* This is the Yoongi point of view. *
*Fingerprint Bomb Warning*
07ㅣPast
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That old diary Yunseul took was my own, a journal I'd kept since I was very young, ever since I learned to read. Growing up reading exclusively, I had a larger vocabulary than my peers, and I was intelligent.
But that diary contained so much of my past. A past I couldn't possibly have discovered. I could have easily caught Yunseul as she fled, but I gradually slowed down. Perhaps it was because I longed for at least one person to know and understand my past. I hoped that Yunseul, who had taken the diary, would understand my feelings and not betray me.
My past was quite brutal and horrific. That's probably why I grew up this way. First of all, I was destined to be unloved from birth. I was a depraved child born to my biological mother and her adulterer, and I earned the hatred of my entire family.
My father, who had a successful business and a lot of money, hated me because I was the son of an adulterer, my mother, who gave birth to me, hated my father because of me, and my older brother just hated me.
I was left alone in that dark, damp warehouse, unaccounted for, unschooled, and unregistered. Every day, my brother brought me spoiled or strange food, but I fought desperately to survive, to not die.
When no one was home, when my mother and father were at work and my brother was at school, I'd sneak a bite to eat, then go to my brother's room and read every book there, one by one. I'd read every single one of the countless books on the bookshelf, over and over again.
That was my daily routine. Hot in summer, cold in winter. No friends, no family, no one on my side, no one in the world. Sometimes, I was the target of my father and brother's wrath, and I was beaten to the point of near death.
My older brother, like our father, was a psychopath with 81% psychopathic tendencies, and he tormented me without regard for the means or methods. I still don't understand why he did this, even though he already had everything to himself.
I hated the sight of someone who looked almost exactly like me beating me, but I had no choice but to endure it. In this world, I was the only one on my side. If I couldn't endure it, I would never have been born or died. I wanted to make my existence known to the world.
Then, my father came home drunk, beat my mother to death, and dumped her body somewhere. Then, he cleaned up the house and destroyed the evidence without a second thought, never to return.
My older brother, who was a psychopath, had no reaction to seeing his father like that, and for me, seeing that scene at a young age was a shocking memory that I will never forget.
So, two years after my mother's death, my brother came home from school and came into my room with loud footsteps, as if something bad had happened. As luck would have it, I was sitting on his bed, reading a book, completely absorbed in it, not realizing how much time had passed.
As soon as my brother saw me, his eyes seemed to roll, and he immediately grabbed his bag and ran towards me. That day, I was beaten by him until I was almost dead, and then again.
Then, my brother picked up a pair of scissors that were nearby, and I yelled at him to stop, but he didn't listen. Perhaps he looked like he was out of his mind. I blocked the scissors he was swinging with my hand, and blood flowed from my wrist. I grabbed his wrist and shoved him hard, causing him to hit his head hard on the desk behind him and fall.
I ignored my brother and looked at my wrist. The bleeding didn't seem to stop. Fortunately, the artery seemed intact, and after quickly stopping the bleeding, I went back to my brother's room to find him slumped over.
I quickly approached my brother and checked for breathing and a pulse, but he was already dead. I killed him. The brother who tormented me so much, the brother who monopolized everyone's love.
That's how I came to live my brother's life. I decided it was far better to live my brother's life in his stead than to live as if I were dead, even though I hadn't even registered my birth. So began my fake life.
I was following the psychopathic type, and I felt like I was gradually becoming a real psychopath.
But I am not a psychopath.