… no money… nothing. And yet You let—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, and felt Helpless. Hopeless. Useless.
Though, 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 then a cruelest thought whispered in the back of his mind:
'Once I die… everything ends anyway.'
Something inside him snapped.
He whispered to himself, his voice trembling as it grew colder,
"From now on… I will stop being soft."
He straightened, sitting on the edge of his bed, and ran a hand through his hair.
His gaze fell upon the compass lying on the table.
Slowly, he picked it up and lowered himself to the floor.
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 crossed his face as he thought to himself:
'Haa… I really forgot everything for a moment because of the pain…'
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.
When the realization dawned on him—that pain could momentarily silence his thoughts—something shifted inside him. He pulled his sweater down from one shoulder and bit into the fabric, muffling himself so no one would hear his screams.
He paced back and forth across the room, stabbing himself again each time his mind began to soften. Drops of blood speckled the floor. His left hand bore nearly twenty to thirty small punctures, scattered and uneven—silent marks of a battle no one else could see.
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 and empathy… I would have been a king of happiness," he sobbed.
His strength gave way, and he dropped to his knees.
Tears streamed down his face, falling to the floor and mingling with the blood beneath him.
Slowly, he came back to his senses. In a voice barely above a breath, he whispered—
"Oh my… Mother would cry if she saw this. I'm sorry… I'm so sorry."
He took off his sweater and, mindlessly wiped the floor. In a rush he cleaned desperately before the blood dried. Then he picked up the compass and threw it into the bin, carefully wrapping his wounds, though the pain still forced a soft groan from his lips.
Soon, he heard footsteps — his mother.
He froze as she knocked gently on the door.
"Egemed? You won't come out today either? I brought fruits," she whispered.
Egemed remained silent, not a word escaping him.
She continued softly, "I won't come in… but please, don't end your life in there. I still love you. I don't hate you."
When no answer came, she assumed he had fallen asleep and quietly walked away.
He almost broke into tears again, but he pressed his wounded hand against his chest, forcing himself to hold back the emotion.
When night came, she returned with his dinner.
"Egemed? Are you awake? Your dinner is here. It's been a week… please talk to me. Your father waits every day."
"I'm sorry, Mother," Egemed answered from his room.
"Why are you sorry? We don't hate you," her voice breaking.
"I'm sorry I failed you."
"Don't say that. I know you tried. Tell me what you want, Egemed. It hurts me to see you like this."
Egemed didn't answer.
"I love you so much," she whispered. "I'll bring your food every day until you come out. Just tell me what burden you carry."
He replied calmly, "I am fine, Mother."
"Okay… goodnight, Egemed. I'm leaving. You can eat your food now."
"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 woke up and 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, and sprayed a bit of 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.
Once he saw his parents entered the dining room he greeted them gently;
"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. As his father reached over and held her shoulder gently.
Seeing them, he realized how much his parents must have been hurt by his own actions, he stepped closer and wrapped both of them in a tight embrace.
"I'm sorry… I'm really sorry. This foolish kid made his parents worry so much. Mother, please don't cry. I've taken care of myself now… I'm truly okay. See? I'm really alright."
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 pretend like a butler serving tea for you."
His father smiled and exchanged a knowing look with his wife.
"And how did you resolve your problem?" his mother asked gently.
Egemed glanced at them with a soft smile, "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."
Egemed 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."
Egemed 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." His father replied.
"I'm sorry… Father." Egemed apologized, his heart softening.
"You're only twenty-two," his father said. "You still have so much time. I'll always support you."
Egemed 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 Father." He nodded.
Days passed, then weeks. Egemed stayed home, jobless. He drifted through life with no purpose.
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 anymore. But he also 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 and didn't want 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. 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.