I Am a Bad Person. -4-
It was heartbreaking.
I'd thought that if I smiled brightly, people would eventually turn to look at me. Smile through the hurt. Smile through the sadness. Smile even when they hurled insults at me. I believed that someday, my friends who hated me would come around.
It was the only thing I, the one being bullied, could do. The only rebellion a girl with nothing could muster. I'd vowed to keep smiling forever.
But unknowingly, the pile of emotions I'd stacked up had turned into a massive residue of sorrow. I realized it too late.
The foolish days when I'd believed blindly smiling would improve our relationships someday, the moments I'd hoped a friend would approach me—they all came crashing down like a mountain struck by a downpour at the sight of those two words scrawled on my desk: 'freak'.
I stood there staring at the desk.
What... is this...?
My mind went blank. No thoughts came. Just a chilling sense of all the hope I'd built crumbling as I gazed at those eerie letters.
From behind my dazed self came snickering laughter.
"Who did that?"
"Dunno. It was like that when I got here this morning."
"Crazy... But isn't she crying?"
"No way. Hey... she's crying."
"Haha, what the fuck!"
The mockery poured down on me as I stood with my head bowed. Not words of comfort like "You okay?"—just my classmates giggling, treating my misery like a comedy show. I bolted from the room like a fugitive.
"What kind of equal academy is this...?"
"They said it's equal for everyone.... What the hell!"
Choking back sobs, I hunkered down in the corner of the recycling station behind the academy. My private spot no one else came to. The place only got crowded during cleanup time—a bully's haven, truly mine alone. No one to badmouth me, no passersby. It was where I listened to front-row gossip or overheard bathroom whispers, my escape route.
I just wanted to bury my face in my knees until the tangled emotions settled. I'd endured like this before. Today, too, I'd cool off, paste on a smile, and head back. Like always.
There was nothing I could do anyway. In these broken relationships, I truly had... nothing.
Every action I took must look like a protruding nail in their eyes, my best efforts just amusing entertainment for them. I hated that. So there I was, crouched again, resting.
In the recycling station reeking of rotten trash, sniffling at my pathetic reflection.
"I wanted to do well..."
I felt utterly alone. No one to help me—it all felt colder than ever that day.
"Sniff..."
That's why I cried harder.
"What did I do wrong for everyone to treat me like this...? I just want to get along with you all... Why...!"
"I like making dolls too... I want to talk with you guys about my crush... I do...!"
"Why won't you let me in...? Won't even give me a chance."
That memory of sobbing with my head buried in the silent, deserted recycling station—a raw, unforgettable wound. No one listened. Just me, whining to the void. It wouldn't fade.
How long did I cry? The bell signaling class start rang, and I steeled myself to stand. No matter how upset, I had to attend. To keep my scholarship, even if exhausted.
I tried rising, but depression sapped my legs' strength.
"Gotta go..."
Muttering, I thumped my sluggish legs with my fist. Come on. Staying here's pointless. Go.
About three minutes passed. As I finally hauled myself up—
"Why are you crying here?"
A gentle voice halted me. Red hair. Tall, handsome with a slightly fierce impression, the man stood behind me, smiling faintly.
The guy I liked. The one I'd fallen for at first sight. He appeared like fate.
Seeing Ricardo gaze at me with a mischievous grin, I startled and tumbled to the ground.
"Kyaa...! How long have you been there?!"
"Hm... Since you said 'What did I do wrong!'?"
His mimicry of my vulnerable moment flushed my face crimson. I'd never been so shocked or embarrassed. I'd watched him from afar—he hadn't seemed like this type. His unexpectedly approachable vibe surprised me. I'd imagined him cool and aloof.
His playful antics clenched my fists. Head down, I muttered,
"Let's go."
"Nah."
"The bell rang. You should go."
"Don't wanna."
Ricardo replied like a stubborn pumpkin. Even after the bell, he yawned lazily, sat carefully beside me, and said with an annoying smirk,
"I'm smart, so I don't need class."
"...Pardon?"
"Jealous?"
His serious face spouting nonsense stared at my flushed cheeks. At my puffy eyes, damp lashes. With a bittersweet smile, he said softly,
"You cried?"
"No."
"Liar. I saw."
"...Then why ask?"
"'Cause it's fun?"
He declared shamelessly. Is he always like this...? My fantasy of him shattered, but sunlight on his slight smile made my heart race wildly.
Get a grip...
"Something on my face?"
"Huh?"
"You've been staring."
"No. You're just... handsome..."
"Pardon?"
"I mean... Did I say that out loud?! No, forget it!"
Ricardo smiled at my fluster, then pulled a small handkerchief from his butler's vest pocket and offered it. Pale beige, faintly floral-scented. I stared blankly at his hand.
Why give this to me?
"Take it."
"..."
"My hand'll cramp."
His skin brushed mine—soft. Softer than the cloth. Maybe the emotions of that moment amplified it.
After taking it, I stared dazedly at the handkerchief. When had anyone been this kind? And with the guy I'd secretly admired—a fateful encounter—emotions welled up warmly.
"Sniff..."
"Why cry again?"
"Not crying..."
Considerate, Ricardo turned away and muttered,
"You're terrible at lying."
That first meeting with Ricardo became an unforgettable memory.
"Oh, right—I didn't introduce myself."
Crouched beside me, he said,
"I'm Ricardo. Same year, Class 1. Problem child, they say."
"I'm... Yuria."
"Yuria. Pretty name."
"Thank you."
Small talk flowed into daily chit-chat; time flew. I thought of class, but excitement tugged: Just a bit longer.
About thirty minutes later, anxiety surged; I jumped up.
"I gotta go."
"Why? Chat more."
"But class..."
Awkward smile from Ricardo.
"Ah... Won't happen. Class."
"Huh?"
"Hm..."
He stood, brushed dust from his pants, and said,
"You'll see when you get there."
Relaxed: "Even busting your ass in this doomed academy life just leaves stress." I followed silently, shocked. My throat was hoarse from crying; I didn't know what to say to his boldness. With my crush right there, I just peeked at his face, head down.
Back in class, Year 1 Class 1 was a wreck. My desk spotless. Others trashed. Looked like a brawl. Intense one.
And—
"Where's Ricardo?!"
A nosebleeding boy bellowed, searching.
"See?"
Ricardo's awkward smile to me.
"Told you no class."
He strode in, faced the boy, smirked, and yelled,
"Catch me if you can!!!"
Ricardo bolted like mad.
*
I learned that evening: the desk graffiti culprit was that boy hunting Ricardo. And right after I fled, Ricardo had "cleaned" it—smashed the boy's face into my desk. Overheard hiding in the recycling station.
"Knew he was nuts. Slammed my face into the desk and said 'Clean.' Ugh..."
"Butler of a crazy bitch, figures. Acts like a psycho."
"What happened?"
"Suspended, probably."
That day in the station, uninvited guests felt welcome for once. Clutching my pounding chest, I eavesdropped.
*
The buzz was hitting. Drunk and tipsy, old memories stirred emotions fiercely.
Yuria sighed, chewing jerky.
"Haa..."
A man with a small smile sat before her, glass in hand.
"Why drink alone, like some tragic heroine?"
Yuria looked up. Red-haired Ricardo grinned across from her.