Elvira and I sat facing each other.
The cuts I'd seen on her left arm—aside from the ones I'd caused—were old. Some were healing, others fresh. Those marks… they triggered a memory I'd been trying to bury for years.
"How did you get those cuts on your arm?" I asked quietly, waiting for her answer.
She hesitated. I could almost see the thought in her head: He saw it…
Finally, she said, "Those cuts? I once accidentally got caught in someone else's training and—"
"Do you take me for a fool?" I cut her off. "How many times have you been accidentally caught in someone's training? Once? Twice, maybe? These don't look accidental."
She went silent, unable to find a reply.
"They look like they were intentional. Forcibly made. Tell me what really happened."
"It's nothing—"
"It's not nothing! Don't make obvious excuses."
"Why do you care?!"
Her words hit me harder than I expected. She was right—I didn't even know why I cared. But I couldn't ignore what I saw. I'd seen those kinds of wounds before… the kind born from self-hatred, loneliness, resentment.
She was just like her.
"Why do you think I care?" I muttered, grabbing her wrist and pushing up her sleeve. "Because those are the kind of wounds I can't stand to see. You think I don't know where they come from?"
From her arm up to her forearm, scars covered her skin—some deep, some faint. All painful reminders.
She tried to pull away, to hide them, but I held firm.
"Why harm yourself?"
She didn't respond. The silence between us grew heavier.
"What do you guys even get out of this? Does it fix anything? Does it make your pain disappear?"
For a long moment, she didn't move. Then, softly, she said, "I… I'm a failure. I was born to be a burden for others. There's nothing good in me. I hate myself. Why was I even born…"
Her voice broke. Tears streamed down her face.
I didn't say anything. I'm not good at comforting people. Maybe crying was better—it would lighten her heart a little.
So I just sat there, letting her cry until her sobs quieted down.
Then, suddenly, she asked, "You said 'you guys' earlier. Who else were there?"
I froze. Why does she have to notice every detail? She's too perceptive for her own good.
"There was someone," I muttered. "You don't have to know—"
"No! You made me tell you mine. I won't let you sleep until you answer!"
She kept nagging for nearly half an hour before I finally gave in.
"It was my mother," I said quietly.
She blinked. "Your… mother?"
I took a deep breath. Then I told her everything.
My father and mother had married for love. But after I was born, he changed. He started ignoring her, spending time with other women.
It didn't stop there. He began abusing her—every day worse than the last. Arguments, violence, broken things… broken people.
At some point, my mother lost hope. She turned the pain inward, hurting herself—cuts, burns, bruises.
And I… looked too much like him. My mother couldn't even stand to see my face.
Whenever I tried to stop her, she'd push me away and scream,
> "You men are all trash! I ran away from my father's abuse, only to end up with this! You're that bastard's son—you'll be no different!"
I loved her. I really did. But I couldn't stop her.
Then, when I was seven… everything ended.
They were fighting again. My mother lost control and threw a glass vase at him. It shattered. He was bleeding—but his rage was worse.
He picked up a shard of glass from the floor and stabbed her.
She struggled for a moment… and then she was gone.
I saw everything, hiding behind the door. I couldn't control myself. I grabbed another shard and stabbed him from behind—maybe straight through a vital point.
He fell. Reached toward me. Failed.
He bled out.
And I was left standing there… in that blood-soaked room… alone.
A few days later, Master Obrone found me. He said he was my mother's old friend—and took me in.
After I finished, Elvira sat in silence for a while. Then she whispered, "I'm sorry you had to go through all that. You must've suffered a lot…"
I gave a small laugh. "You don't have to comfort me. It's all in the past. Besides, that's unexpected coming from you—considering how much you disrespect me."
She sighed. "What am I supposed to do when I hear someone's tragic backstory? Find flaws in it?"
"Yeah, you're right," I admitted. "And… don't do that again. Just talk when you feel down. Promise me."
"Fine. But don't tell anyone about this."
"Same goes for me. My story doesn't leave this room. Now go to sleep, Aloe Vera."
"Stop calling me that!"
I didn't bother replying. I just left the living room and went back to my room.
Lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling.
Why did I tell her all that? I've never told anyone before. Only Master Obrone knows...
Maybe I talked too much. But somehow, it felt… lighter. Like a weight had been lifted from my chest.
Now that I think about it—we both share a secret no one else knows.