A.N/ So... this has no JunJae or fluffy kids and couples. Their story is over, and they have a happy ending. But what about Minhyuk? There are two sides to every story, and this is his side. We hope you'll enjoy this bonus, and sorry if you were expecting some fluff!

Minhyuk looked at the man sitting opposite of him. The cuffs around his wrists were cold and hard... but then again, he was used to cold and hard things, wasn't he? The police had brought this other man, the jail's therapist, to try and help Minhyuk. It had already been over a year since he was in jail, but he showed no signs of remorse or anything.
"So," said the therapist. "You know why you're here.Why did you do it?"
Minhyuk's lips twisted into a sneer. "Let's see," he said mockingly. "Where should I start?"
The therapist didn't bite the bait. "How about from the beginning?" he said gently.

Minhyuk didn't want to tell him anything, but apparently, he actually did want to let his story be heard by someone. Once he started, he couldn't stop. It all poured out of him.
 

The beginning? That would go way back...In fact, I can't really remember the beginning. What I can remember is being called a freak by everyone... my neighbors, brothers, and even my parents. And I don't really know why. I guess they found me different from other people... At school, I remember nobody wanted to sit with me. Nobody wanted to play with me during recess either. I wanted attention so badly... I wanted my existence to be acknowledged. So I did it – I made them realilze I existed. And that is possibly the worst thing I've ever done. That started the bullying which went on until I left the place. Once a bully marks you, you become an easy target – in fact, you can't stop being a target for them.

I remember when my younger brother was born. Everyone loved him.There was no problem of his existence being acknowledged, everyone showered gifts and attention on him and he never asked for it. I did ask for it, but they never gave me the kind I wanted. I remember standing in a corner of the room watching my mother play with my younger brother. I was hungry, but she wouldn't give me anything to eat because I was 'big' enough to get it for myself.

I was never taught between right and wrong, and once school started I didn't care either, to be honest. I didn't understand why people looked at me disgustedly after my game was discovered. I played it all the time, it was fun. It was easy. It made me feel like I was in control – I was the weakling, the bottom of the food chain, so it felt nice to bully something else.

But of course I don't think I meant it like that back then. I think I just enjoyed it. I would catch a few bugs, or lizards, centipedes, those kinds of things. And I would have fun with them – a lizard made funny movements when a blade was drawn across it's back, and eventually it's insides spilled out. As I progressed, it filled me with a kind of horror, but fascination too. That feeling became my drug, I went further and further.

I know, a lot of boys must have played this game. Torturing insects. But I didn't stop at insects. My neighbor's new puppy... I liked it's agonized whimpers as I burned the pads of it's paws off with a candle. I gave up on insects – you couldn't hear their pain, and you couldn't see that look in their eyes – that look as though they were ready to bow down to you.

My father found me one day. "I'll teach you to be mindlessly cruel," he snarled, grabbing me by the collar of my shirt and forcefully dragging me indoors. "I didn't raise you to pick on things weaker than you."
He didn't raise me at all. He was away at work all day... and when he did talk to me, it was never to find out how I was doing – it was always to find fault with me.

"Take off your belt," he said softly.

I didn't understand what exactly was going on, but I knew it was nothing good. For the first time that day, my father beat me with my own belt.

It seemed that once he started, he couldn't stop. I remember hiding behind a filthy box in the attic so he wouldn't find me.

But he did. No matter where I hid, I was always found. And then beaten. I didn't understand what I had even done to deserve it. And every time he hit me, he said the same thing: “Why can't you be like the other boys? Why can't you be normal?”

In time, I began to actually hate my father. He always said it was for my own good, but I just couldn't understand. He would beat me when I got in a fight with another boy. As my father he should have taken my side, but he didn't.

As I got bigger, some kids got smaller. Little kids coming home from school were easy to bother – and they knew how to cry and plead as I hit them. I think I've knocked out several teeth... broken some noses... I can't remember everything, actually. But they were an easy way for me to take out my frustrations – after a day of being bullied, it felt good to push someone else around.

It was in my first year of middle school that it happened. I met Zico... he found me one day after the bullies had been particularily vicious. He was the very first person in my life to extend the hand of friendship to me. No one wanted to be my friend... except for him.

For the first time, I realized what it felt like to have a friend. To share things with and do things together, get in trouble and then laugh about it. After my father beat me, Zico used to make me feel better and it seemed that the bullies picked