Have you ever felt alive?
For the first time in your damn life?
Is everything you ever wanted something you really needed?
Are the things you've done something you could be proud of?
Are your mistakes bigger than the lies you've told yourself?
Were the things your mother was once proud of something you still do up till now?
Is the passion that once burned in your soul still there?
Or was it all extinguished by words heavier than your father's fist?
Do you ever wonder what the light could give you—if it just gave you a chance?
Do you still hear your mom's words? "I'm proud of you."
Was all of this just a dream? And then you'll wake up—it's still 2014, and everything that happened was nothing more than a nightmare.
Does the hand your mother once held still linger in your mind? From time to time.
Does your father's fist still ache in your memory, the way it nearly beat you to death?
Do the weight of your little brother's eyes still burn in your chest—the way you held him close, trying to shield him from the same beating?
Why does it feel like everything I've ever done didn't mean anything to them? Am I even their child?
For everything I've ever wanted… it was only an option to them.
All I wanted was to be treated right. But the bruises and scars carved into me are just a child whispering lullabies to himself in his sleep, and wishing for a hug for the smallest job he managed to do.
---
The boy stood at the edge.
Wonders ran in his mind. Wonders of emotions and turmoil flickering in his eyes.
Turmoil that begged to be solved—yet never was.
Emotions that begged to be repressed—yet always spilled loose.
And behind all of it lay a bag of questions. Questions that wanted answers. Answers that could never be given.
Countless problems had weighed down on him, and never once did he stop moving. But tonight—tonight, he wasn't hesitating.
Because if he took one more step, there would be no going back.
This wasn't some cheap bar where you could take back a drink once you realized it wasn't for you.
This wasn't some shitty clown show that wasn't funny to begin with, just painfully corny from the start.
This was death.
His eyelashes wavered as he paused, then shook his head. Not to free himself—but to change himself. He had made up his mind.
Not the lowest of the low.
Not the problematic child.
Not the dumb one.
He would work hard. He would achieve something he never finished back then.
He walked down from the rooftop. His eyes were red. His teeth ground against each other as if they were fighting for something precious. His chest heaved as he moved downward, the world around him silent—ignoring him, denying him.
But it wasn't that bad… or so he thought. Deep down, he knew it was.
Skrii—
The door screeched like something out of a horror show, as if something inside was begging to be let out.
But the boy just walked away. He didn't look back. Looking back meant hesitating. And he didn't hesitate. Not now. Not tomorrow.
Clank. Clank.
The sound of heels echoed against the steps, clashing with the dull thud of his boots. A strange irony.
Because the way you walk tells the life you live.
Those who walk straight and steady are those who've built something.
Those who walk loud and empty are those who lived a life of noise—both good and bad.
Those who walk silently and straight are those who understand silence and choose to carry it.
And those who walk uneven, hunched, and slow are the ones carrying something heavy within them.
There are also those who walk quietly and carefully—the ones traumatized.
He was one of them. Just a bit different than others.
But just as trauma visits you every Wednesday midnight… so too does happiness.
"Mr. Omori, why are you still here? As far as I know, students were dismissed an hour ago."
Authoritative. Firm and commanding. That's how the boy described the voice.
Victor Omori looked up. He saw the owner of the heels—echoing in the empty night.
He didn't answer. He just stared. Then walked away. As always.
He didn't care how teachers saw him, or how they pretended to understand. He was a problematic child, and he didn't mind. In his dictionary, the word problematic was just another arc waiting to be solved. That's all.
Finally, as he reached the first floor, he sprinted. He didn't look back, no matter how much the teacher screamed.
He reached the wall of the school, crouched, legs tense, then leapt. Arms stretched upward, gripping the top of the wall. With a pull, he climbed over and slid down the other side.
He walked away—proudly. Silently. Carefully.
Head low, until he reached a gloomy, dilapidated apartment.
It looked dead inside and out. But it worked. He could live with it and for someone like him, something like this is more than enough. Nothing more, Nothing less.
---
The next day, he sat in the classroom.
When his classmates arrived, they were equally surprised to see him. He was always absent. Always the ghost of the class.
They whispered. Wondered why he was here. Like always, They spread rumours about him. Whispered about his appearance, his identity, his worth. Whispered about every little detail.
Their eyes. Their stares. They carried disdain and disgust. But he didn't flinch. He continued on, as if nothing was wrong.
He carried himself differently. He moved in ways they couldn't forget—the strange Sharpness behind those frail arms of his.
Ding—
Before they realized, class had started. The teacher walked in, surprised to see him—especially today.
Biology began. Notes scribbled. Pens move every now and then.
But Victor didn't move, he didn't take notes. He just stared. He watched the teachers movement. Every move, every breath every details.
He observed—like silent predator hunting at night.
But what his after isn't death. But knowledge.
He compared every words to the textbook. He didn't need to write, he remembers every single details.
Every little details.