"Why can't I be happy like everyone else on this earth?"
That question has lingered in my mind for as long as I can remember to breath. I have always looked at the world with gloomy eyes, even when the sky was clear. Was there something wrong with my life? I don't know. I've always been confused about where my fault truly lies.
What I remember most clearly is that it all began when I was a child.
I was born to parents who could easily be considered a nightmare by other children. Our life was always filled with hardship. My mom worked as a laundry worker, earning barely enough to cover our daily expenses. We lived in a shabby apartment—not because we wanted to, but because we had no other choice.
When I was still young, my mother had to leave me alone at home while she worked. Occasionally, our neighbor from next door would come by to check on me and give me lunch. I remember she often nagged me, telling me not to behave strangely or out of place. Her treatments made me feel incredibly bored—and powerless to do anything.
But the most terrifying moments were always when my father came home.
Yes. My father was a drunk.
He would often disappear for days without us knowing where he had gone. At that time, I didn't know what he did for a living, and I was too afraid to ask my mother. Whenever he returned, he was almost always drunk. He would curse at both my mother and me. Sometimes my mother scolded him back—but that usually ended with violence. He slapped her, pulled her hair, pushed her to the floor, and even kicked her.
I was not spared from his vicious, demonic-like abuse.
One of the most traumatic incidents happened when my drunken father accused me of stealing one of his cigarettes. I swore again and again that I hadn't taken it. But blinded by his rage, he suddenly pressed the lit cigarette in my left chin.
I screamed and cried in pain.
My mother rushed over and struck him on the back to stop him. In response, he turned around and slapped her so hard that she collapsed onto the floor. After that, he simply left—vanishing again to who knows where. My mother crawled over to me and held me tightly. We cried together.
But sometimes, when incidents like this happened, the same neighbors next door would approach us—as if it were something usually happen daily. I used to feel annoyed when my neighbor babysitted me, but even then, she still cared enough to check on us.
From elementary school through high school, I attended the same public school. My life during those years felt like an unbroken chain of suffering.
I was a quiet child. I withdrew from others. That alone made me a target.
The other boys bullied me relentlessly. They mocked my appearance—especially the burn scar on my left chin left by my father's cigarette. They called me a "walking statue" because I rarely spoke and never socialized.
As the years passed, the bullying on me escalated.
A group of boys who dominated my class often forced me to do their homework. Ironically, I was actually one of the more intelligent students. Despite my painful childhood, my ability to understand lessons felt like the only advantage I had.
Sometimes, they extorted money from me. But most of the time, I had none. My mother didn't have more money to give. When I couldn't give them anything, they would grab my collar and call me "son of trash".
The reason I was sent to that public school was simple—it was free. That was when I realized why bullying was so common there. I thinking many students here shared similar family circumstances. I once complained to my homeroom teacher after she praised my intelligence, but she seemed to dismiss my words as just a passed wind.
Every day, I walked thirty minutes to school without given lunch box. My mother could only provide me with something small—if anything at all—for breakfast.
During recess, I sat alone on a bench in the schoolyard. Sometimes, as other students passed by, I could hear them sneer at me. I felt annoyed, but I cannot go angry. Somewhere deep inside, I understood that I was nothing compared to them. I didn't want to cause trouble that would only make my already miserable life worse.
Eventually, it became instinctive.
When someone did something principally wrong to me, I apologized first instead.
Some people looked confused and smiled awkwardly. Others sneered and turned away.
That was my life—one of resignation.
[I apologize for telling my entire sad story and forget introducing myself. Hello. You can call me Johann. I am fourteen years old, born on July 11th. You can describe me as boy with fair skin, rather blue eyes and short brown hair with a little bangs. Happy to meet you.]
…
One night, while I was fast asleep, I suddenly woke up to the sound of angry voices outside my room.
I could tell that Mom and Dad were fighting but this time, it felt far more intense than ever before. Plates and glasses shattered repeatedly. I heard my mother crying and shouting that she wanted a divorce. She couldn't endure his behavior any longer.
I got out of bed and walked toward the door, wanting to take a look. Before I could reach it, everything suddenly went silent. Then I heard someone gasping for breath and choking.
Driven by a terrible instinct, I opened the door.
What I saw was a truly nightmare in my real eyes.
My father had stabbed my mother in the neck with a kitchen knife. Fresh blood sprayed everywhere. My legs trembles out violently, and I collapsed to the floor.
When my father noticed me, he pulled the knife out of her neck—causing even more blood to gush out and soak the floor. My mother's body collapsed lifelessly beside him. He stood there, staring at me, his clothes drenched in blood, the knife still in his hand.
My eyes widened. My body froze. My breath became erratic, as though a demon wanted to chase me. I was certain he would kill me next.
But then—suddenly—he dropped the knife. He stumbled backward, turned around, and ran away.
Moments later, my vision faded completely. I lost consciousness.
…
When I woke up, my head was still spinning and my vision blurred. A woman was staring down at me.
"Thank goodness you're awake, son…"
I immediately recognized her voice. It was my next-door neighbor—Mrs. Delby—the same woman who used to scold me before i went elementary school. As my vision cleared, I realized I was in a hospital. A police officer approached me.
"Calm down, son. You're safe now," he said, before leaving.
"Johann… I'm sorry. I couldn't save your mother…"
Save my mother? What Mrs. Delby talked nonsense about?
Then those memory hit me all at once. I screamed and cried uncontrollably. A nurse rushed over and held me as Mrs. Delby also cried beside me. I cried until there was nothing left inside my eyes.
The relatives from my mother's side came from out of town for her funeral. She was cremated. Someone else carried her ashes away. I didn't even think to ask for them. Because my heart was already shattered—empty.
I didn't go to school for almost two weeks. During that time, my uncle, Mr. Jenkin, and my aunt, Mrs. Nancy, stayed with me in the apartment. I barely knew them well. The last time I had seen them was I still a baby according to Mrs. Nancy.
One day my homeroom teacher came to offer condolences. As I stared at her face, I thought:
Why didn't you protect me when I was bullied?
Why didn't you act when I asked for help?
Why do you only pity me now, when I've already lost everything?
…
Not long after, Mrs. Delby moved away to return to her hometown.
When she said goodbye, she told me, "I hope you can be strong enough to face all this."
I smiled faintly.
"Thank you for everything, Mrs. Delby."
She hugged me and cried. I didn't hug her back. I have truly felt nothing.
My uncle later told me that my father had been arrested and would likely face life imprisonment. Even his own family refused to see him. According to my uncle, they were just as broken as he was.
I no longer thought of him as my father—only as a cold-blooded monster.
I tried to forget my last name. It was the same name as that blood-soaked creature. My aunt encouraged me to move on. But It was so hard.
When I returned to school, I felt like a walking corpse. The students stared at me. The boys who once bullied me avoided me entirely. They already knew what had happened. Perhaps they couldn't believe I was still alive.
It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.
On my fifteenth birthday, my uncle gave me a present—a game console and a game disc.
It was the first birthday gift I had ever received. My late mother had only ever given me a muffin with a single candle. That alone had once been enough to make me happy while wishing for our prosperity in the future.
The game disc was called "The Mayhem."
My uncle asked the console seller which game suitable for boys for having fun. The seller gave this because it was currently popular game.
At first my uncle wasn't sure it would suit me, but he asked me to try it anyway. I did—out of gratitude.
Not long after I started playing, something strange happened inside my mind. It felt like something I had longed for my entire life—something I never thought I could have.
That moment became the turning point of my existence.