The night is so cold it suffocates. The dorm light flickers on the wall, like it's mocking me.My fists are clenched so tightly my knuckles turn white, and the fire in my heart keeps burning, hotter and hotter.
Why?Why do they always look at me like I'm some kind of monster?I try—try to fit in, try to talk, try to change. But every time, all I get is laughter and rejection.The teacher's voice is always cold, slicing down my spine like a blade of ice.It's not that I don't want to be understood—I just want someone to see me. To hear me.
They call me a "freak," a "lunatic." I laugh—a harsh, broken laugh—because it's the only kind of resistance I have left.I'm tired. So, so tired.This heaviness inside me—it's like a boulder crushing my chest.Every time I reach out, the distance only grows.Loneliness has become my only friend.
Sometimes I wonder:If I disappeared, would anyone notice?Would anyone care?But I can't disappear.I have to make them see.See my pain. See my rage.
When I picked up the knife, my hand didn't tremble.In that moment, I felt like a beast breaking free from the abyss—fearless.
No fear.Only madness.Only a burning desire to make it all stop—the ridicule, the dismissal, the hurt.
Afterward, as I calmed down, I looked at myself—And there was nothing. Just emptiness.
I know now—I can never go back.I don't know if this was redemption,But this was my voice.The only voice they would ever hear.