The Game

  I watched.

  I watched through the eyes of a man who looked like me but felt like someone else entirely. The reflection stood in front of the dying girl, her tiny frame barely breathing, her skin paper-thin, her lips dry and cracked from weeks—maybe months—of dehydration and drug use. Her eyes fluttered open when he knelt beside her. She could still see. Barely.

  His voice trembled when he spoke, not out of fear, but fury—like a volcano on the verge of eruption trying not to kill the only flower that bloomed on its slopes.

  “Can you hear me?” he asked softly.

  The girl nodded slowly. Her pupils shook like they were trying to escape from her skull. She was fighting unconsciousness every second.

  “I want to ask you something. Just one thing,” he continued. “What… what did they do to you?”

  There was a long silence.

  Then her lips moved.

  What followed weren’t words—they were memories painted in pain. She spoke like someone who forgot what kindness even sounded like. Her voice was fragile, trembling like a leaf about to fall, but her words were razor blades.

  “They made us… sit still while they poured boiling water on our legs… so we wouldn’t run…”

  The reflection's fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms until they bled.

  “They… they cut off our fingernails one by one… made us watch… while they did it to the others too… If someone screamed, they’d break their jaw and then... then say we were too loud…”

  I was crying. I couldn’t stop.

  She kept going.

  “They used pliers to pull out our teeth so we couldn’t bite when we fought back… They didn’t use anesthetic… ever. They said pain makes the soul cleaner…”

  The reflection didn’t interrupt. He just knelt there and listened.

  “They made us swallow needles,” she whispered.

  “What…?”

  “They crushed needles… mixed them with rice… told us to eat it… They’d beat anyone who spit it out…”

  My stomach churned. The inside of my throat felt like it was tearing apart. Even the reflection—the one made from my pain and darkness—his breath was shaking now. He looked like he was about to break down again.

  “They made me hurt the others too… They said if I didn’t, they’d skin them alive and make me eat it…”

  Tears ran down her face.

  “But I didn’t want to hurt anyone… I just wanted to go home…”

  And yet despite everything—despite the rivers of hell she had crawled through—her voice still sounded like a child’s. Pure. Fragile. Untouched by the evil that consumed her world. And that… that broke something inside of him.

  Then came the question.

  “Do you remember everything they did?” the reflection asked.

  She nodded.

  His eyes, once flickering with hesitation, now glowed with an eerie calmness. “Then let’s play a game.”

  She blinked. “A… game?”

  He smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “Yes. A very special one. We’re going to act out everything they did. Just like pretend.”

  Her eyes widened. “Pretend?”

  “Yes. But this time… you’ll be safe,” he said, rising slowly. “And this time… they’ll be the ones screaming.”

  He turned around.

  The parents were still sobbing in the corner. The father’s arm was still bleeding from the wrist where the hand had been severed. The kids were shaking, curled into themselves like frightened animals.

  The reflection walked to a cabinet, dragged it open, and found a roll of thick plastic. He covered the basement floor with it. Slowly. Meticulously. Then he walked back and began.

  One by one.

  He tied them to chairs using barbed wire instead of rope. Every twist forced the metal into their skin, and it tore through flesh like it was paper. The screams started almost immediately. But he wasn’t done. Not even close.

  He returned to the girl and asked, “What did they do first?”

  She paused, thinking. “They… they broke our fingers… slowly… one joint at a time…”

  He nodded and walked to the father.

  “You heard her.”

  Crack.

  The first knuckle shattered like a twig under his grip. The father screamed.

  Crack.

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  The next. Then the next.

  He went finger by finger, joint by joint, letting the man scream until his voice cracked and fell into broken, hollow whimpers. The reflection wasn’t smiling. He didn’t enjoy it. His expression was hollow. This wasn’t vengeance. This was justice through darkness.

  Next, the boiling water.

  He placed a pot on a nearby camping stove they had used to cook—ironic. The basement reeked of rotting flesh and burnt hair. Once the water was ready, he poured it down the mother’s legs.

  She shrieked.

  Steam rose as her skin blistered and peeled. She tried to jerk free, but the barbed wire only bit deeper.

  He didn’t stop.

  The girl whispered again. “They used bleach on our eyes…”

  The reflection nodded.

  He grabbed a bottle of bleach from a storage shelf. The mother’s eyes widened with pure terror. She tried to shake her head, to scream "no," but all he said was:

  “You did this first.”

  He forced her eyes open.

  And poured.

  The reaction was instant—thrashing, screaming, blood and foam dripping from her mouth. Her face twisted in agony.

  He moved to the kids next.

  That’s when the girl said, “They… they helped. The kids helped. They laughed…”

  The reflection froze.

  “What?” he asked.

  “They laughed,” she whispered. “They said we were just dolls.”

  His hands trembled.

  The children. Even they…?

  He walked to them slowly.

  His mind was spiraling.

  He looked into the eyes of the boy—maybe ten years old. The girl next to him, even younger. Their eyes no longer held innocence—they held fear, yes—but also cruelty hiding beneath layers of shock.

  “How many people did you hurt?” the reflection asked.

  They didn’t answer.

  He looked to the girl on the floor.

  “They stabbed my leg once,” she whispered. “Both of them…”

  The reflection closed his eyes.

