Yami's hands trembled as he turned the next page of the notebook. The title leapt off the paper in messy, hurried strokes—handwritten, desperate, perhaps even by his own hand… though he had no memory of it.
"Why Should I Exist?"
He stared at the words for a long moment, as though they might answer him just by existing. Then he began to read.
I suffer.
Every single day feels like a punishment I never asked for.
My parents—those who were supposed to love me the most—are the architects of my hell. They dress their cruelty as discipline, their abuse as love.
To the outside world, they are respectable. Educated. Well-mannered. But behind closed doors, when no one's watching, I'm reduced to something less than human.
They beat me when I fail to meet their impossible expectations. Not for failing grades—no, that would be too easy.
They demand perfection. Always first. Never second.
Once, I came thirteenth.
I still remember the taste of blood in my mouth that day—the belt, the fists, the kick to my ribs while I was already down.
They said it was love. That it was for my future. That I'd thank them someday.
But how do you thank someone for stealing your childhood?
They don't see me. They see a tool. A vessel for their broken dreams. A future doctor to parade around like a badge of honor.
But I'm not that person.
I've never wanted to be a doctor.
The blood. The surgeries. The suffocating textbooks.
It's a world that drains me. But they never ask what I want.
They never ask what hurts.
I tried to escape.
More times than I can count.
I stood in front of the mirror, razor in hand, trembling. I couldn't do it—not because I didn't want to die, but because I was afraid.
Afraid of pain.
Afraid of what comes next.
Afraid of failing… even in death.
I drank poison. Three times.
Once, rat poison—diluted in soda.
Another time, bleach—just enough to burn, not enough to kill.
The third… I don't even remember what it was.
I woke up in vomit, heart racing, vision blurred.
And my mother was standing over me—not with concern, but with rage.
"You want to be a burden till the end, huh?! You want us to be shamed in death too?!"
They didn't take me to the hospital.
They let me rot in my bed until I could walk again.
I tried hanging myself, too.
I tied the noose perfectly. Practiced the fall so my neck would break instantly. But when the moment came… I hesitated.
I couldn't kick the chair.
I stood there for hours, the rope burning against my neck, tears falling like rain, wishing the ground would open and swallow me whole.
But it didn't.
I survived.
Not because I was strong.
Not because I wanted to live.
But because I couldn't die.
And maybe—just maybe—a small part of me didn't want to.
Maybe I still hoped something would change.
Maybe I wanted someone—anyone—to say, "You're enough."
But no one ever did.
Kuragane Yami's vision blurred, tears rising unbidden. His chest ached from the weight of the words. Whether or not he had written them, they were undeniably his truth.
He wiped his face with his sleeve, but the pain lingered like a shadow behind his ribs.
So much pain... and yet, I'm still here.
He turned the page slowly, as if the next one might finally contain the answer to the question that haunted him:
If I suffer this much... why should I exist at all?