Ming You slowly lowered his gaze from the ceiling, where cracks in the concrete sprawled like a spiderweb, and stopped on the ripped-open body. His fingers, slippery from congealed blood and fat, closed around the knife lying near the corpse's waist. The blade was stuck to the floor by a thin film of dried biological fluids, and as he lifted it, a quiet, peeling squelch sounded, like pulling a wet rag off tiles.
"This was the only thing you wanted from her."
His lips stretched into a crooked smirk, baring teeth slightly smudged with blood spatter. In the corners of his mouth, dried pink threads of saliva, mixed with someone else's life, had hardened.
The voice in his head replied wearily, as if tired of this performance:
"Convincing her back then was quite difficult… but fortunately, she loved me, and we did what we wanted…"
"What you both wanted? Maybe stop making me laugh?"
Ming You pressed his fingers into the incision on the abdomen, where the skin had already lost its elasticity and resembled soaked cardboard. The edges of the cut parted with a soft crunch of subcutaneous fat, exposing a jumble of entrails.
The intestines spilled out first.
Heavy, slippery, shimmering with bluish-pink hues. They slid out like overripe sausage from a burst casing, with a gurgling sound, leaving behind a sticky trail of semi-digested food and dark bile. The smell hit his nose — sweet and sour, with a putrid note, as if rotten eggs had been mixed with slowly decomposing meat.
Ming You pushed his hand deeper, breaking through the warm, enveloping layers of the omentum, and pulled out the liver.
It was still warm.
Dark burgundy, with a lumpy surface, slightly trembling in his palm, as if still trying to filter non-existent blood. He squeezed it — a thick, almost black liquid oozed from the severed vessels, streaming down his wrist and mixing with the already dried brown smears.
"But she agreed… but it doesn't matter now… is it because of you… because of your mother?"
The knife rose up, catching the last rays of the sunset. The blade gleamed crimson, as if forged from congealed blood itself. And at that moment, another knife surfaced before his eyes.
Exactly the same.
With a black handle.
With droplets dripping onto the floor.
"A week after you fucked Sun Hee, right?"
…
Ming You slowly closed the front door behind him, kicked off his sneakers, and, with a careless push of his foot, placed them by the coat rack. His school backpack, heavy with textbooks, fell with a thud near the door to his room, but he didn't even pay it any mind. His nose wrinkled at the strange, unpleasant smell hanging in the air — something metallic, sharp, hinting of dampness and something… unnatural.
He froze in place, trying to figure out what it was, but couldn't pinpoint it.
His gaze fell on the half-open bathroom door — the light inside was on.
When he looked inside, his body seemed to turn to stone. His pupils constricted sharply, absorbing the ghastly scene before him.
The bathtub was full of a dark red, almost black liquid, and only a second later did his brain realize it was blood. In it, half-submerged, lay his mother — her face was pale, almost waxen, and her arm hung helplessly over the edge of the tub. A deep, ragged wound gaped on her wrist, from which no blood oozed anymore — apparently, it had all drained out. On the tiled floor, in a puddle of scarlet fluid, lay a kitchen knife with a black handle, all smeared with the same terrible shade.
Ming You involuntarily recoiled, his back hitting the doorframe. His legs turned to jelly, a ringing started in his ears, and in his chest, it felt as if all his insides were being squeezed in a vise. He couldn't scream, he couldn't even breathe. Slowly, as if in a nightmare, he sank to the floor, sliding down the wall, and pressed himself against it. His fingers dug into his knees, but he felt no pain — only an icy numbness spreading throughout his body.
"I don't know how to describe my emotions, it's not sadness, it's not despair, I would call it a sense of hopelessness and panic."
Time seemed to freeze. He didn't cry, didn't move — just stared at a single spot in front of him, as if his consciousness had shut off, leaving only an empty shell. Somewhere outside the window, the city was noisy, cars were passing by, people were laughing, but not a single sound reached him. Only the quiet, intermittent thud of his own heart, reminding him that he was still alive.
Hours passed like this. The sun was already setting, casting long shadows through the apartment, when suddenly a sharp knock came at the door.
Knock-knock-knock.
Ming You didn't even stir. His head was heavy, his thoughts murky. He heard someone jiggle the door handle, but he didn't care.
"Ming?" came a familiar girl's voice.
The door creaked open — apparently, it hadn't been fully closed. Footsteps sounded in the hallway, cautious but quick.
"Ming You?" Sun Hee called again.
She peered into the corridor, and her gaze immediately fell upon Ming You sitting on the floor near the bathroom. His posture, pale face, and vacant expression made her heart clench.