  He didn’t want to. God, he didn’t want to.

  But his hands moved anyway.

  He took the same knife the kids had used.

  And returned the favor.

  They screamed.

  He screamed internally.

  I watched, frozen, as he walked through hell and dragged them all with him.

  It wasn’t just about revenge anymore.

  It was about breaking the cycle.

  Even if he had to become a monster to do it.

  And as the final cries echoed off those damp, blood-soaked walls, I realized something terrifying.

  He wasn’t done.

  Not yet.

  Not until the very last sin had been paid in full.

  Something shifted.

  Not just in him.

  In me.

  As I watched my reflection commit atrocities in the name of justice—no, vengeance—I realized something more horrifying than all the screams.

  The children had laughed.

  The children had helped.

  Not out of fear. Not out of obedience. But because they enjoyed it.

  That changed everything.

  It shattered a piece of the world I had clung to—the belief that innocence still existed somewhere, untouched. That children were born pure.

  But now…?

  Now I understood that even innocence could rot if left in the hands of monsters.

  And the reflection—he changed too.

  With every cut, with every scream, I saw something leave him. Not hate. Not anger. Those were always there. No, what left was the last thread of restraint.

  The reflection wasn’t becoming a monster.

  He already was one.

  He just finally accepted it.

  He returned to the children—the ones who’d stabbed, laughed, and called the tortured "dolls."

  This time, he didn’t speak.

  He gagged them first.

  Then, using thick black thread and a curved bone needle, he sewed their mouths shut.

  “You laughed while others cried. Now you’ll never laugh again.”

  Their eyes went wide. Muffled screams vibrated through sealed lips. Blood dripped down their chins like crimson tears.

  He sewed slowly.

  Painfully.

  Deliberately.

  The thread pulled their skin taut, tore through the soft flesh of their lips, sliced nerves meant for smiles and kisses.

  Then he looked to the father.

  “The girl said you made her watch her friends die. That you made jokes while they screamed. That you laughed when she begged for mercy.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply.

  He crushed the man’s ribcage with a crowbar.

  Bone cracked like dry wood underfoot.

  Then the mother.

  “She said you liked to… touch… the bodies afterward. Even when they stopped breathing.”

  He didn’t ask questions anymore.

  Only delivered answers.

  He rammed a screwdriver into her ears—both of them—deep until the handle pressed against her skull. Blood pooled from her nose and mouth, and her eyes rolled up before she could even scream.

  The children… the children he killed slowly.

  He cut tendons.

  Broke kneecaps.

  Cut out eyes.

  All while they choked on their own blood through their sewn mouths.

  And when it was over—

  When they finally stopped twitching—

  That should have been the end.

  But it wasn’t.

  When it was over, the reflection stood in silence.

  His hands were soaked in blood up to the elbows. His clothes clung to him with sweat and filth. His breathing was shallow. Not from exhaustion—but from the weight of what he had done.

  He turned to the girl.

  The only one left.

  Her skin was pale. Her lips trembled. But her eyes… her eyes still held hope.

  Even after all this.

  He knelt beside her again.

  Took off his coat and wrapped it around her frail shoulders.

  He opened a can of food—real food—and spoon-fed her like she was his own sister.

  She smiled weakly, chewing slowly like she hadn’t eaten in months.

  Afterward, he gently lifted her and walked her up the stairs, outside the basement.

  The sky above was soft with morning light.

  Birds chirped.

  For the first time in years… she saw sunlight.

  She covered her eyes, trembling, trying to understand what she was seeing. He held her close and pointed at the sky.

  “This,” he whispered, “is what the world really looks like.”

  She stared for a long time.

  Then looked up at him and asked, quietly,

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  My heart stopped.

  Tears welled in my eyes instantly.

  No.

  No, please—

  The reflection didn’t answer.

  He looked away.

  His jaw clenched, his hands trembling slightly.

  But then—she reached out and held his hand.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I… I don’t want to stay here anymore. I want to be with the others. You freed me once. Please… free me again.”

  He couldn’t speak.

  Just nodded slowly.

  She smiled.

  “Will you hug me… just once before?”

  He hugged her.

  Tightly.

  And for a brief moment, she was just a child again.

  Safe.

  Loved.

  She looked up at him one last time, her voice softer than the wind.

  “The others… the ones still down there. Please… free them too. They don’t deserve to stay like that. Not after everything. Let them rest.”

  The reflection closed his eyes, holding her tighter.

  He didn't say yes.

  He didn't need to.

  Then, without a word—

  He broke her neck.

  Quick.

  Gentle.

  Silent.

  Like laying a tired soul to rest.

  After her body went still in his arms, he carried her gently to where the others lay—those who hadn’t survived the tortures, the ones the family had used and discarded like trash.

  One by one, he buried them.

  Each with a little stone, a little dignity.

  He said nothing.

  No prayers. No words.

  Just silence.

  A silence deeper than the one before.

  And in that silence,

  I watched him do what no god had done.

  He gave the forgotten their peace.

  He buried her away from the others. Gave her a grave. Marked it with a piece of stone.

  I couldn’t hold back anymore.

  I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.

  So many deaths.

  So much pain.

  So much darkness.

  And the worst part?

  I knew it wasn’t over.

  Not for him.

  Not for me.