From the moment I was born, everything was a tragedy.

My mother died giving birth to me, and my father lived his whole life carrying that fact like a grudge.

The days I saw my father not drunk were few and far between, and even then, his gaze toward me was always cold.

I wanted to be loved.

Just one warm look, one kind touch would have been enough.

So I always strove to be a 'good child.'

Just like in the books—because good children are always praised.

I just waited silently for the day my father would look at me and smile.

---

Miraculously, that day came on my sixth birthday.

Unlike usual, my father hadn't been drinking; he smiled at me for the first time and showed interest.

I was so happy, I felt like I owned the world.

It felt like I was finally being acknowledged.

Wanting to give this joy back to my father, I took out my crayons and drew a picture with my clumsy hands.

I ran to the living room calling for him, but there was no answer.

The living room light, which was usually bright, felt ominously dark.

When I looked up—

My father was hanging from the ceiling.

Why?

How come?

Was I not a good child?

After that, everything fell apart beyond repair.

The butler and servants remaining in the mansion gave me warmth for a brief moment, but that too was short-lived.

The people who were kind to me died one by one from illness or accidents.

The butler, the servants, and even those I shared brief connections with.

'Devil,' 'Monster,' 'The child who killed his parents.'

Before I knew it, that was what people called me.

And finally—

BANG—

With a loud noise, the old door of the mansion was smashed open.