"Is this… heaven? Or… hell?"
I stood still, unable to move. Light and darkness split the horizon before me.
To my right—blinding light. Golden domes, endless flower fields, and white wings flapping under a blue sky. They were smiling… but not in peace. No. That smile held purpose. The angels raised their swords high—not in welcome, but in preparation for war.
To my left—darkness bled like an open wound. Collapsed buildings, a crimson sky, and the cries of people on their knees. Above them… demons hung invisible threads, puppeteering broken bodies like discarded toys.
"This… isn't heaven. And it's not hell either…"
I looked down. My feet stood on an invisible border—so thin, so fragile—dividing the two extremes.
"I'm stuck between them…"
So I'm dead, huh?
Finally… free from that living hell.
[No. You're still in between.]
"…That's the same thing. I get it. This is where people like me end up, right?"
I chuckled bitterly.
"I failed. As a husband… as a person…"
"My existence itself is a burden. Like they said… I just cause trouble."
My hands clenched into fists.
"Right?! Isn't that right!?"
[…]
No answer. But that silence… it felt like agreement.
From the way it stayed quiet… I must've hit the mark.
[No. It's the opposite.]
[I'm showing you what the world truly looks like.]
[That heaven and hell you see… they're not afterlives. They're reflections. Of human deeds—both good and evil. Locked in constant war.]
I turned my head.
To my right—the light. Angels lined up like soldiers. Wings spread, swords raised. Ready to fight.
To my left—the red sky, the broken land. People squirmed like dolls. Strings wrapped around them, tugged by demons sitting on thrones above.
"…What does that have to do with me?"
"Isn't that just how the world works?"
People hated me. Rejected me. Threw me away from every place I tried to belong.
[True. But I want you… to break the cycle.]
"Screw that!"
"I don't want to suffer anymore! I'm done! Just let me rest!"
[Your cursed fate… can be changed.]
"For what?! Life is short. In the end, we all die anyway."
"Fate is just… live, then die."
"So please. That's enough. Let me sleep."
[Are you sure...?]
[You used to dream.]
Suddenly—everything changed.
This place… bright. Warm. Too warm.
"So bright…"
"T-this is…!"
I looked around. A small room. The smell of antiseptic. A crying baby.
I knew it—this was my first memory.
The day… I was born.
Then, I heard the voices.
[I don't like this baby, honey. Let's throw it away.]
[You're right. But if people find out, our reputation will be ruined.]
[Let's keep him until he turns five…]
"Keep me, huh…"
I muttered, trembling as I watched the scene unfold.
"So I was just an item… something to store and discard whenever."
I laughed—coldly.
"What a joke."
"Just stop. I don't wanna watch this anymore…"
"Stop!!"
[…]
But the scenes kept going.
I turned my head. But the voices drilled into my ears. This past… was forcing itself back into me.
And then—
One voice froze me in place.
This setting…
This moment…
Too familiar.
"No… please don't. Not this part…"
That day…
A normal day. No warning signs.
Dad was sitting at the table, slicing his favorite fruit—green apples. The sunlight reflected off the knife's edge.
I stood nearby. Quiet. Waiting. Hoping I could talk to him.
We weren't close… but I wanted to try.
Then—
"Ugh…"
His hand twitched.
The knife slipped. And before I could even react—
STAB.
It plunged right beneath his rib.
A vital spot.
I froze.
Blood splattered, staining the table. It hit my face—warm… suffocating.
"D-dad…?"
His body collapsed. His breathing ragged. His eyes wide, staring straight at me.
My hands moved on their own, grabbing the knife, trying to pull it out.
"Dad, wake up… d-dad, please don't joke like this…"
But he didn't respond. No sound.
Just blood… and a body growing cold.
I pressed against the wound. I was shaking. But I wanted to save him.
Then—footsteps. The door opened.
"Mom! D-dad's hurt, he—"
SLAP!
My right cheek lit up in pain.
"You murderer!!" Her eyes widened with fury. Her breath was harsh. There was no fear—only hatred.
"I-I didn't—! I just—!"
"You killed him!!"
My little sister screamed. She punched me with her tiny fists. Her eyes welled up… not from sadness, but disgust.
"I hate you!! I hate you, big brother!!"
"I didn't mean to—I didn't—!"
"Enough!!" Mom's voice cracked like thunder.
"We let you live here out of pity! And you repay us like this?!"
"No! I—"
"Shut up!" Her eyes burned. "We never considered you our son."
"It would've been better… if you were never born."
Time stopped.
Those words… stabbed deeper than any knife.
My body collapsed. My voice vanished.
They turned away.
Mom carried my sister and dragged dad's body behind her… leaving me there.
"Tell me…"
"What did I do wrong?"
"Someone… anyone…"
The sky said nothing. There was no answer. Only sirens, closing in from a distance. People ran. They picked up dad's body.
His blood still clung to my fingers.
I stood still. Didn't cry. Didn't scream. Maybe… I wasn't even really there anymore.
A few hours later, a doctor spoke to us.
"We tried… but he lost too much blood. I'm sorry. We couldn't save him."
Mom looked straight at me. Her face dry. No tears. Just rage and disgust.
Then—her hand rose.
SLAP!
It knocked me back onto the floor.
"Murderer! You cursed child! We should've never let you stay!"
"Mom, I—I didn't—"
"Shut up! You're not our son! It would've been better if you never existed!"
My sister screamed again.
"I hate you!"
She shoved me, stopping me from coming any closer.
I didn't fight back. I couldn't speak.
They dragged me away. Out onto the street. Crowds stared. Whispered.
"Isn't that the kid who killed his dad?"
"Such a kind man… and that's how he gets repaid?"
"That child should never have been born."
"Murderer."
"Get lost!"
I didn't argue. I just listened. I couldn't move. I couldn't cry.
It wasn't the first time people insulted me. But this time…
It hurt differently.
Because the knife had my fingerprints. Because my mother testified against me. I had nothing to defend myself.
I was five years old.
So I wasn't sent to prison, but a "special correctional facility" for five years.
I thought it couldn't be worse than jail.
I was wrong.
The food was barely edible. Bitter. Dry. Sometimes rotten. I asked about it once.
"What? You don't like it? Spoiled little brat."
"Am I the only one getting this crap?"
A kid older than me stepped up. His face bruised. His eyes full of hatred.
"Hey, you. Do my chores. Or else…"
He sliced a finger across his neck.
"B-but I have my own chores…"
"I don't care, dumbass!"
He grabbed my hair. Yanked my head back.
"Ow—!"
"Look at him! The little killer's crying!"
"Serves him right."
"You deserve worse."
Their laughs. Their eyes. The pain in my skull, in my chest. It all stabbed me at once.
And deep inside, I asked again—
"What did I do wrong…?"
To be continued...