I Married the Girl Who Used to Bully Me - Chapter 8

Time passed, and before we knew it, we were in our third year of middle school. Only a handful of days remained until graduation.

But since that day, no one had seen Misaki at school.

Not once since the accident until today.

Her desk remained empty, occasionally brushed by the curtains swaying in the wind.

Honestly, it didn’t matter to me.

Because Misaki had always been the one to mock, toy with, and hurt me.

Why should I feel any pain over someone like her disappearing?

Some classmates looked sadly at the empty seat, but I couldn’t understand them.

If anything, somewhere deep inside, I thought, “She got what she deserved.”

So, I didn’t count the days she was absent or even pay them any mind.

I planned to leave home as soon as I entered high school.

There was nothing for me in that house.

My father wouldn’t even pay my tuition, instead taking what little allowance and savings I had.

Getting beaten was routine, and there was no place of comfort when I returned home.

Staying there would only ruin my future.

So, I decided once I started high school, I would leave for good.

My father spat out, “Do whatever you want.”

But on one condition that I send him money regularly as repayment for raising me.

Hearing those words made me sick to my stomach.

I couldn’t let that man leech off my life anymore.

The days that followed were strangely quiet.

At school, the bullying that had plagued me before vanished as if it had never happened. No one bothered me anymore. No whispers, no malicious stares. It was like that incident had been an illusion.

And so, middle school came to an end. Maybe it was because I had beaten up every one of my tormentors. Strength really was justice, after all.

On graduation day, Misaki’s seat remained empty. She never came back to school. Her laughter, her sarcasm, even her crying face. They only existed in memories now. But I didn’t shed any tears over it. To me, it was just another thing that was over.

High school began in the blink of an eye.

I enrolled in a school with mediocre academic standards. Honestly, I wasn’t cut out for studying or rather, I was never given the chance to be.

My father didn’t teach me academics. Instead, he drilled me in stock trading and combat training. How to read numbers, interpret charts, sense the right time to buy or sell, and sharpen my instincts for competition. Before I could even sit at a desk, I was either getting punched or berated for failing to predict stock movements. That was my daily life.

My father had once been a businessman. He had a knack for it, enough that I could understand some of it. More than once, I thought, if he just traded stocks himself, he could make money.

But he never did.

“It’s a hassle,” he’d say. “I’m not interested anymore.” Instead, he drowned himself in alcohol and cigarettes.

Maybe he had lost the nerve to keep competing and winning.

…And yet, he forced it all onto me. Pushed it onto me. Like he was making his son do what he couldn’t.

One day, he found the savings I had secretly been building up.

Shaking the envelope violently, his face turned red as he roared, “Why the hell were you hiding this?! Keeping money from your own father. What kind of ungrateful brat are you?!”

His drunken breath mixed with his shouts. Each word felt like a punch, chilling me to the core. I muttered half-hearted replies “It’s nothing,” “It’s not a big deal” anything to shut him up.

But the moment I did, his eyes gleamed with fury.

“Don’t fuck with me!” he screamed, raising his fist to strike.

His body was wrecked by alcohol and cigarettes. His breathing ragged, his hands trembling. But his words were as aggressive as ever, and his intent to hit me was real.

But this time, I wasn’t going to take it.

The frustration and humiliation I had bottled up exploded all at once.

The moment I clenched my fist, heat surged through my body. The memories of being beaten now fueled the strength to fight back.

I’m not the kid who just takes it anymore.

As I raised my fist, I realized I can stand on equal ground with him now.

Without hesitation, I struck. The impact twisted his face, and he crumpled to the floor.

I kept hitting him, one blow after another as if purging all my pent-up rage. My breathing was rough, the scent of blood and alcohol mixing in the air, making the world feel sharper for a moment.

“You ungrateful bastard!”

His shout stabbed into my back. But I wasn’t going to turn around.

“See ya!  Thanks for everything.”

I spat out words that could’ve been sarcasm or sincerity, then walked out the door. The sound of it slamming shut made my heart skip once, but my feet didn’t stop.

This was an early escape, much sooner than planned. But strangely, I wasn’t scared. The stocks my father had forced me to learn about had paid dividends.

And now, they were my lifeline. I could survive for a few months. Barely, but enough to stand on my own.

“…Glad I saved up.”

My muttered words were swallowed by the city’s noise.

When had I started calling myself “ore”?

Honestly, I couldn’t remember clearly. Before, it had been “boku”—a childish, protected-sounding word. A soft tone that didn’t force me to act older than I was.

But before I knew it, I had become “ore.”

It slipped out naturally, as if I had buried the weak “boku” deep underground, hiding it from sight.

“Ore” sounded strong.

“Ore” wouldn’t cry, even if beaten.

“Ore” could stand alone, without relying on anyone.

But was that really true?

Had I actually grown stronger, or was I just calling myself “ore” to desperately hide my weakness? I didn’t know the answer.

The dividends eventually vanished into alcohol and cigarettes.

They turned into smoke and empty bottles, leaving only an empty envelope on the desk.

Maybe it was to escape the stress. Maybe I had become twisted myself.

Beaten by my father, drowned in his words, bullied behind my back by classmates. The pain wasn’t just physical. It was carved into my heart.

When had my gears gone so wrong?

If just one moment, one choice, one word had been different. Would I be walking a different path now?

But I didn’t know the answer.

Looking back, all I saw was regret piling up.

“Sorry, here’s the money.”

The high school I attended was rough. Extortion and threats were part of daily life past the gates. If you had no money, you were preyed upon. If you were weak, you were trampled. That was the world I lived in.

So, I had only one choice. I needed money. The dividends wouldn’t last much longer. I had to survive on my own strength.

Standing before me was Akiyama, one of my former bullies.

Back then, under the protection of a queen bee named Chinatsu, Akiyama had wielded absolute power. All I could do was endure.

But now was different. Chinatsu was gone, and Akiyama had no more authority. Abandoned, he was weak, constantly wary of others.

“Not enough.”

At my low voice, Akiyama flinched.

“S-sorry…”

“Bring more next time!”

As I spoke, my fist slammed into his gut.

I felt no guilt.

This was the same guy who had beaten me, kicked me, even stripped me in front of the whole class.

Now, this was just karma.

With the impact of my fist, the humiliation of the past burst apart in an instant.

Looking down at Akiyama curled up on the ground, a cold smirk tugged at my lips.

“…Remember this. Anyone who underestimates me ends up like this.”

In the harsh reality of that school, I had gained both the strength to hide my weakness and the justification for revenge.

To protect myself, I had created the persona of “ore.”