At school, Thomas lived a miserable double life. Inside the classroom, he was an invisible figure, blending into the shadows in the corner of the room. However, the moment his feet stepped across the threshold of the classroom door, school transformed into his personal hell. Bobby and his gang were relentless prison wardens; extorting him, beating him, and turning him into a walking joke for the upperclassmen had become a daily routine.
Yet, strangely, Thomas never once complained. Deep in his heart, which had gone numb, he felt this was justice. This was a fitting price for a monster like him.
"Oi, Thomas!"
Bobby's shout pierced the noise of the afternoon corridor. Thomas's steps faltered. He knew that voice as well as he knew his own fear. With slow, obedient movements, he turned around.
Bobby, Henry, Lucas, and Billy stood there, blocking the path like a living wall of intimidation.
"Yes, Senior? Is something wrong?" Thomas answered quietly, his eyes fixed on the floor.
Bobby took a step forward, leaning in until Thomas could smell the faint scent of sweat and cigarettes on his uniform. "According to rumors going around the hangout spots, you used to be the golden child in junior high. A math genius. Is that right?"
Thomas swallowed, his throat dry. The compliment now sounded like an accusation. "Th-that was before. Now... now, not so much."
"Oh, bullshit," Henry cut in quickly, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "If you were smart then, your brain should still work now, right? Unless you bang your head against a wall every day."
"Yeah, true that," Lucas chimed in with a chuckle.
Bobby snapped his fingers in front of Thomas's face. "So here's the deal, Genius. We have an assignment for elective math. Five essay questions on limits. You do them. They must be finished by tomorrow morning."
Billy shoved a crumpled question sheet against Thomas's chest, forcing him to take it. "And listen closely. Write the answers on folio paper. Make four copies. And remember, use four different handwriting styles for the four of us. Don't let the teacher catch on that one person did it all."
"Here are the questions. Answer them correctly, don't make a single mistake!" Bobby threatened, his voice low but sharp. "We expect the answers here tomorrow morning before the bell rings."
Thomas accepted the paper with slightly trembling hands. Before he could respond, the four upperclassmen had already turned to leave.
"Thanks, servant Thomas!" they shouted in unison at the end of the hallway, followed by a burst of echoing laughter, leaving Thomas standing alone holding the question sheet like a verdict for an additional sentence.
Arriving home, Thomas didn't even change his uniform. He sat at his gloomy study desk, staring at the five basic calculus questions on limits before him.
The material was foreign to him. He hadn't learned it yet in 10th grade. Panic momentarily seized him, but then he remembered something. He went to the old bookshelf in the living room, searching through a stack of Eben's used books. He found it—a dusty high school math textbook from the old curriculum.
Thomas returned to his room, opened the chapter on function limits, and began to teach himself. His brain, once sharp, now felt rusty, clouded by a fog of guilt and fear.
He managed to solve the first three questions after wrestling with formulas and examples for an hour. However, questions number four and five stumped him. They were analysis questions requiring deep understanding, not just memorizing formulas.
Cold sweat dripped down his temples. He imagined Bobby's face if he failed. They will be angry. They will hit me again.
Desperately, Thomas tried to answer them. He wrote down the steps that logic told him were correct, even though his heart was filled with doubt. Whatever, he thought resignedly. If it's wrong, then so be it. I'll accept the consequences.
The real torture began after that. He had to copy those five lengthy answers four times, forcing his hand to alter his writing style. Slanted to the left, stiff and upright, all capital letters, and chicken scratch. His fingers cramped, his eyes burned.
He spent three hours in the silence of his room, doing the work of the people who bullied him without a shred of desire to fight back.
***
The next day, Thomas deliberately arrived just as the bell was about to ring. It was his usual strategy to avoid interaction. However, Bobby and his friends were more committed than he expected. They were already waiting near the door of class 10-A like a pack of patient hyenas.
"Oi, Thomas! Come here," Henry called out.
Thomas walked closer, reached into his bag, and pulled out four bundles of folio paper. "Here is your assignment," he said as he handed over the papers. "But I'm sorry... for numbers four and five, I'm not sure if the answers are right or wrong. The material is difficult."
Bobby snatched the papers, distributing them to his friends. He looked at Thomas with a scornful smirk. "Ah, impossible. There's no way a former city-level Math Olympiad winner can't do stuff like this. Don't be so humble."
Thomas's heart sank. How did they know about the Olympiad?
"Yeah, surely it can't be wrong. You've got a sharp mind," Lucas chimed in while flipping through his paper, checking the handwriting style. "Hm, your fake handwriting is pretty good too."
