The Lost by Daria Voshchatynska

“You are accused of murder, Mile Lee.

You have the right to remain silent, and—”

“Don’t bother. I killed my parents.”

The lightbulb in the dim room flickered nervously, as if it wanted to say something important. Its harsh, unnatural light hurt the eyes. The young man, almost twenty, suddenly smiled. It was calm in a scary way, almost peaceful, like someone who had fully accepted the darkness inside. Goosebumps ran down my back. Just looking into his eyes made me feel sick.

He looked… off from the beginning. Too empty. Like no one was really there. Every button on his shirt was closed up to his neck, his hair was too neat: too dark, too perfect. Everything about him was too clean, too controlled. Life by the ruler. Every thought in its place. Every feeling locked away.

“I thought your officers wouldn’t figure it out. You’re all so stupid. Every one of you is a dumb piece of—”

A loud slap echoed through the room. The senior officer had punched him. A tooth flew out.

In that moment, his pale, handsome skin didn’t matter. I saw a dead man. Not on the outside, but inside. His soul was gone. He was terrifying. Mile Lee was a monster.

“You see, sir, I didn’t think you’d find out. That’s why I killed them all. My dad first. It was when I was thirteen. Can you believe it? It was so easy. Too easy. He was sitting in his chair, drinking, flipping channels. Like always. I knew I had five minutes before he started yelling. I came up behind him, slowly, no rush. My hands didn’t even shake. It felt… like a script. And you know what? That was the first time I felt alive.”

Freedom?

“I hit him in the back of the head with a hammer. Thirty-six… no, thirty-eight times! I counted. Then he stopped moving. I watched the blood soak into the carpet. Mom didn’t understand right away. She screamed. A lot.”

“I didn’t want to kill her, really,” he said, almost with regret, “but she would’ve told someone. And I didn’t want that. I liked our big house. It was mine.”

I looked at him again. His face was empty, with no soul. Only his eyes were alive. Was it sadness… or joy? No. It was pride. He was proud of what he did.

“I killed her two days later. Planned everything. Phones, water, gas. I even wrote a note to make it look like she ran off with a lover. I’m smart, sir. Much smarter than you. I chose the solution. Lye. Sodium hydroxide. They also call it caustic soda. You can buy it in stores as ‘drain cleaner’. I mixed it with hot water. Did everything in the basement. It was cool down there. And quiet.”

He looked at the floor like he was back in that basement.

“You know, a body doesn’t disappear right away. It fights back. It hisses, swells up, the skin peels off… and the smell… You can never forget it. It’s not just rotten meat. It’s the smell of life ending.”

Mail Lee stopped. Silence filled the room like a heavy blanket.

“I went there every day. Stirred it. Watched. Added more solution. Like a chemist, a gardener… a son. After a week, there was only a dirty liquid left. And some parts that didn’t melt. I burned them in an old barrel in the backyard.”

He smiled again. Crookedly. Blood had already dried on his lips. I didn’t feel fear anymore. Just disgust. The officer next to me let out a heavy breath. His fists were clenched.

But you know… Mile Lee wasn’t smiling anymore.

He slowly raised his eyes, as if just waking up. His face went paler than before, if that was even possible. His hands trembled. His fingers clenched into fists, as if he was trying to hold something inside.

“I…” he whispered. “I didn’t want… it to end like this.”

The room became truly silent. Even the flickering lightbulb went still—as if it was listening, too.

“At first, when I killed my father… I really thought I was saving her. My mom. I believed she would be free. That she’d say, ‘thank you. But she just looked at me. She didn’t cry. Not a word. Not a scream. She just looked… like I was a monster. And I did it for her…”

He covered his face with his hands. Then he looked up and something had changed in his eyes. They weren’t glassy anymore. They weren’t staring through. They were seeing.

“I thought it would get easier. That with time I’d stop dreaming about it, about how she stepped back, tripping over his body, how she grabbed the phone, trying to dial with shaking fingers… how I tore it out of her hands…”

He stood up suddenly, but no one stopped him. He just stood there like a boy. Lost. Small.

“I never felt relief. Not then. Not now. Only emptiness. And silence. Six years of silence. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. But I’m asking… stop this thing inside me. I don’t want to be this anymore.”

He sat back down. Lowered his head. And didn’t lift it again.