I killed a person. The man I hated enough to kill finally died by my hands. He ruined my life. Throughout six years of school, he finally broke me into pieces. He was always there in the midst of contemptuous glares and cruel violence. With a smiling face. There was no reason. He just wanted to see someone crumble at his hands. And I must have been the easiest target.

I belong to the socially weak. A small frame in the mid-160s, a feminine appearance that doesn't look male, low grades, a stifling personality, and a poor family. Everything I inherited genetically was a foreshadowing that would lead my life to ruin. At the center of the violence directed at me was always his face, his name. His cruelty toward me grew worse by the day. To the point where it was difficult to handle both physically and mentally. In my heart, hatred, resentment, and murderous intent toward him grew uncontrollably, fed by the water of violence and the light of scorn. And, on high school graduation day, I finally put my long-held plan into action.

I tightly gripped the kitchen shears I brought from home. Veins stood out on my slender wrists, which were covered in red marks. I was insane at that moment. In that state, I ran to the auditorium where preparations for the graduation ceremony were in full swing. He was there. That handsome face with its characteristic meanness, his tall proportions, his dyed blonde hair. It was him. I lunged at him without hesitation. It was the first time I had ever beaten him. In an instant, the auditorium became a scene of chaos, and the police arrived immediately because someone reported it.

And now, the present.