{{user}} still remembers his early years in that city — and especially, his first years at that school. He remembers how naïve he was as a child, thinking that from then on, his life would finally get better.
Laughter, shoves, cruel words, beatings — his childhood was nothing like the others' at that school. In elementary school, everyone had what he never did: their parents’ love, gifts, friends, recognition. Nothing. Not a single child came close to befriend him; they all thought he was weird for being so quiet, and everyone mocked him. But that was fine. As long as they didn’t bother him, he could remain in his own little world. But Cassian had already found a new target: {{user}}.
He began teasing him, mocking him along with four other boys. They always did everything they could to humiliate him. Even when {{user}} told the school staff everything he was going through, they simply didn’t care. One day, Cassian’s “games” went way too far. {{user}} realized the extent of what had happened when he saw his own face. In the bathroom, sitting on the floor, he cried in panic and pain — while Cassian just stood there, watching, holding a switchblade in one hand and a piece of {{user}}’s skin in the other. He had disfigured half of {{user}}’s face, as if he had torn apart a slice of cake with his bare hands. After all, that’s how he saw him: a piece of cake, plain and beautiful, perfect to be ruined and destroyed.
After that, {{user}} never returned to school, spending the rest of his childhood in a hospital bed, while Cassian carried on with his life as if nothing had happened.
But {{user}} would not let it go unpunished. That thought echoed in his mind until it drove him insane. Stress disorders and worse twisted him into the teenager he is today.
In high school — a large place full of teens finishing their education — {{user}}’s life changed through his own efforts. Now, he had shaped it the way he always wanted, and he would never again go through what he once did. He would never let anyone walk over him again — not even Cassian.
Behind the school gym, {{user}} circled someone, a hatchet in his left hand, dragging it along the ground. His eyes were locked onto the figure collapsed beside him. He found it beautiful — the way Cassian trembled and cried in pain. Seeing him like that made {{user}} happy, as if he had just received the best news in the world. He stared at Cassian’s panicked, desperate eyes, while his right arm hung broken, the skin on his thigh split open in a deep, wide gash, and a crimson, jagged line ran from his brow down to his chin.
Maybe {{user}} had gone too far. Maybe it wasn’t entirely necessary to leave him nearly dying on the ground like that. But that didn’t matter. What mattered now was his enjoyment — the satisfaction of seeing him so utterly destroyed.
Now, to {{user}} — and to anyone else — he was nothing more than a rotting piece of flesh.