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THE DAY I FINALLY ENTERED GREGOR’S ROOM wasn't a choice; it was a decision forced upon me by the overwhelming weight of things I could no longer ignore. The door had always been a symbol, a boundary drawn in the sand. However, when Mother collapsed on the stairs, clutching her chest and gasping for air, I realized it was time to confront the unknown.
The doctor dismissed her condition as mere "stress," suggesting it could be remedied with a few quiet rest days. However, we all understood the truth. Peace was an alien concept in this house; it had never been present since Gregor could hold everything together.
Mother retreated to her bedroom, pale and trembling. At the same time, Father began to pace like an animal in a cage, his every movement tight with frustration. His usual sharp, decisive nature had dulled in recent weeks, replaced by a restless energy that seemed to go nowhere. And so, it fell to me to do what I always did—hold the fragile threads of our family together. I cooked, cleaned, and attempted to stitch our unraveling home into something resembling normalcy.
But today, something had shifted within me. Perhaps it was the sight of Mother's collapse or the bitter realization that no one else would take the first step. Whatever it was, it pushed me toward the locked door of Gregor's room. I had been avoiding it for weeks, but now I couldn't any longer.
Carrying a tray with bread and broth, my hands shook—not from the weight of the food, but from a sense of foreboding that clung to me like thick fog. The door stood there, solid and unyielding, symbolizing everything we had ignored and all the secrets we had failed to see. I knocked softly, waiting for a response, but none came. The silence in that room was suffocating, yet I could swear I heard something—a faint rustle from within.
"Gregor?" I called, my voice barely a whisper, as though the room might retaliate if I spoke too loudly. There was no answer. The rustling had stopped, but I took cautious steps into the room. Every movement felt unnatural as if I were trespassing in a place I was never meant to be.
When I opened the door, a gust of stale air hit me like a punch. The room was suffocating—dim, the curtains drawn tightly against the world outside—and dust coated every surface, softening the once-clear edges of Gregor's life. The air was heavy, with a musty smell that made me gag.
"Gregor?" I called, my voice barely a whisper, as though the room might retaliate if I spoke too loudly.
There was no answer. The rustling had stopped, but I took cautious steps into the room. Every movement felt unnatural as if I were trespassing in a place I was never meant to be. Gregor's room had always been neat—almost obsessively so—but now it looked like a battlefield. Papers, clothes, and unidentifiable clutter were strewn across the floor as a storm had swept through. A deep ache settled in my chest. This was not the space I had known. This room, this chaos, reflected a person I no longer recognized.
I placed the tray on the desk, attempting to arrange the bread and broth in some semblance of order. Then something caught my eye—a pile of papers, half hidden beneath a mound of clothes. My fingers hesitated; touching his belongings and entering his private world felt wrong. Yet a gnawing curiosity took over. There was something here I needed to see, something that had been buried for too long.
I moved the clothes aside and uncovered a stack of letters, their edges yellowed and worn. They seemed out of place among the clutter, their deliberate placement making them feel like an intrusion into Gregor's world. My heart raced as I picked up the top letter. It was addressed to no one in particular; the seal was broken, the ink faint, and the paper smudged with age.
I unfolded the letter slowly, my fingers trembling. The handwriting was messy and frantic, as though Gregor had written it hastily.
“Dear Grete,” it began.
My breath hitched, and I felt my pulse quicken. This wasn't a love letter or a casual note. It was something raw, something unspoken for far too long. I could barely bring myself to read further.
"I've been meaning to tell you… but how can I when the weight of this family hangs over both of us? I wish I could protect you from it, Grete, but I can barely protect myself. Sometimes, I think about walking away—leaving it all behind—but then I think of you, and I can't."
The words hit me with the force of a blow. My brother, the strong one, the pillar of our family, had been struggling. He carried his burdens silently, never complaining or asking for help. And I had been blind to it. Blind to how he had been suffocating, how the weight of our lives had been pulling him under. I reread the words, hoping they would change, but they didn't. They only deepened the pit in my stomach. This was not the brother I knew, the one who always had a smile on his face and a joke to share. He had become a shadow of his former self, and I had failed to see it.
What had happened to my brother? What had he become behind that locked door? Fear and confusion gripped me, mirroring the turmoil within our family.
I folded the letter carefully as if handling a fragile thing that might shatter if touched. I placed it back on the desk, my hands shaking. Guilt gnawed at me. I had been unable to see the signs. And now, I wondered: How long had Gregor been hiding this? How long had he been silently breaking apart?
As I turned to leave, something else caught my eye. A sketchbook lay on the floor, wedged between a chair and the desk, half-hidden in the mess. I went to pick it up, my heart pounding in my chest. I opened it slowly, my breath hitching. The pages were full of sketches—rough, hurried, and yet unmistakably Gregor's.
His drawings were always of the family—Mother at her sewing machine, Father slouched in his chair, and me with my violin under my chin. But these were not the faces I knew. These faces were twisted and distorted, as though Gregor had been seeing something in us that I could never have imagined. His lines were sharp and jagged, and the eyes—oh, the eyes were hollow, empty.
On the final page, there was an image of Gregor himself. His body was stretched, his features elongated and misshapen, his eyes dark pits of nothingness. The drawing was grotesque, monstrous even. I dropped the sketchbook, my hands trembling violently.
What had happened to my brother? What had he become behind that locked door? Fear and confusion gripped me, mirroring the turmoil within our family.
I stumbled out of the room, my heart racing in my chest, the weight of the letters and sketches pressing down on me like a suffocating fog. I returned to the sitting room, where Father was still pacing, his footsteps sharp against the silence.
“Did you speak to him?” he demanded, his voice harsh, impatient.
“No,” I replied, my throat tight. “But… he’s eating. That’s something, isn’t it?”
Father’s eyes narrowed. “He needs to come out. This can’t go on forever.”
I didn’t answer him. What could I say? How could I explain what I had just uncovered? The truth was, I wasn’t sure any of us were prepared to face what Gregor had become. I felt utterly helpless, a feeling that seemed to permeate the air around us.
Later that night, as I lay in bed, the words from the letter continued to echo in my mind. “I wish I could protect you… but I can’t.”
Had Gregor written it for me to find? Or had it been a last-ditch effort to speak his truth, a confession he never meant for anyone to read? Either way, it felt like a lifeline—a fragile thread connecting the brother I had thought I lost to the one still hiding behind that locked door.
But it also felt like a warning. A warning that the brother I once knew had vanished, and in his place was something darker—something neither of us was prepared to confront.
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