Another day. Another day like every other one. He would wake up, he would wash his face, he would brush his teeth, he would brush his hair and he would remove his clothes. As he did it, he would stand on the bathroom and would scan his chest, up and down. The more he looked at it, the worst he felt. Scars. Deep, horrible scars that told more than he wished. Each scare had a story. Stories he would rather forget for the rest of his life, but there they were. They were that to tell him it wasn't something he could get rid off, no matter how much he tried. He couldn't even start saying how much he was ashamed of his own body. He was disgusted with himself.

As always, he grabbed a shirt that covered his arms and chest. He didn't wanted the world to see what he had. His face was bad enough. Small burn marks on his neck and more scars on his left cheek. He knew people pitted him. He knew people made fun of him. He was a freak. A circus freak. People would go to his work place just to see him and talk. If he could, he would never leave his house, but he needed to work. He needed to have a place to live and money to eat. The most discrete job he found was of a janitor in a Karaoke bar at night. He thought that since he worked nights, people wouldn't be able to notice him, but he was wrong. And what made it worst was when those drunk groups appeared and talked about how ugly and disgusting he was right into his face. He didn't need that. He knew what he was, but it hurt more than anything knowing people actually enjoyed making fun of him.

With his body covered, not allowing anyone to see the real him, he went to the living room. He hardly ate. He would just make two, maybe one meal a day. He never felt like he needed more than that. Why would he need strength? He couldn't do any physical activities, he wouldn't go out with his friends. He wouldn't go out and date. Date...friends...something he never had. And god, how he wanted to have at least someone next to him to tell him he was a good person, that no matter how his face and body were, it didn't mattered. He didn't want to die alone. He wanted someone to hold him when he started to cry, he wanted someone who cared for him and saw pass the scars. But he knew that was impossible. There was no such person in the world.

All he had, the only thing he could call live, was his online life, and even like that, he didn't spent more than one hour per day in front of the computer. Every time he went there he would be spammed with photos of beautiful people and his weak heart couldn't take it at all. It was a reminder of what he wasn't. A reminder that he would never be able to be like those people not even if he tried. He had dreams, like everyone else. He wanted to be a somebody, he wanted to be known for achieving great things, but because of his face, he wouldn't never have those things, he would never accomplish anything in his life.

The people who weren't disgusted by him, were afraid. They would think he was some sort of criminal who got into some serious problems and that was why he got those marks or they would think that he had some disease and that it was contagious if they touched him. But those scars were so old. They were almost as old as he was. He had to grow up with them, he had to deal with them and he had to learn how to protect himself from the comments other people made about him. Naturally, winter was his favorite season, specially when it snowed. He would cover up his face, the hoods would hide his scars. People would treat him like he was a normal person. They would great him, they would smile at him and girls would actually flirt with him. It was needless to say it was his favorite time of the year, probably of his life.

How he got those scars? He doesn't remember for sure. He just know that one day he's fine, playing with his friends and on the other he is at the hospital with machines around him and doctors telling him they tried their best to erase the scars, but the damage had been so big that it was almost an impossible task. From that day forward, his life became a living hell. His father would call him a disgusting freak that came down to earth to ruin his life, and his friends stopped talking to him. Sometimes he thinks he should have died. At least he wouldn't suffer that much. He wanted to go to college so bad. He finished high school with one of the highest grades of the school, but he wasn't sure if he could handle the bullying anymore. People were cruel, students were cruel. The bullying got to the point he would be beaten up in front of the teachers and they wouldn't do anything. They probably thought that he couldn't get worst than he already was.

A breath. Was all he could give when he started thinking about his past. He looked to the couch and saw the red hood he would wear around the house. It didn't mattered if he was used to his own scars or not. He didn't liked to see them, and he hated to be reminded he had them. He would like to forget about them at least for a day. It was all he asked.

He putted the hood and continued looking down to his hands. It was probably the only part of his body that had no marks at all. It was the only good part of him. He could spend hours looking at his hands and imagine a life where he didn't had to hide at all, a life where he could go out and shine. He doesn't even remember the last time he actually smiled. The last smiled he had a good laugh. It seemed so far away, it seemed something so distant that could be mistaken by a dream, by a simple fantasy.

He was once a very handsome man, with a smile that could light up a whole room. Back then, people actually wanted to be with him, people wanted to hear him. Now, if he could just stay in his house and hide, he wouldn't only do society a favor. He was just a poor thing. He was a body who was completely destroyed and he was a body who couldn't hear right from his left ear. What else did he need? What woman would actually fall for him? No one. No woman would fall for a man like that. Not even if he begged. And he did. He once loved a woman from the bottom of his heart, he would do anything for her, but he just didn't know that what she wanted was to stay away from him because, as she said, a woman like her couldn't be seen with a man like him. He was a...a thing, a thing that couldn't be mixed with someone above his status.

When he heard that, he realized there was no such thing as love. He wanted to believe there was. His books, his precious, wonderful books, always told him there was one person for everyone. That everyone had the right to be loved, even bad people. On books, beasts, freaks always found love...but in the end, they would turn into beautiful princes.

That was just pure fantasy. That would never happen to him. That was impossible. Magic, fairy tales...they were amazing, beautiful in their own special way. But real life wasn't that kind. He didn't had a curse on him, he wasn't being punished and he surely wasn't target of a moody witch with nothing better to do. This was real life. He had got into an accident and woke up like that. A complete different person, and not for the best.

People weren't meant to be alone, but by this time, he was starting to think his destiny, his person had vanish from the face of the earth. He still had a little, a very little bit of hope, but deep down he was positive he was going to spend his miserable life alone. Why wouldn't he? He could be smart, he could have a good, financial life, but what did that mattered when people didn't cared about you at all?

The door bell rang. It was unexpected, and surely it wasn't wanted. But then again, it was probably the only chance he had of human contact, so he didn't hesitated to answer it. He managed to hide behind the door and only show his eyes. His eyes would probably give him away. He just knew his eyes were sparkling with enthusiasm, with euphoria, and he didn't know how to calm down, even thought he knew he had to. “Yes?” He asked, his voice coming a little too low. He hardly talked, and when he did, he usually just apologized people for standing in their way or for looking at them. And the last time someone knocked at his door was to say his father died from alcohol poisoning or something like that. Every time that door bell rang, it meant only bad things. “Kim Sunggyu?” He heard and all he could do was wait for horrible news.