"M-Ming You? I-Is everything okay…" she took a step forward, but at that same moment, her gaze slid past him, through the half-open bathroom door.
"AAAH!"
A sharp, piercing scream tore from her throat. She recoiled backward, her hand instinctively covering her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. Her breathing quickened, her legs trembled, but despite the shock, she quickly pulled herself together.
"Oh god… oh my god…" she whispered, but then shook her head and grabbed her phone.
Her fingers trembled as she dialed the emergency number.
"Hello? Yes, we need help urgently! There's… there's a dead woman here, a bathtub full of blood… Yes, yes, please come quickly!"
Her voice faltered, but she clearly gave the address. However, as soon as she finished speaking, the operator warned her that the police would also arrive along with the medics.
Sun Hee, without ending the call, lowered her phone and looked at Ming You again. He still sat as before, as if he hadn't noticed her scream or the phone call. She slowly approached him, knelt down, and carefully hugged him.
"Ming You… what… what happened?" her voice trembled.
But he didn't answer. His eyes remained empty, as if his soul had gone somewhere far away.
…
The blade of the knife froze in the air, trembling from the tension in his hand. Droplets of blood, thick and slow, fell onto the remains, merging with the general mass of flesh.
"The police concluded it was a suicide. That's probably obvious, considering that in four years her debts had only grown," the voice sounded flat, emotionless, as if reading a news bulletin.
Ming You slowly ran his fingers along the blade, wiping off the dried bits of tissue. They fell away like tiny scabs, dropping to the floor with a barely audible plop.
His lips stretched into a smile, but his eyes remained empty, as if made of glass:
"Heh, my memories of that woman are a little different."
The inner voice fell silent for a second, as if weighing its words.
"So, you think it wasn't a suicide?"
"She killed herself, but not just because of the debts, heh."
He ran the knife along the ribs, as if testing their strength. The blade slid over the bone, leaving a thin white scratch.
"Why do you think that? What happened then?" the voice wondered, perplexed.
"Before the incident with Sun Hee, or more precisely, when her mother forced her to return home. That very night, you, or rather I, lost our virginity to a different woman…"
…
After standing for a couple more minutes under the streetlamp opposite Sun Hee's house, Ming You finally let out a sigh and slowly crossed the road. The street was deserted, with only the occasional passing car breaking the silence of the night. His shadow, stretched long under the streetlight, seemed especially lonely.
Reaching his house, Ming You paused for a moment in the entryway, as if hesitating to enter. But, clenching his teeth, he took out his keys and opened the door. Inside, it smelled of old wood and a slight dampness—the usual scent of their small apartment. He dropped his backpack on the floor, and it fell with a dull thud near the coat rack. At that moment, his hearing picked up a strange sound—a light trickle of water.
At first, Ming You paid no attention to it, but then he noticed a puddle slowly spreading from under the bathroom door. He quickened his pace, almost running down the hallway, and flung the door open sharply.
In the bathtub lay, or more accurately, slept, his mother. Her body, half-submerged in the cooled water, seemed lifeless—only the slight movement of her chest betrayed a slow, heavy breathing. The woman's face was haggard, with deep wrinkles of fatigue spreading from the corners of her lips and eyes. Under her eyelids, swollen and reddened, were the dark circles of sleeplessness, like shadows emphasizing the years lived and the accumulated tension.
Ming You froze for a moment, looking at her, then let out a sharp exhale and turned to the faucet. The water was no longer hot, but it was still trickling out in a thin stream, filling the tub to the brim. He twisted the tap shut, and silence, broken only by occasional drips, once again reigned in the bathroom. Then his gaze fell on his mother's feet—there, right by the drain, the stopper was stuck.
He bent over, feeling the muscles in his back tense, and yanked the plug out sharply. The water swirled, forming a small whirlpool, and began to slowly recede, revealing the woman's pale skin. With every centimeter the water level dropped, his mother's body became more visible—the curves of her hips, the lines of her waist, her breasts, slightly covered by wet strands of hair.
And then Ming You felt a familiar warmth arise in his groin, followed by a sharp, uncontrollable rush of blood.
Ming You was momentarily stupefied, his fingers trembling, but desire turned out to be stronger than shame. He slowly reached out his hand, touching his mother's breast—her skin was cool and damp from the water. His palm slid over the roundness, feeling the softness under his fingers, and he squeezed it, as if checking if it was real. Then he moved to the second one, more boldly now, as if justifying himself with the thought that she wouldn't wake up anyway.
But his insatiable desire demanded more. His hand crept downward, sliding over her stomach, to the place where the water had almost completely receded, exposing her pale thighs. His breathing quickened, his heart pounded so loudly it seemed it could be heard even in the silence of the bathroom.