If you asked me when everything went to hell, I'd say it was August 12, 2017.
That day reshaped my life, my boyfriend's life, his family's, his friends', and mine. That day… I think it was the worst day of my life. Because that day led me here—to a stranger's living room, a gun in my hand, the carpet soaked in blood, and my boyfriend's eyes staring back at me. His eyes.
This is what I became.
But I don't regret it. I don't think I ever will. The only thing I regret is calling you that day. If only I hadn't… I wouldn't be here now. I started all of this, so what use is regret?
Pain, though—that keeps growing, hollowing me out from the inside. Is this destiny? Just a game without rules, where victims aren't chosen, only thrown like dice, rolling endlessly, landing on infinite outcomes? No matter how much I think about it, I doubt anything could have changed. After the accident, everything was already set in motion. Every road led me here. I became what I am. And what I have yet to be.
Some people say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. But it's not just that. When you kill for the first time, your mind fractures. You ask yourself—what brought me here? How did I get to this point?
It's like watching a movie in reverse. Scene after scene, until you reach that inevitable moment when everything collapsed. The moment you fell the hardest. The moment your thoughts shifted, when you decided to be both judge and executioner.
For some, that moment is their birth. For others, it's the day tragedy reshaped them. For me, it was that day. The day of the accident.
Or maybe… maybe it wasn't. Maybe killing was already written into my DNA, and all it needed was a spark to set it ablaze. A push. A trigger.
We are born, we grow, we learn. We shape our own beliefs or steal them from others to define ourselves. Life is a cycle that traps people, molds them. But sometimes, that cycle shatters. And when it does, it forges something unrecognizable, something terrifying.
One moment, you are who you've always been. And the next, you're walking toward the gates of hell.
Change is slow—until it isn't. It creeps up, day by day, shift by shift, until one day you're standing at the edge of a cliff. And when you look down, the sum of all those tiny choices and your own willpower decide whether you take that final step.
I did.
And I fell. Headfirst, spiraling into nothingness.
By the time you realize you've lost yourself, it's too late. You look up only to see how far you've fallen.
Let me tell you my story.
It'll be fun. A Roman tragedy, soaked in blood and fury. Or at least, that's what we like to believe when we tell our stories—that we are special, that our suffering is unique.
But when you step back, you realize—we're not.
We're just another drop in the ocean.
Maybe we should stop pretending to be extraordinary and start seeing ourselves for what we are—fragments of others, borrowed ideas colliding into something barely new.
Maybe if we did that, if we looked past ourselves and truly saw the pain and joy of others, we could start letting go of hate.
But I don't think that will ever happen.
It's a sad thought. Because I want to believe in peace. I want to believe that if we all saw each other as equals, things could change.
But I know they won't.
Only those who have suffered deeply can feel true empathy—because their pain has opened their eyes. Those who have never suffered, but still recognize the pain in others, are moved to help.
But they are few. Too few to change anything.
And the rest? The rest bury themselves in their own misery.
Those who don't know suffering remain blind to it.