0081 Encountering a Star (4)
It seems that for a long time afterward, I was talked about because of this dark history. I had only been in high school for a year when I was facing the danger of being expelled, which shows how terrible the thing I did was.
When I got into a fight with a boy, I broke his right leg. His parents took me to the police station as a matter of course. I kept quiet whenever teachers or leaders asked me why, even though my homeroom teacher repeatedly and earnestly advised me not to ruin my future.
At that moment, I felt that the world sometimes tipped in my favor; for example, my teachers hoped that there was more to the story.
My appearance was far from splendid either; my forehead, chin, and back were covered in wounds, and my white school uniform t-shirt was stained with the foul smell of blood. The pain from the fracture in my right forearm made me want to vomit, but everyone's attention was focused on that boy.
The police officers at the station seemed to have never encountered someone as difficult as me. After all, I was just a student at the time, yet I wasn't afraid of his threats at all, which inevitably left him somewhat frustrated. But I also knew he had plenty of ways to deal with "delinquents" like me.
Actually, I didn't have much energy left to deal with him. The intense pain in my arm had made my lips pale. But when you're young, you seem to have that stubborn streak of not wanting to give up easily. I thought I could waste another hour with him. At worst, he could lock me up for two days. I'd prefer to faint from the pain so I could get some sleep.
But things suddenly took a big turn.
The door to the room was pushed open, and I saw the policeman who had just been glaring at me respectfully call out, "Chief." Then, the man called the chief led me to the door of another room.
To my surprise, his attitude towards me was too good, almost to the point of being ingratiating.
When we turned the corner and saw a middle-aged man in military uniform, my heart sank.
Behind the half-open door was nothing short of a monstrous threat to me; I broke out in a cold sweat and even considered running away.
The middle-aged soldier behind me grabbed my waist with his strong hand, pulled me into the room, and then closed the door completely.
Just as I had guessed, standing behind the door was my father, whom I had been longing for day and night.
He slapped me across the face, the crisp sound echoing in the room.
"You bastard!"
I heard him call me that, in a tone of extreme anger.
I know that my image in my father's eyes is so ruined that it's beyond repair.
I am like a stray dog that has fallen into a mud pit, only daring to look up at my former family when I am hiding in the filth.
But even then, I still couldn't help but crave some care from my closest relatives, because the one who was now high above me was the one who had once held me in their arms.
However, these were all illusory thoughts. Only then did I realize that the pain in my heart was far greater than the pain in my body.
My father didn't even ask me why I fought with that person; he simply defined me as the person he already knew.
So he didn't know that I got into a fight with that guy because he said I was born to the mistress of some official.
I was almost tearing apart the last spark of hope in my heart.
I suddenly asked him, unwilling to give up, if he hated me. I saw my father's face turn ashen with rage, but he finally fell silent.
There was a knock at the door. My father was overwhelmed with trivial matters, and it must have taken him a lot of trouble to fly here, all to deal with these messy things concerning my son.
I dare not wait for my father to say another word.
Do you hate me?
My courage was completely exhausted when I asked that question.
He naturally hates me.
I am the youngest son who murdered my mother and brother. I have long been expelled from the family and am no longer even worthy of having a surname.
The knocking at the door gradually subsided, and I knew that stepping out of that door would sever the already fragile bond between father and son.
But I really can't wait any longer.
Perhaps because of excessive blood loss, I don't know where I went after leaving the police station.
I knew someone was looking for me. My father wouldn't hate me so much that he wanted me to die in a foreign land, but I suddenly became stubborn. I don't know how many alleys I turned into, or where I ended up, but I avoided a group of people in uniform.
Just before I fainted, I saw a hallucination.
I heard a anxious voice, which was right next to my ear and transformed into a pair of soft hands.
"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice trembling with emotion.
I'm not good, not good at all.
"Shall I take you home?"
Going home... okay.
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