"That... that's no guarantee. The problem is I truly have never studied this material," Thomas tried to defend himself, his voice weak.
"Oh, shut up. I don't accept excuses," Bobby cut him off roughly. He tapped Thomas's cheek gently but with pressure. "If there are a lot of mistakes and we get a bad grade, watch your back. You're finished at our hands."
Thomas fell silent, lowering his head. The four seniors left him laughing, busy comparing the writing on their respective papers.
Thomas walked into class with a sense of dread hanging in his stomach. Throughout the lessons that day, physically he was in the classroom, but his soul was drifting elsewhere. He stared at the cracks in his wooden desk for hours, yet his ears remained on alert, listening to the teacher's explanation. He had to be able to answer if asked. Being too quiet was just as dangerous as being too active; both attracted attention, and attention was the last thing he wanted.
The bell signaling the end of school rang loudly. For Thomas, it was the bell starting the second round of his suffering.
As usual, Thomas waited inside the classroom until most of the students had gone home. Once he felt it was quiet enough, he shouldered his bag and walked out.
He had just reached the turn in the corridor near the laboratory when suddenly the back of his collar was yanked roughly. His balance faltered. He was dragged backward.
"Come with us, you bastard," Henry's voice whispered in his ear.
Thomas didn't dare scream. He was forcibly dragged to the boys' restroom on the ground floor, known for being quiet and smelling of stale urine. Inside, Bobby, Lucas, and Billy were already waiting. Henry kicked the restroom door shut.
Thomas was shoved until his back hit the cold, damp ceramic wall.
"Thomas, the math whiz," Bobby began, his voice echoing in the cramped space. "Do you know why you were brought to our palace?"
Thomas's breath hitched. "Wh-why?"
Bobby threw a crumpled ball of the folio assignment paper right into Thomas's face. The papers fell scattered onto the wet, dirty toilet floor.
"Do you know what happened in class earlier, huh?" Bobby snapped, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "We were humiliated in front of the whole class! The teacher tore up all our assignments!"
Thomas took a step back, his back pressing against the cold tiles. "Wh-why? I differentiated the handwriting..."
"It's not about the handwriting, you idiot!" Billy cut in roughly. He stepped forward, grabbing Thomas by the collar and lifting him until Thomas's heels left the floor slightly. "It's because of a ridiculous mistake on number two. A mistake you copied exactly the same on all four papers!"
Billy brought his face close, his breath reeking of pungent tobacco. "In number two, there was a calculation: sixteen divided by eight. You wrote the answer as four!"
Thomas's eyes widened. Sixteen divided by eight... four?
"Sixteen divided by eight is two, you moron!" Billy screamed right in his face. "And because all four of us had the exact same answer 'four' on the same line, the teacher immediately knew we copied from one source! He said it was impossible for four different people to make a mistake that stupid by coincidence!"
Thomas's heart dropped. Oh God. How could he make such a basic mistake? And worse, how could he copy that stupidity four times without realizing it? His concentration last night had been completely shattered.
"You couldn't possibly have missed it, right? You wrote it four times!" Lucas shouted from the side, kicking the bathroom door in frustration. "Because of your stupidity, not only did we get a zero, but we were branded as a cheating gang! We were ordered to run laps around the field!"
"You did it on purpose to sabotage us so we'd get caught, didn't you?"
SLAP!
Billy's hard slap landed on Thomas's left cheek. His head snapped to the side. Heat spread instantly across his face.
Before Thomas could recover his balance, Lucas stepped forward and drove his fist into Thomas's stomach.
"Ugh!" Thomas doubled over, oxygen feeling like it was sucked out of his lungs.
"This is for my ruined grade because of you!" Henry, who had been silent until now, launched a hard kick to Thomas's shin. Thomas fell to his knees on the dirty toilet floor, holding back a groan.
Bobby, as the leader, approached calmly. He grabbed Thomas by the hair, forcing him to look up into his eyes. "Listen, Genius. Don't ever play games with us."
Bobby released his grip, then with a quick movement, punched Thomas in the solar plexus. Thomas collapsed completely, curling up on the floor while coughing, fighting the excruciating pain in his stomach. Tears of pain leaked from the corners of his eyes.
They left him lying there for a few minutes, enjoying the sight of the helpless smart kid.
"Let's bounce, guys. It smells in here," Bobby finally said. Before leaving, he lightly kicked Thomas's leg. "Next time, if you dare play games again doing what we ask, the consequences will be far worse than this. You understand?"
The toilet door slammed shut. Silence. There was only the sound of a leaking tap dripping and Thomas's gasping breath.
