My Brother Faked His Death

When I was ten years old, I begged for my brother to come back and celebrate my birthday with me.

He died in a plane crash, leaving no remains.

From then on, I became a constant source of blame for my parents.

They blamed me for his death, and every year on the anniversary of his death, they forced me to visit his grave to seek forgiveness.

This continued for eight years.

I thought I was destined to atone for my life, but on my eighteenth birthday, I was followed and killed by a criminal.

Before I died, I tried desperately to send a message to my mother for help, but she harshly reprimanded me."You just don't want to atone for your brother's death.

You're full of lies! If you hadn't insisted on your brother returning, my son wouldn't have died. If only it had been you instead. This is your deserved retribution!"

The call was mercilessly cut off.

Staring blankly at the darkened screen, I suddenly lost the will to live.

Indeed, what right did someone like me, who only brought harm, have to continue living?

Yet later, when my brother, who had been dead for eight years, returned with his pregnant wife, they were devastated upon learning of my death.

On my tenth birthday, I made a fatal mistake.

I caused the death of my own brother.

I grew up in a happy family, with loving parents and an outstanding brother.

I was the apple of everyone's eye.

But everything changed because of one phone call I made on my birthday, asking him to come back and celebrate with me.

He lost his life in a plane crash and left no remains.

Since then, my parents have harbored intense hatred toward me.

They repeatedly said, "Why did you insist on your brother returning? If only it had been you instead."

That accident claimed not only my brother's life but also mine.

Guilt, remorse, and my parents' accusations continuously pushed me into an abyss.

Countless times, I questioned myself: why did I call him back, why did I cause his death, why did God take him away?

If only I hadn't made that call, would he still be alive?

But there's no "if" in this world, and no one is willing to give me an answer.

From the day I turned ten, my life revolved around trying to make amends.

Every year, on the anniversary of my brother's death-my birthday-my parents would have me visit his grave to seek forgiveness. This went on for eight years.

Just when I thought my life had withered enough, I was found and brutally murdered by a killer in the rain.

At that time, I was desperately trying to survive.

I took out the stun baton cleverly hidden in a pendant shaped like a cute white lamb that my father had prepared for me.

Due to my father's work, he had offended many people.

Once, my mother and I were kidnapped, and to save me, my mother was dragged by the kidnappers for dozens of meters.

My father was stabbed in the chest trying to protect us.

With the police's help, we narrowly escaped danger.

From then on, my father, concerned for my safety, gave me a pendant, which housed a high-voltage stun baton.

After teaching me how to use it, he said, "I can't always be there for you. You must protect yourself."

But somehow, when I was captured by the criminal and tried to stab him with the device, it failed.

I lost my last chance to survive.

Even now, I vividly remember everything I went through.

I was attacked with various tools, each blow leaving me in agony.

My terrified expression seemed to excite the man.

The pain was excruciating, so much so that I wept uncontrollably and lost control of my body.

I never imagined the sound of bones breaking could be so loud, echoing clearly in my ears.

Skin and flesh separated, and everything in front of me turned red with blood.

I fell into unconsciousness.