"Little Henry" by Gökdeniz Ustabaş

He, however, had been there for a while. Curled up on the couch in his rented apartment, his hand traced the lines on the carpet. He had no sense of time. He knew his final days had arrived. He had always let life flow more freely than others, but now the world inside him had reached the moment of becoming foreign to this house and this couch. That was why his plans were running smoothly: he was doing nothing except spending his last days at home.

In truth, he spent most of his days at home anyway. There was little difference. Perhaps the only difference was that now these days were planned.

He rose from the couch and staggered toward the bathroom. The bathroom was close to where he sat — yes, in one corner of the apartment. Right there, in the living room, to the right of the painting on the wall. Next to the entrance door, beside that damn nightstand. Ah, that nightstand — he could never get rid of it. He had never grown used to it. Nothing could stay on it; not even a book. All the filth of the house ended up piled onto that nightstand in the corner.

Without caring, he looked at one side of his face in the cracked mirror. He smiled with half of his face. He could not smile with the other half even if he wanted to, because he had no awareness of it in the mirror.

He washed his hands — for a long time. He wanted to rid himself of all filth. He realized how difficult that was.

How did our protagonist write? By transferring the words that came to his mind directly onto an A4 sheet in his typewriter? Or only after thinking for hours about what to write? Or did he have to wait to live before he could write? Could writing happen in cafés, on the road, even in bathrooms? What do you think, reader — will you write something after these lines? Or will you curse this writer once you turn the page?

He opened the window, letting the growing wind inside. He sat at his desk and took a sip of the beer left over from the night before. He adjusted his typewriter and stared out the window for a while — at the tops of buildings, the fragmented clouds drifting above them, and the blue expanse beyond. He drifted into the sky.

For a moment, he could think of nothing. All the constructions and experiences in his mind had been erased.

What startled him was his companion roaming the apartment. The sounds made while eating the breadcrumbs scattered on the floor. Little Henry — he had named the mouse Henry.

Previously, the protagonist he had sent to a magazine was also named Henry. Young and handsome Henry, a complete drunk who did nothing but drink and sleep with women. That Henry belonged only to the book. Unlike real-world heroes, he saved no one. He caused endless trouble for his friends, started fights in every place he went, and shared the beatings he received with those same friends every time.

That was Henry — no different from a mouse. A small nose, small eyes, surviving on the crumbs humanity scattered across the world.

The sound of the mouse continued to shake him. He jumped up and rushed to the kitchen. He needed to give Henry some bread. He took a piece of stale bread. Lying down on the carpet, he stroked Henry’s head.

Don’t be afraid, Henry. Your time to die hasn’t come yet. You can eat now. And in this cursed room, I won’t be the one to kill you — but watch out for the person who moves in after me. They won’t care about you.

They’ll try to tear your stomach open with a long stick at first chance.

He raised his hand over Henry and began crumbling the bread. Some pieces fell onto his ears, between the fur on his head. Henry didn’t care. He crushed the bread into dust and finished it.

He stood up and closed the window, fastening the black curtain onto the nails at the corners. The room instantly plunged into pitch darkness. He made his way to the kitchen by holding onto the walls. He took a glass and filled it with powder. He added some coffee and lit a cigarette. Using the burning tip of the cigarette as light, he returned to his desk and sat in front of the typewriter.

Before pressing the first key, he took a sip and a drag. He thought about Henry finishing the crumbs downstairs and then curling up for a good sleep. He didn’t know what time it was. He had no time — yes, he had no clock of his own, no personal time.

When he woke up, he would get up, sit at the desk, collect the mail left at the door, and open each envelope hoping for money. And once a month, on the fifteenth, he would go to the post office to send the pieces he wrote to a magazine. And of course, there was his regular visitor — since he didn’t use a phone, that was how he communicated with his friends.

He never left that room, that house.

Little Henry died.

The killer was the protagonist. As I told you, he would be the murderer of another living being that came into this room. Yes — that being was someone else. Unable to accept another presence in his world, unwilling to add Little Henry to his loneliness in that wretched room, our protagonist had become a killer.

Do you know how Henry died, reader? They didn’t want to look into his eyes. With his mouse-like face, the Henry from the book — they didn’t want to meet his gaze. Everyone mocked his scrawny body, cropped hair, and dirty face. They wanted to kill him at first sight.

Henry had already closed his eyes to life before they could kill him. He had retreated to the corner meant for him. He was distant from the world now. There was no rent to worry about. He could arrange any room however he pleased, instantly and in peace.

In time, he would want to leave that place as well. There would be moments when he would miss that old corner.

That was why our protagonist killed the mouse.

Little Henry was showing him a way out, in his own way. But he knew very well what the only way out was. It lay hidden behind silence — when hearing ceased, when sight failed, when the sense of touch disappeared, and ultimately when the brain itself stopped functioning. That was the exit. That was the way beyond silence.

And he no longer wanted to hear Henry’s false escape. He needed to put an end to the sound piercing his ears in short waves. Perhaps he had saved him from this life, from this cruelty.

“Little Henry, you should pray to me,” the protagonist said, bursting into laughter on top of the chair. He had no idea how long it had been since he last laughed.

He could feel Henry writhing beneath his foot. He waited for a long time for it to stop. Unconsciously, he pressed harder. There was nothing left. He bent down and picked him up. Henry fit into the palm of his hand. He hadn’t realized how small Henry was.

He approached the window and threw Henry down into the grassy area below. It was night. The moon stood directly opposite. He dropped to his knees and let his hands hang out the window. He lowered his head and pulled the cord of the sliding window, letting it fall onto his hands.

He stood up and repeated the same position, removing the window from its place. Again, he did the same — praying for silence and for Little Henry, sharing the pain he had caused in his own way.

He stood once more and looked at the moon, at the alignment of the stars, and then heard a sound behind him. Perhaps a second mouse, drawn by Henry’s scent, was already gnawing at the remains on the ground.

He took the same position again and removed the sliding window.

He extended his arms into the void…

One day, he would reach silence.

About the Author

Deniz (Gökdeniz) is a writer based in Turkey and is currently studying Literature at Istanbul University. His work has previously appeared in Merhaba Canım magazine. He explores emotional vulnerability, silence, and the unseen tensions of everyday life, with a particular interest in the inner worlds of his characters and the fragile moments that define them. Through controlled and atmospheric prose, he aims to create stories that linger beyond the final sentence. “Little Henry” reflects this ongoing exploration of the subtle yet powerful aspects of human experience.