Chapter 9:- "A Disturbing Story
"Hello students! I'm Vikram Singh-your old man, I mean, your Principal of this school." Principal Vikram paused, a mischievous glint in his eye. "We-sorry, you guys-will learn about many things here: gaining knowledge about society, how to fight for yourself and others, politics, the secrets of nature, and all about our history."
Shekhar's Thoughts: (Principal Vikram, the school's "old man," runs an international-level school. Students from all around the world, from different nations and species, have come here, and I'm one of them.)
The school's grand opening ceremony finished, and everyone dispersed to find their dorm rooms. This school was a little different: students arrived to study but couldn't leave until they graduated. Furthermore, for the next 15 years, they would be living with their teachers instead of having roommates. The grades were split: 1st to 10th were Junior Graders, 11th and 12th were High Graders, and the final 13th to 15th were the Undergraduates.
Shekhar finally found his assigned room and pushed the door open. Inside, he saw a guy hugging something tightly-a body pillow that looked suspiciously like a familiar, though he couldn't quite place who.
Shekhar: "Uh, I think I came in at the wrong time. You continue your... stuff. I'll come back later."
Sidhant: "Wait, wait, wait!" He scrambled up, dropping the pillow, and then closed the distance to hug Shekhar just as tightly, speaking in a panicked, defensive rush. "You got it all wrong! I wasn't doing anything weird!"
Shekhar: "Big brother, can you release me now?" He was both embarrassed and a little uncomfortable in the unexpected embrace.
Just then, another person entered-an elf with delicate features.
Sion: "Oops, I came in at a wrong time. My apologies, I didn't see you two. Please, continue."
As Sion started to back out, Sidhant, without hesitation, eventually grabbed Sion too, pulling him into the chaotic hug and giving him the exact same frantic explanation he'd given Shekhar.
After a few minutes of chaos, the confusion was finally settled, and they introduced themselves.
Sidhant: "Hi! I'm Sidhant, and I'm 6 years old. My birthdate is 14-04-0006."
Sion: "Hi, I'm Sion. I'm 6, too. My birthdate is the 1st of January, 0006."
Shekhar: "Hi, I'm Shekhar, and I'm also 6. My birthdate is 04-03-0006."
(In this world, the year counting is a relatively new concept. Thousands of years ago, a hero came-summoned, unlike me, who was born here-and started the trend of counting years from birth to the end of one's life, which we now follow.)
The door opened once more, and a fourth figure arrived-a vampire.
Rudra: "Hii, I'm Rudra, a noble vampire. Nice to meet you all."
Their conversation, introductions, and initial meeting finally concluded. The others were keen to go out and explore the school, but Shekhar didn't join them. Instead, he collapsed onto his assigned bed, his mind replaying the day's events, a vague sense of a flickering memory clinging to him.
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Part 2
I was a 35-year-old introvert-a man weighed down by a feeling of uselessness. In my past, I was painfully naive when iwas 20-21 in college. I had a crush on a girl who wasn't interested, but that was just the start. Many girls exploited my innocence, pretending to like me only to mock my foolishness when I inevitably fell for their games. The rejections mounted-twenty times-and the betrayals added up-five times I was cheated on. I was constantly the target, bullied by both guys and girls.
Then, there was her.
She was the one genuine light. She showed real interest in me and cared deeply. But my terrible luck followed. The students from my college class started to bully her, relentlessly. One day, she simply vanished. I searched everywhere, desperate, but couldn't find a single trace.
The unbearable truth came soon after. I found her naked body on the river bank.
Returning to college, I overheard whispers-some people were talking about a girl who had been molested and murdered. What shattered me was hearing peals of laughter from a group in the classroom. Girls and guys alike were bad-mouthing her, ridiculing her memory, and sharing disgusting jokes.
My patience was obliterated. A black fog of absolute rage filled my vision, burning away all fear and all care for consequences. I stood up, walked to the girl who was laughing the loudest, and without a second thought, punched her face. Once. Twice. Thrice.
Everyone tried to stop me-the girls screaming, the boys pulling-and their faces were a mask of disgust and judgment. I didn't care what they thought anymore. I kept punching, hitting anyone within reach; I saw no distinction between boy or girl, friend or foe, only targets in the swirling blackness. The fog consumed me, and I was dissolving into the chaos.
Finally, a powerful shove from behind. Someone pushed me over the railing on the second floor. I tumbled, hitting the ground with brutal force, and the black fog was instantly replaced by black silence as I lost consciousness.
