Amukelo stepped onto the old wooden porch. The air smelled of home—of damp earth, of burning firewood, of something warm cooking inside. His heart quickened.
And then he heard it—the soft, familiar humming.
The melody drifted through the open window. His mother used to hum it while cooking, while sewing, while brushing his hair when he was too tired to keep his eyes open. The sound wrapped around him like a blanket, and he smiled, his chest swelling with warmth. He had made it back. He had left behind the nightmare of the mountains, the blood, the pain. He had woken up to something that made sense.
His steps became lighter, almost hurried. He pushed open the door and called out, "Mama, I'm back! I brought back wheat!" His voice carried the joy of a son returning home.
She was standing by the counter, her back turned to him. The humming continued, soft and rhythmic. The dull thud of a chopper hitting wood accompanied her tune. She was cutting something, just like he remembered from all those years ago.
He took another step closer. "Mama?"
She didn't turn. Her body swayed slightly, moving with the rhythm of her humming. But something was off. The melody had slowed down, as if she were uncertain, or struggling to remember the next part.
Amukelo's smile faltered as he called her again, "Mama, it's me."
She kept chopping. The rhythm of the blade against the wood was steady, unchanging, but her humming grew fainter, fading into something hollow, something lifeless.
He stepped closer until he could see her profile, the faint outline of her face in the dim light. But… something was wrong. The shadows obscured her features, leaving only a wide, unnatural smile visible beneath the darkness.
Amukelo's expression changed, "Mama?"
The chopper came down again—thud.
Something about the sound made his chest tighten. It wasn't the solid, satisfying chop of vegetables or herbs. It was something softer, something wrong.
His eyes drifted downward. And his expression turned to horror as he saw two severed fingers lay on the cutting board, neatly arranged next to her motionless hand.
Then, without hesitation, she lifted the chopper again and brought it down cutting her third finger—thud.
Amukelo staggered back, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. A choking noise escaped his throat, his body frozen between the urge to move and the sheer horror of what he was seeing.
"Mama...?" His voice was small, barely audible.
She lifted the chopper again.
He gagged. His stomach churned violently, and before he could stop it, bile and blood spilled from his mouth. It splattered onto the floor. He gasped for air, his chest tightening, but when he looked down, his hands were covered in blood, deep gashes lining his fingers, his arms trembling.
His vision blurred, his breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps. He looked back at his mother.
She was still standing there raising her chopper again.
"Mama, stop! Stop this!"
He lunged forward, his hands grasping onto her wrist, trying to stop the blade from coming down again. His grip was weak, too weak, his arms trembling from exhaustion. She didn't resist. She didn't even acknowledge him.
And then, with an effortless motion, she brought it down again, cutting he final finger as it fell on tye board. A long and uneasy silence followed that.
Amukelo stared in horror, his own breath ragged and shallow. His mother's hand was nothing but a mess of blood and bone, yet she stood still, as if nothing had happened. No pain. No reaction.
Then, slowly, she stopped humming, her smile vanished, and she became stiff. And then, almost mechanically, she began to turn her head toward him.
It was slow, unnaturally slow, like something that wasn't meant to move that way. The shadows still cloaked her face, but her movements were stiff, jerky, like a marionette being forced to turn by invisible strings.
Amukelo stood frozen as his mother's head twisted unnaturally toward him. Then, in a slow, deliberate voice, she spoke. "Amukelo."
His breath hitched. His name coming from her lips sent a shiver through his spine. It didn't sound like how she used to say it. It wasn't warm, wasn't soft. It was distant, cold.
She tilted her head, her body unnaturally stiff. Then, in a voice laced with something between sorrow and accusation, she asked, "Why did you do this?"
His body tensed, his hands clenching into fists. "What?" His voice barely came out.
Her head jerked slightly to the side as she took a step toward him, slow and deliberate. "Why did you leave me?"
