Two Years with Dead

After school ended, he disappeared. Some friends thought he had died. Others kept sending messages, asking what had happened, but his phone stayed silent. His social media was dead.

A few neighbors knew he had locked himself inside a small room. Sometimes they saw a faint light flicker through the window, but most nights it stayed dark. He rarely stepped outside, except to buy food or books. When he did, his hair was wild, his beard untrimmed. He didn’t look like a twenty-year-old anymore. He looked like an old man who had already met death or carried some unbearable suffering. How could someone so young look like that?

Some neighbors whispered that he was addicted to drugs or intoxication. But no one knew the truth. The boy had always seemed happy, always smiling, always hiding a small joke behind his words. What went wrong, no one could say.

It was winter, around one in the morning. Darkness and haze surrounded his home, the last house at the end of the street, with no neighbors close by. Inside, the room was dim and silent except for the ticking of a clock. The weak light barely reached the corners.

A table sat in the center, piled with books, some scattered on the floor. A single chair and a mirror completed the room. He sat in the chair, staring at himself in the mirror. His eyes were darkened, his beard long and unkempt, and his pale face showed no expression. Even he could not read the thoughts reflected back at him. His black T-shirt hung loosely, a shadow of the shirt that had once fit him perfectly.

On the table, there was a rat who was eating the boy’s food, which was meant for him. But he lived with it, letting the rat eat his food. He had been living with the rat for two years. He even gave it a name—Dead. Whenever it appeared, he muttered, “Oh, Dead, you are here again.”

The rat didn’t move an inch. It ate, making more sound. He shouted louder, “Are you listening, or are you mad?” Dead still didn’t move, just kept eating and making noise. “I gave you food. Even when you ate my books, I never said a word. But now, I want you to stop eating and making noise. It frustrates me.”

The rat scuttled onto the bookshelf and after a minute started eating books, making more sound. The boy cried, “I am tired! You don’t know who I am! I am not like you, who just eats and makes noise! I had a family! I had friends! I had ambitions! I had everything, you stupid animal!”

The rat stayed hidden in the shelf, still eating. The boy cried louder, “You stop it! You are a bastard! You have no manners! I’m going to kill you, but think who would cry for you if I did? Who would heal you, give you medicine?”

He remembered his girlfriend. “One day, I was playing on the ground and got hurt. My knees were bleeding, my foot in pain. She ran toward me, and I could see her tears. She bandaged my foot and knee in front of the whole class. Who would care for you if I hurt you, stupid rat? You don’t have a sister to love you. I did. Whenever I was late to pick her from school, and her friends were gone, she was there. Seven years old. She hugged me, crying. ‘Brother, please come early, I’m afraid.’ Do you hear that? My heart poured with her, my veins felt her. She relied on me. She cared for me. Do you have anyone? No. You have none. You are a loser.”

The rat still hid in the shelf, making noise. The boy’s voice broke as he shouted, “You don’t listen! You are irresponsible! You can’t make friends! You can’t talk to the old ones! You are vulnerable, insecure! You don’t trust anyone! You are unworthy, ugly, unsafe! Everyone misunderstands you because you deserve it! You think your girlfriend is gone because of you! You don’t have courage; you couldn’t stand for her! You lost your grandfather because of yourself! You couldn’t make one tear fall for him! You are nothing worthless, dependent, broken, lost! You lost your family; you lost your friends! You can’t make things right! You can’t see the eye of hope! You can’t see happiness in people’s eyes, can’t see ambition, can’t see hope! You can’t see things, Dead! Do you understand me?”

The room felt silent. The clock ticked, each sound sharp in the stillness. Suddenly, Dead appeared on the table, in the middle, standing there, making no noise just standing. The weak light flickered on its small body, casting long, trembling shadows.

The boy’s chest tightened. Blood coursed faster through his veins, hot and wild. Tears ran down his pale face. His hands shook uncontrollably. The weight of two years pressed on him. Memories flashed faster than he could hold. Every mistake, every loss, every unspoken word they all crowded into his chest like stones. The air smelled faintly of old books, dust, and the metallic tang of blood.

He breathed heavily. Rage and madness shone in his eyes and twisted his body. He looked at the knife. It gleamed even in the darkness, reflecting the dim, sickly light. He wanted to kill Dead. He wanted no one in his room. His mind raced the despair, the anger, coiling together like a storm. He reached for the knife. His fingers trembled violently.

Dead still sat in the middle of the table, not moving, its tiny chest rising and falling with quiet breaths. The boy leaned closer, raising the knife toward Dead. But suddenly, his motion shifted, and the blade found his own throat. Blood spilled hot and dark across the table, onto the rat, the walls, and the scattered books. The metallic scent filled the room. He collapsed to the floor, the cold of the tiles seeping into his skin, mixing with the warm, sticky blood.

After a few minutes, Dead came to his body, sniffed, looked at his face, and then left the room. Its tiny legs left bloody traces across the floor, glinting in the weak light, marking a path out of the dark, suffocating room