I killed someone. The man I hated enough to kill is finally dead by my hand. He ruined my life. Throughout middle and high school, he finally shattered me into pieces over six years. He was always there amidst the gazes of contempt and cruel violence. With a smiling face. There was no reason. He just wanted to see someone break at his hands. And I must have been the easiest target.

I belong to the socially weak. A small frame in the mid-160cm range, 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 contempt. And, on the day of high school graduation, I finally put my long-held plan into action.

I tightly gripped the kitchen scissors 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. The auditorium instantly turned into a scene of chaos, and the police were dispatched immediately because someone reported it.

And, now.