Prologue

Was it when I was in the 6th grade? It probably was. As much as I wished for it to fade, this memory alone refused to subside, slowly eating away at me instead.

That day was like any other. The sidewalk was deserted as 10 PM approached, and the streetlights, which I wondered when they were even installed, flickered weakly as they cast their light.

I was on my way home after a walk with my father. In my hands, I held a cone of ice cream and a doll he had bought for me. My lips were curled up in a wide grin as I babbled about things I can't even remember now, finding everything so amusing.

My father was carrying my backpack and my shoe bag in his hands. As he walked silently behind me, he seemed to be watching my every step, worried I might trip. I could feel his gaze on me that clearly.

The traffic light next to the crosswalk soon turned green, and I began to cross, hopping and skipping across the white rectangular stripes as if I were on a trampoline.

And in an instant, I felt my father's breathing grow heavy. As I turned my head toward the sound, something caught my eye. Car headlights. They were very close. There was no way a mere thirteen-year-old could have avoided them, and the naive child was shoved forward by her father's hands.

CRASH!!

It was a sound I had never heard before. The sound of something being crushed and mangled, combined with the ear-piercing screech of tires grinding against the pavement, struck my ears with violent force.

I pushed myself up on my scraped knees, and there lay the man I called 'Dad.' It was definitely him. His appearance alone proved it. But I thought it wasn't. No, I had to believe it wasn't. Because the dark red liquid flowing endlessly from his head and the limply bent, dangling limbs were so different from the man I knew.

...Dad...?

I looked up. In the middle of the road, people had gathered—whether they came after hearing the commotion or were already there, I didn't know. Their eyes flickered between my father, me, and the vehicle. In their gazes, I saw fear, pity, and in some, even a hint of curiosity. Once again, their eyes swept over me.

No one dared to step forward. Please, anyone, I don't care who, just help. Why, why on earth won't you help? The words wouldn't come out easily, and I struggled to make a sound. I strained my throat as if trying to wring out my vocal cords. The more I did, the more the words just swirled inside my body, rising up my throat but never escaping my lips. The commotion only grew louder, and I just sat there, reduced to a mere piece of the scenery.

Soon after, the sound of sirens reached my ears. My father was carried away on a stretcher, and I was taken along with him. I wanted to cry. I wanted to vomit out all my bitterness through tears. I wanted to purge all my fear and sadness by weeping. But even that was a luxury I couldn't afford; in the end, not a single tear fell.