GOLDEN SPIRAL: THE CODE OF WOUNDS

The moments my father came home late were a silent part of my childhood. Because I went to bed early, I rarely saw him sober; I had shaped his face, his voice, my memories of him through those drunken states. The creak of the door, the sound of footsteps approaching my room, pulling me from the sweetest part of my sleep — it was a familiar ritual. One night, as my eyes half-opened in a sleepy haze, my father gently pushed the door and stepped inside. He sat on the edge of my bed, ran his hand through my hair, and stroked it.
'Son,' he said, his voice trembling in the shadow of alcohol, 'life... life is hard, son.'
Then he fell silent. His eyes drifted off to some distant point, as if he was in another world, in another time. And I just watched him without saying a word. I didn't really understand his advice; the words spilled from his lips, tangled together, and lost their meaning. But still, I listened. Quietly, patiently, staring into his eyes.

He thought he was teaching me something. But in those moments, I was wandering through the depths of his soul. That lost gaze in his eyes whispered to me that everything he once knew had become a stranger to him. The trembling of his hands, the slump of his shoulders, the weary lines etched onto his face... As I watched him, I began to notice the fractures within my hero. Yes, my father was my hero. But even heroes have wounds, and even they can vanish into the shadows — and I learned this at that age, in my small body.
Each time, a pang would strike my heart; I wanted to help him, but I didn't know how. I just listened. Memorized his every expression, every gesture. Hoping that maybe one day, I might open a window into that tangled world of his.

Nights and Silence

The days went on like that. My father coming home late, drunk, and my quiet listening... A strange bond formed between us. He would talk, I would remain silent. Sometimes he spoke of life; 'Don't trust anyone too much,' he'd say, 'everyone leaves someday.'
Other times he'd talk about his childhood, my grandfather, the days in the village. But his sentences would always trail off. As though the things he wanted to say would get stuck in his throat, and a sadness would settle in his eyes.
And I, caught between sleep and wakefulness, gathered those broken stories inside me. Even if I didn't understand, I tried to feel them. His pain, his regrets, maybe even the apologies he could never say.

Beyond Fragility: The Beginning of Shadows

But one night, everything changed. That night, when my father came home, he slammed the door so hard my sleep was shattered. My heart began to race; this wasn't the familiar ritual I knew. He came into my room, pushed the door wide open. When the light caught his face, the sorrow in his eyes had been replaced by something else: fury.
'Wake up!' he said, his voice sharp, cold.
I sat up in my bed, not knowing what to do, and looked at him.
'Who do you think you are?' he continued — his words slurred with the weight of alcohol, but each one piercing like an arrow.
'Do you even know what your father goes through? No, you don't! Always sleeping, always silent!'

I swallowed in shock. What had I said? I hadn't done anything.
But in his eyes, it was as if I was to blame for something.
'Get up!' he shouted, grabbing my arm and yanking me from the bed.
My feet touched the floor; I was trembling. Those strong hands, the ones that once gently stroked my hair, now terrified me.
'Look at me!' he yelled.
I raised my eyes — but not to his face. I looked at the floor.
Something inside me broke; in that moment, my hero had turned into a stranger.

That night, my father didn't give advice. He accused. He spoke of how hard life was for him, how no one understood him, how even I had turned my back on him.
'Am I not enough for you?' he asked at one point, his voice cracking.
'I do everything for you, and you... you just stay silent!'
Those words stabbed into my heart like a dagger.
What could I have said? That I loved him, that he was my hero?
But fear clamped my throat shut. I just listened. Again, I listened.
But this time, the anger in his eyes was leaving a wound inside me.
A wound that neither bled nor healed — it only grew.

As the Shadows Grew

After that night, my father's drunken states took on a new color. There were no more simple pieces of advice. Now, there were shouts, accusations, and those frightening silences.
Every slammed door, every raised voice, stirred a storm within me.
I kept searching in his eyes for my old father — the one who stroked my hair and called me 'Son.'
But that man was getting lost in the shadows of alcohol and rage.
And yet, I couldn't bring myself to be angry at him.
Because I knew — he was fighting his own war.
Maybe that anger was a rebellion against his own wounds.
But it didn't ease the pain in my small heart.

In those days, I took refuge in the chessboard.
The whispers of the pieces drowned out my father's shouts.
With every move, I tried to understand his anger.
Maybe chess wasn't just strategy for me — maybe it gave me the power to unravel the chaos in his soul.
But no matter how hard I tried, that wound kept growing.
My father was still my hero; but his shadows were slowly dragging me into darkness.
And in that darkness, I clung only to the cold touch of those chess pieces.

Those experiences started to mercilessly manifest themselves in my chess matches.
When I focused on the chessboard, my father's drunken rages and shouts would stab into my mind like a dagger.
His furious voice would echo in my ears, his alcohol-soaked breath would fill my nostrils, his trembling hands would linger before my eyes.
I was reliving those terrifying moments again and again; with each move, I crumbled beneath the weight of his angry gaze.
The words I couldn't say swelled inside me like a lump — constantly questioning why he acted this way, what I had done wrong, what he truly wanted from me.
My mind had turned into a labyrinth, and I was desperately searching for a way out.

My successes on the chessboard, once my source of pride, now gave way to an unnameable fear, endless anxiety, and sudden panic attacks.
My chest would tighten, my breath would falter, my hands would tremble; that board had become a mirror that reopened the deep wounds in my soul.
My father's voice would ring in my ears at every match, his disappointed eyes following me like a shadow.
And so, I understood once more: I had to hide my talents.
I had to extinguish my light and trap myself in darkness — because there was no other way.

How could I have known this would lead to even bigger problems in the future?
I had always believed my father was my hero; I found safety in his strong arms, courage in his voice.
But now, that belief was stabbing into me like a knife.
Maybe this was where it all began — in my pure, admiration-soaked love for him.
Or maybe in his own shattered, broken world where he had long been lost.

This was the beginning of everything.
Chess was once my sanctuary — a world where I found peace in the silence of the pieces, where I proved myself.
But now, my father's shadow had turned that board into a battlefield.
And in the midst of that darkness, I was clinging only to the cold touch of those pieces.

"And who would be the winner of this war?"

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