uncontrollable

The judge's voice boomed like execution drums, shaking the wooden courtroom with the resonance of his words: "Do you confess to all your crimes and admit them in full?" The man standing on the execution platform, his hands bound in rusted chains, raised his head with astonishing steadiness. The question was repeated a third time, with the same iron tone that left no room for escape or justification. The man responded in a deep voice, dead inside yet pulsating with irreversible confession: "I confess to all my crimes... and admit I deserve punishment." The silence in the courtroom was louder than anything, as if everyone was waiting for a drop of blood to explain the past. But the truth, as only God knew it, was buried under layers of blood and mud, since the day the blue milk bottle had fallen. --- "Adam! Stop staring at the sky," his mother (Susan) said wearily, trying to shoo him out of the barely-closing, weathered wooden door. "Nothing precious will fall from there. Go now and fetch me some milk from our neighbor." The child nodded obediently and dashed off with the lightness of a six-year-old, weaving between the small wooden houses that emitted the smells of cheap bread and burnt smoke. The gray European village was encircled by forests, cold, and the murmur of a small stream cutting through the muddy square. The neighbor, Mrs. Greta, was a plump woman wearing a somewhat dirty apron, standing behind an old wooden window overlooking the narrow street. When Adam knocked, she opened the door with a near-toothless smile and said, "Back again, Adam?" He replied proudly, holding out a thin coin: "I'm a regular customer... Can't you lower the price a little?" Greta laughed loudly, as befitted a woman accustomed to roughness, and gave him the milk at half price. He felt like a man who had struck the deal of a lifetime. Clutching the small blue bottle in his hands, he ran over the gravel and mud, proud that he would return half the money to his mother, proud that he had contributed to the household, proud... until he reached the cold iron door that stung his small fingertips. Before he could reach for it, he heard it. The sound of muffled, choked screams emanated from inside, as if the house itself were dying. His stepfather had returned. Drunk? Yes. Angry? Probably. But Adam knew exactly what those screams meant. He ran and shoved the door violently, dropping the milk bottle without realizing it, sending it tumbling across the mud and gravel. He burst inside and saw his mother sprawled on the floor, trying to shield her face from the long wooden stick wielded by the burly man. Adam stood there in his small body, like a drop of water facing a storm, and shouted in a hoarse, angry voice: "Leave her alone!" But the man exploded with rage, as if the child had awakened the demons of his past. He attacked Adam violently, and the sounds of wood striking flesh echoed as Adam tried to defend himself and his mother. The beating continued until the man grew tired of swinging his heavy hand, his eyes sluggish from alcohol and exhaustion. He retreated to his room to sink into a deep sleep, as he did every night. Adam, the child, was boiling. Blood pounded in his ears, his chest heaved violently—he didn’t know whether his ribs would burst from anger or pain. He handed his mother the discarded milk carton, as if handing her the shattered remains of his happiness, then slipped out silently and sat under the ancient oak tree near the house, its roots twisting like his clenched fingers. The sky that night was starless, dark as the life Adam lived, as if the clouds refused to witness this night in particular. His eyelids grew heavy, and he drifted into a troubled sleep, his heart screaming in silence. --- When he woke, something cold touched his skin. His mother was hastily wiping his body with a damp cloth, her eyes distant, whispering in terror. "What is this...?" He looked down at himself and saw thick, dark red stains. His small, trembling voice quivered—he only ever saw this shade of red when his stepfather beat him. But he couldn’t remember anything now. Susan murmured inaudibly to herself, sprinkling water over Adam’s small body with shaking hands, trying to conceal the evidence of a crime no human should dare name or commit. Adam’s gaze followed the narrow river of red liquid seeping between the cracks of the old wooden floor... until it led him to it. A man, sprawled out. A massive body. White hair. A scowling face. A chest torn open in a horrifying, inhuman way, as if something had shredded the flesh savagely. It was... his stepfather. Dead. Adam stared with trembling eyes at the disfigured corpse—not just mutilated by the crime, but as if the unspoken fury festering inside him had erupted last night and transformed into something else... something red. His mother trembled as she covered the body with a sheet, tidying up the scene. She dressed him and sat him on the tattered bed. She whispered, locking eyes with him: "Stay here. Don’t move. Pretend to be asleep... understand?" He nodded. Then she left. But the neighbor, Greta, hadn’t been oblivious. She saw the blood, smelled the terror, and fled to the police station, screaming: "He’s dead! She killed him! There’s blood everywhere!" --- The police entered the house, accompanied by two men in heavy coats, cursing the place as if the stench told more than any testimony. They seized the mother violently, and one of them roared at her: "Don’t you regret what you’ve done? After everything my cousin did for you and your son?! Is this how you repay your husband, who treated you kindly?!" He struck her, yanked her hair, as she screamed: "I didn’t kill him! I don’t know who did this!" But no one listened. People in villages didn’t like women who lived alone, or mothers who raised their sons in houses without "good men," or poverty that carried the stench of crime.