Slowly, Thomas tried to sit up. His entire body ached. His cheek throbbed, his stomach churned, his leg stung. He gathered the wet, dirty assignment papers from the floor with trembling hands.
He didn't cry out of sadness. He wasn't angry. He only felt a cold emptiness. He accepted this pain. This is nothing compared to Dimas's wheelchair, a voice whispered in his head. Just accept it, Thomas. Enjoy your punishment.
***
The next day, Bobby and his gang were still furious with Thomas.
During P.E., while Thomas and his class were on the field, Bobby and his gang sneaked into the empty 10-A classroom.
When Thomas returned to class, body sweaty after running laps, he found his bag open. And on his desk lay his white-and-gray uniform.
The uniform was no longer clean white. The fabric was soiled with shoe prints that had been deliberately stamped onto the chest and back. Even worse, the pocket on the left chest had been forcibly torn off.
Thomas stared at his ruined uniform with a blank gaze. He knew exactly whose work this was. There was no point in reporting it to a teacher; that would only make Bobby and his gang more savage.
Once again, he remained silent. He put on the dirty, torn uniform with mechanical movements. His classmates whispered as they looked at him, some staring with pity, but no one dared to approach.
But this time, something inside Thomas cracked.
This was too much. The feeling of humiliation was suffocating. But, as strong as his desire to be angry was, his guilt was still far greater, swallowing all other emotions like a black hole.
The bell rang for dismissal.
Thomas walked out of the school gate in his dirty uniform. The sky above was dark and overcast, as if it understood his shattered mood.
Halfway home, his defenses crumbled. He couldn't hold it in anymore. Tears began to flow heavily in silence, wetting his gaunt cheeks. He cried soundlessly, feeling that the burden of this bullying was too heavy to bear alone, yet feeling unworthy to complain.
Suddenly, heavy rain poured down, drenching the earth and masking his tears. Thomas jogged to find shelter. He stopped on the terrace of a small, simple house by the roadside, shivering from the cold and still sobbing quietly. He hugged his bag tightly, trying to hide his shameful uniform.
Suddenly, the door of the house opened. Warm yellow light from inside spilled out.
"Hey, got caught in the rain? Come inside for shelter. It's pouring out there, you'll get sick."
The voice was friendly, sincere, and felt familiar.
Thomas hurriedly wiped his tears with the back of his hand and turned, ready to politely refuse.
However, the words died in his throat.
In the doorway sat a young man in a wheelchair.
Thomas's heart seemed to stop beating. Time froze. The world around him—the sound of rain, the cold wind—vanished instantly.
That face... The face that had haunted his nightmares for the past year. The face that was the greatest source of all the guilt eating him alive.
It was Dimas.
Thomas wanted to run. He wanted to dash through the heavy rain and disappear forever. Knowing the facts from Chelsea had already destroyed him, but seeing the truth directly in front of him—seeing that wheelchair—was an indescribable terror.
Dimas squinted for a moment, trying to recognize the soaked figure on his terrace in the dim light. Then, his eyes widened in cheerful recognition.
"Whoa! My goodness! You're Thomas, right?" Dimas exclaimed. A wide smile bloomed on his face, a smile so sincere it felt painful for Thomas to look at. "It's been so long since we met! Come on, come on, please come in. Your clothes are all wet. Let me make you some hot tea."
His tone was so friendly, so innocent, almost like a child meeting an old friend. There was no trace of a grudge, no hatred.
Thomas stood stiffly in place. His feet felt nailed to the terrace floor. "N-no need, thank you... I... I'm just sheltering for a moment..." his voice was choked, hoarse.
"Come on, Thomas. It's freezing outside, and the rain isn't letting up. Just come in, there's no one else here. My mom and dad are at work," Dimas insisted with a disarming warmth. He backed up his wheelchair, making way.
Finally, with legs that felt as heavy as lead and trembling violently, Thomas stepped into his victim's house.
The living room was small and simple, but felt warm. Dimas moved deftly to the kitchen and returned carrying a cup of hot tea.
They sat facing each other. Thomas on the guest sofa, Dimas in his wheelchair. An awkward silence enveloped Thomas, while Dimas looked relaxed, sipping his tea.
Dimas started chatting lightly about his day, about the neighbor's cute cat, about the TV shows he watched. Normal chatter that felt surreal to Thomas.
Thomas couldn't take it anymore. The guilt surged out like hot lava from his chest. With a voice trembling violently, he cut off Dimas's story.
"Dimas..." Thomas looked straight into the eyes of the young man in front of him. "Do... do you remember how I treated you back then... in elementary school?"
