The grey walls of the juvenile detention center pressed in on me. The sterile air smelled of disinfectant and the faint, metallic tang of fear. Days bled into weeks, weeks into months. The shock that had numbed me in the immediate aftermath of the murder began to wear off, replaced by a crushing weight of reality. This was my life now. Concrete, steel, and an endless. monotonous routine. My cell was small, a constant reminder of my confinement. The thin mattress offered little comfort. Sleep was a fractured, anxious state filled with replays of that awful afternoon - Mr. Seo's startled eyes, the screams of my classmates, the sickening feel of the letter opener. Mornings began with a shrill bell, followed by lukewarm food in a noisy mess hall. Then came the mandatory activities. Classes in cramped, poorly lit rooms, teaching subjects I struggled to focus on. Chores-cleaning, laundry - mundane tasks that filled the hours but did nothing to quiet the turmoil inside. The hardest part, initially, was the therapy. Group sessions where we sat in a circle of broken teenagers, sharing stories of violence, neglect, and desperation. My own story felt too raw, too grotesque. I sat in silence for weeks, a stone statue, listening to the others. Their pain was different from mine, but the underlying current of feeling abandoned, unwanted, resonated deep within me. Individual counselling was equally challenging. My therapist, Ms. Han, was a kind, patient woman with weary eyes. She didn't push aggressively, but her steady presence and quiet questions chipped away at my defenses. "How are you feeling today, Y/N?" she would ask, her voice gentle. "What are you thinking about?" At first, my answers were monosyllabic. "Fine. Nothing." But slowly, painstakingly, cracks began to appear. The guilt was a constant, low thrum beneath the surface. The image of Mr. Seo haunted me. He had been cruel, yes, but did he deserve "that"? Did "I" deserve to have his life on my hands? Remorse was a bitter pill, difficult to swallow. Ms. Han encouraged me to write, to draw, to find any outlet for the roiling emotions. I filled notebooks with chaotic scribbles, angry lines, and eventually, tentative words. It was a slow, arduous process, uncovering the layers of pain that had led to that moment in the classroom. "Tell me about your life before," Ms. Han prompted one session, her gaze steady. "Before... everything." Talking about my parents was the hardest. The constant pressure, the impossible standards, the icy disapproval that felt colder than any physical punishment. The way their love was conditional, measured in grades and achievements. Their faces when they disowned me not sad, not even angry, just utterly disgusted, as if I were something unclean they needed to scrub away. I remembered that brief, desperate glimmer of hope before the sentencing. When the kind lawyer mentioned Uncle Kim. I hadn't seen him in years, not since that short, confusing period in his foster home when my parents had decided I was too much to handle for a few weeks. He was the only adult who had ever looked at me and just... seen "me". Not a reflection of their ambition, not a problem, just a quiet, troubled kid. He'd had this worn, kind face, hands that smelled faintly of cigarettes and the earth from his small garden. He'd taught me how to tie a knot, how to peel an apple without breaking the skin. Simple things. Human things.During those first awful days in police custody, before the court appearances, he had come. I was sitting alone in a small, sterile interview room when the door opened and he stood there. He looked older, his hair greyer, but his eyes were the same full of a quiet, almost painful. compassion. He rushed towards me, his hands reaching for mine across the table. His grip was. warm, solid. "Y/N," he'd said, his voice thick with emotion. "Are you alright? I heard... I came as fast as I could." "Uncle Kim?" I'd whispered, the name feeling strange on my tongue after so long. "It's me. Don't worry. I'm here," he'd insisted, squeezing my hands. He looked around the room, then leaned closer, his voice low and urgent. "Listen, Y/N. Your parents... they're trying to block me. They don't want me involved. They're saying... things. Don't listen to them. They can't stop me from trying to help you." His brow furrowed with worry. "Are the police asking about home? About how things were? You have to tell them, Y/N. You have to tell them about the pressure, how hard it was. About your father, your mother. It wasn't your fault. Not entirely. The pressure... it can break a person. Please, Y/N. Tell them the truth." But his words had felt distant, muffled by the thick cotton wool that seemed to pack my brain. Tell them the truth? About the humiliation, the constant criticism, the feeling of being fundamentally flawed? About the silent dinners and the slammed doors? The shame of it all was too heavy, too deeply ingrained. My parents' coldness, their immediate and utter rejection - it had confirmed every terrible thing I believed about myself. That I was unworthy, unlovable, a failure. To speak of their abuse, even now, felt like betraying a fundamental rule, like admitting my own weakness. My silence had always been my shield, however ineffective. "I... I don't know what you mean," I'd mumbled, pulling my hands away, retreating back into the shell of numbness. "It was my fault. I did it." His face had fallen, the hope draining from his eyes, replaced by a deep, weary sadness. He'd tried to argue, to plead, but I had just shut down completely, my gaze fixed on the table. The police had eventually come back, politely but firmly escorting him out. He'd looked back at me one last time, his expression heartbroken, before the door closed. That memory surfaced now, years later, in the sterile counselling room. The thought of his disappointed face, his failed attempt to reach me, added another layer to the guilt. I had pushed him away, the only person who seemed to genuinely care, because I was too ashamed, too broken, to accept his help, to reveal the ugliness of my home life. Ms. Han waited patiently for me to continue, but I couldn't voice the depth of that regret. Life in the facility wasn't just about punishment; there was a structured attempt at 'restorative justice'. This often involved therapeutic conversations about the impact of my crime, sometimes even mediated discussions with representatives from victim support groups, if not the family directly. It was designed to foster empathy, understanding of the harm caused. It was agonizing. Hearing about the grief, the fear, the ripple effect of my violence, only amplified my remorse. I learned to listen, to nod, to offer quiet apologies that felt inadequate against the magnitude of the damage. Slowly, painstakingly, I began to piece myself back together. Education offered a fragile escape; immersing myself in subjects, finding answers that were absolute, unlike the chaotic uncertainty of my emotions. I started reading voraciously in the small library. The routine, though stifling, provided a sense of structure I hadn't realized I craved. My hands still trembled sometimes,especially when I was tired or stressed, but the constant, racking ache in my chest began to subside into a dull throb. The staff here were different from my parents, from Mr. Seo. They weren't looking for perfection, just... progress. Small, hesitant steps towards acknowledging the past, understanding the present, maybe, just maybe, building some semblance of a future. There were guards, of course, and administrators, some stern, some indifferent. But there were also counselors. teachers, and case workers who genuinely seemed to believe in the possibility of rehabilitation. They weren't perfect, the system wasn't perfect, but compared to the emotional wasteland I'd come from, it was... something. One day, walking down a hallway, I noticed a new face among the staff. A young man, maybe early twenties, wearing the standard uniform of the facility's officers. He was talking to one of the senior guards, gesturing towards a file he held. His face was serious, his brow furrowed in concentration. He had sharp eyes, a quiet intensity about him. He didn't look like the usual hardened guards. He looked... new. Green. As I passed, my eyes flickered towards the file in his hand. The name on the tab was visible for just a second. Seo. It was Mr. Seo's case file. The file of the man I had killed. The young officer wasn't looking at me, his attention focused on the conversation. But the sight of that file, in the hands of someone so young, so new to this world of crime and punishment, sent a shiver down my spine. Was he studying it? Was he a new intern, learning the ropes by examining infamous cases? It was a fleeting moment, a ghost of my past brushing against a stranger's present. I kept walking, but the image of the file, and the young officer's serious face, stayed with me. Another person touched by that day, however indirectly.
Write a comment ...