Amukelo felt the air leave his lungs. His whole body stiffened, an unnatural fear creeping into his bones. He took a shaky step back, his hands raising slightly in surrender. "I didn't…"
She interrupted him mid sentence and then said with even more blame. "Why did you let me die?"
His heart pounded in his chest. He felt like he couldn't move, like something was pressing down on him. His mother stood there, unmoving, her faceless figure staring at him from the darkness. His breath became uneven, and he tried to swallow the lump in his throat. "Mama, I—"
"Why didn't you protect me!?" She interrupted him again. His legs trembled. His stomach twisted painfully. His mother's voice had changed—no longer sorrowful, but sharp, full of bitter resentment.
And then a searing pain shot through his left hand. He gasped, his vision blurring for a moment as the pain became unbearable. His fingers felt like they were being ripped apart from the inside. When he looked down, his breath caught in his throat—his hand was darkened again, rotting like when he was poisoned, the fingers looking like they were about to fall off.
Panic surged through him. His breathing was erratic. He grabbed his wrist, clutching it tightly, trying to contain the pain, trying not to scream. He didn't want her to see him like this. He didn't want to show weakness.
But she didn't stop. "Why are you so weak?"
Her words struck him harder than the pain in his hand. He looked up, his vision distorted by tears that he refused to let fall.
She had never called him that before. Never. Not even when he had failed, not even when he had cried as a child.
"Mama..." His voice broke, barely above a whisper.
Then she said something that broke Amukelo entirely, "I'm ashamed to have a son like you."
His heart stopped. Everything inside him shattered. The air in the room felt like it had been sucked away. His lungs wouldn't work. His vision blurred. His hands trembled, his entire body paralyzed by those words.
No pain, no wound, no enemy had ever hurt him like this. Not the mountains. Not the werewolves. Not the poison that had eaten away at his flesh.
He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
He felt like a child again—small, powerless, desperately searching for comfort, for warmth, for anything that could undo what had just been said. But nothing came.
Then the ground beneath him disappeared. He plunged into the abyss.
Amukelo gasped as he woke, his body jolting upright, his chest heaving. His heart was hammering against his ribs, and his breath came in ragged, uneven gasps. His skin was clammy with sweat, his hands trembling uncontrollably.
His eyes darted around and he found that he was in the chamber. His hands flew to his face, expecting blood—expecting scars, wounds, the taste of iron in his mouth. But there was nothing.
He stared at his hands and they were clean. No blood. No scars. His breath quickened as he checked his arm, expecting to see the dark, rotting flesh from the poison. But instead, it was healed.
His fingers were still attached. His flesh was normal, he had only cut where he had made the wound himself. There was a faint pain, but nothing like before. His ribs didn't ache. His arm wasn't broken. His entire body had been healed.
Amukelo's breathing remained shaky. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his heart still racing. He was healed.
But his mind—his mind was still drowning.
"What… was that?" His voice was hoarse. He barely recognized the sound of it.
His fingers clenched into fists as he tried to ground himself, tried to push the lingering terror out of his body. But he couldn't shake it. He could still hear her voice. The coldness. The accusation. "Why did you leave me?"
His stomach twisted violently, and his hands shook even harder.
He glanced around frantically, half-expecting to see his mother still standing there, watching him with that faceless stare. But there was nothing.
He swallowed hard, trying to push back the overwhelming wave of despair washing over him. He had been on the brink of death before collapsing here. His body had been failing him. He was sure he was going to die. And yet now, he was whole.
It didn't make sense.
His ribs had been shattered, his body barely holding together. He was dying. Now, he was not.
The pain that remained was only a ghost compared to what he had endured before. His body had changed. Something had healed him.
But his mind was still tormented. His mother's words.
He closed his eyes, gripping his sword tightly. He wanted to block it out, to forget, to push it all away. But he couldn't.
Because deep down, a part of him believed it.
"I'm ashamed to have a son like you."