I've always wanted to remain anonymous, but the memories of my childhood keep resurfacing. I recall the time I almost took my own life. I was 15, living with my parents, and thought we had a happy family. But I knew I wasn't a peaceful person.
One day, my sister broke my mother's vase, and I was terrified. My parents didn't ask questions; they just beat me until I was injured and threw me out of the house. I tried to explain, but no one listened. I even asked my sister to explain, but she seemed to enjoy seeing me yelled at.
With all my belongings thrown outside, I left and started living on the streets. I became a hustler, taking drugs and smoking weed. But I continued my studies, and a kind teacher gave me a new school uniform.
Years passed, and I graduated from secondary school. I received a message saying I got a bachelor's degree, and I went to school to confirm it. On my way to the library, I overheard two girls talking about the death of a woman and a man. I didn't ask questions, but when I got home, I found out my parents had been killed two months ago, and I hadn't even attended their funeral.
I couldn't look at my little sister, who had betrayed me. But I forgave her and moved on with my life, alone. Now, I'm left wondering: should I seek revenge or make peace? Not just with my sister, but also with the killers of my parents. The question still haunts me.