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Part 3
When I finally woke, I wasn't in a hospital; I was in a prison cell. The disorientation was immediate and terrifying. An officer approached my bars, a smirk playing on his lips. "Oh, you're finally awake," he drawled.
I instantly recognized him: he was the father of Rohan, the classmate I had brutally beaten in my blind rage. This was not justice; this was personal vengeance.
He informed me that everything was being laid at my feet. He and Rohan had executed a cold, meticulous plan: I was framed for the girl's kidnapping, molestation, and murder. The college chaos was just the final piece of evidence against a supposed madman.
The news reached my family, and their reaction was swift and cruel. My stepmother, stepfather, uncle, and aunt-the very people who should have stood by me-abandoned me without a second thought. In public, they declared, "We have no relationship with that guy. Do whatever you want." I was a discarded liability, cut off completely.
In court, the deck was stacked. The judge sentenced me to ten years in prison for molestation, kidnapping, and disturbing the peace. I avoided the death sentence only because of Rohan's twisted testimony. He presented a fabricated story that painted him as a hero: he claimed he was only trying to help the girl escape from me, and her death was an unfortunate accident that occurred during the struggle.
My appearance worked against me. At the time, I looked young, almost like a small, slight femboy, i look like a girl and they disgusted on me which ironically kept my sentence lighter but made me a prime target for abuse inside the walls. But the endless torment-from my parents' death, to the years of abuse from my adopted family, to the hell of school and college-had finally extinguished the last flicker of my emotional life.
I was an empty shell. The incident in the classroom was the first time I had ever truly felt rage, anger, and profound frustration. That devastating experience, and the disturbing feeling it left behind, was the only fire I had left.
The decade ground on, a monotonous cycle of cold survival. Ten years passed. The world outside aged, changed, and forgot me. Then, one day, the metal doors opened, and I was released from prison, carrying the weight of a crime I didn't commit and the ghost of the one violent act I did.
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Part 4
Released from prison after ten years, I was utterly alone and homeless. Everyone had abandoned me. Wandering the streets, a strange woman approached me. She asked if I was alone or if I had someone to protect. I told her the truth: I had nothing to protect and nowhere to go.
She offered me a place to stay and work. Desperate, and driven only by a lingering need for revenge against those who had framed me and killed the girl, I agreed without question.
She took me back to her place, gave me clean clothes, and told me to bathe. "We have somewhere to be tonight, so get ready," she instructed. I still didn't grasp what she meant.
That night, she led me to a bizarre, unsettling place. It was crowded with people: women, and men dressed in women's clothing. Men would approach them, pay money, and take them into private rooms and weird noise came from those rooms.
The woman spoke to an imposing figure, who then handed me clothes. After I changed, he applied makeup to my face. When he finished, I looked completely different-like a girl. Everyone around me complimented the transformation, but I stood there, emotionless, a hollow shell.
A man soon paid money to the woman, "buying" my time. He took me to a private room And you guys correct what happened to me next that they sold my body and that was The reality was terrifying thing, but my mind was so shattered, my heart and soul so crushed by the years of trauma, that I felt nothing. I was utterly numb. The sensations, the violence-it barely registered.
This life became my brutal routine. I was continually breaking myself more and more, losing myself in every transaction. My soul was already gone, but my body and mind were forced to endure the ceaseless, painful fragmentation. There was no one to offer a word of comfort, no light of hope, no protection. I was just a dead body generating money for her, a period that lasted four long years. Every day was a question: "Why am I still living?"
Then, one evening, there was a raid. A police officer, a woman, led the operation. They caught everyone running the brothel and began protecting those of us who had been forced into the trade.
When she approached me, she didn't offer pity or disgust. She just smiled-a genuine, warm smile. "Now you are safe," she said gently. "You don't have to suffer anymore."
In that moment, her smile and those words were like a single drop of healing potion poured onto my desolate heart. It was the first pure, kind, and protective feeling I had experienced since the girl in college-her smile mirrored the warmth I remembered. The ice around my soul finally cracked. I finally realized the full, horrific extent of what I had endured.
I just broke down and cried. I cried for the life I had lost, for the years of pain, and for the degradation I had just survived.
When the chaos cleared, I was free, but the terrible reality remained: I was still homeless and alone, standing the threshold of a world I didn't know, carrying only the scars of my past.
To be continued