Dimas stopped talking. He turned, his innocent smile still in place. "Oh... I remember. Of course I remember."
Thomas's breath hitched. "I... I am truly sorry, Dimas. For all my treatment back then. I was so cruel to you. Please forgive me," Thomas said, looking down.
Dimas's response was unexpected. He laughed softly. A light laugh.
"Ah, that. I remember, but honestly, I don't consider it too bad of a thing, Thomas," Dimas said with a honesty that stripped the soul bare.
Thomas choked. "What? But... but I bullied you. I hurt you, physically and mentally."
"Well, yeah," Dimas admitted while scratching his head, which wasn't itchy. "Sometimes your pranks did hurt a little."
Dimas looked at Thomas with clear, sinless eyes. "But, you know what? At that time, I actually felt a little happy."
"Happy?" Thomas felt his world turn upside down.
"Yeah. Because, by being bothered by you, it meant I was considered to 'exist' in that class," Dimas explained innocently. "I had interaction. I had a friend, even if the way was a bit strange. That's better than not being considered at all, right?"
Thomas's throat tightened. He wanted to vomit. His vile actions, in the eyes of Dimas who was too kind and too innocent, were considered a form of 'friendship'. Just how broken was he back then?
Then, Thomas's eyes inevitably drifted to the object he had been trying to ignore. That wheelchair. The physical proof of his unforgivable sin.
Thomas had to validate the truth he had been avoiding all this time. He had to hear it directly.
"That wheelchair..." Thomas swallowed with difficulty. "Is... is it true you are like this... because you fell from the table when we were cleaning the painting back then?"
Thomas's voice was barely audible. "At that time, the homeroom teacher said you were fine. But... but in junior high, Chelsea told me that..."
For the first time, the smile on Dimas's face faded slightly. A shadow of sadness crossed his clear eyes.
"Oh, about that. Well... actually, I was the one who asked the teacher and my parents to lie to the school," Dimas admitted quietly. "I didn't want you all to panic and feel guilty when I moved away. Especially since it was my last day."
The confession hit Thomas like a sledgehammer right in the gut. Dimas... the boy he tortured for years, actually protected their feelings during his worst moments.
Thomas felt so small, so filthy. "How... how did you live your life after that incident, Dimas?" asked Thomas, his voice just a hoarse whisper.
Dimas's face turned gloomy. He stared at his knees which could no longer move. "At first... at first it was very hard, Thomas. So hard. I was very depressed because suddenly I couldn't walk, couldn't do any activities."
Dimas took a long breath, his eyes staring into the distance. "Every night, Thomas... for six full months after that incident, I always cried in my room. I prayed constantly to God, begging Him to heal me. So that the next morning I would wake up and be able to walk again."
He smiled bitterly. "But... it seems God had other plans. He didn't heal me."
Six months.
The words echoed in Thomas's head.
Six months Dimas cried every night in despair.
While all that time, Thomas enjoyed his time chasing achievements and people's praise.
Dimas then looked at Thomas again, his smile blooming once more, this time full of sincere acceptance. "But now I've been able to accept it. Really. Even though sometimes it's still difficult to do many things by myself, it's not a big problem for me anymore. The most important thing is I'm still alive and can enjoy the life God has given me, right?"
Every word of forgiveness and acceptance spoken by Dimas in his innocent tone was a hot nail driven deeper into Thomas's chest. Dimas's kindness was the heaviest torture he had ever felt. Far more painful than Bobby's punches in the toilet.
His chest felt incredibly tight, as if all the oxygen in the room was gone. His face felt hot, not from shame, but from absolute horror at himself. His blood rushed, holding back disgust at the image of his past self.
Thomas couldn't handle being there anymore. His presence in this holy house felt like a desecration.
He glanced at the wall clock in panic. "Ah... I-I think I have to go home. It's late. My parents will be looking for me," he stammered, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. He stood up stiffly.
"Oh, you haven't drunk your tea, Thomas. It's still raining a little," Dimas stopped him.
"It's okay. Thank you so much, Dimas. Sorry for troubling you."
Thomas said goodbye very stiffly, almost running out the door. He broke through the remaining rain which now felt bitingly cold, yet not as cold as his heart.
On the way home, Thomas's mind was completely blank. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, seeing nothing. He couldn't think clearly. He couldn't feel the pain in his body anymore.
The only thing remaining inside him was one thing: pure, absolute, and now seemingly eternal guilt. Redemption by letting himself be bullied by Bobby felt meaningless now. No punishment in this world was enough to pay for Dimas's entire life.