Unbreakable Resolve (1)

"Ugh..."

How much time had passed?

Freeman, regaining consciousness through a pounding headache, turned his body over.

His vision swam, the world splitting into two from a concussion, but only one thought dominated his mind.

'Marsha.'

He struggled to lift himself up, but before he could even raise his upper body halfway, he collapsed back onto the ground.

"Kh...!"

It was impossible to move right now. Freeman exhaled sharply, letting go of all resistance, waiting for his condition to improve.

"..."

Through the blurred haze of his sight, a memory surfaced—Marsha from their childhood.

"Oh? It's Freeman! The cowardly Freeman."

"It really is! Hey, droopy-eyebrow Freeman! Come over here. I'm your designated tormentor today."

Timid and unable to even meet people's eyes, Freeman was always the target of ridicule.

Of course, no one is born a coward. He had simply come to believe that his naturally arched, downward-slanting eyebrows were the root of all his misfortunes.

"S-Stop it. It hurts..."

"That's the point. We want you to cry. If you cry, Marsha will come. Pretty Marsha."

Even as he curled up, Freeman shouted back.

"Don't bother Marsha!"

"Idiot. Marsha's the boss of this alley. Who'd dare bother her? Besides, she's fun. Now hurry up and cry already! Hey! Hey!"

"Waaaah! Marsha!"

As Freeman's wails broke out, the children cackled and called after him as he ran.

"Tell Marsha to come! We're playing war!"

Marsha was the most popular kid in the alley, but unlike the others, she rarely came outside.

Only Freeman knew why, and he was the only one who could bring her out.

Wiping away his tears, he arrived at Marsha's house and slipped inside through the unlocked front door.

"Marsha."

As always, the house felt eerily empty.

Her father, a mercenary, didn't even bother furnishing the place. He spent his nights drinking himself senseless and often came home just to beat Marsha.

"Marsha, I'm here."

At the end of the room, Marsha sat alone.

The empty room contained nothing but a half-eaten piece of bread and a cup of milk. Yet, the short-haired girl still smiled.

Seeing her, Freeman's heart pounded again.

"What happened to your face this time?"

"The kids keep hitting me."

He already knew why.

"I told you not to hang out with them. Why do you keep going there just to get beaten up?"

"No! They find me every time!"

Marsha stood up.

"Alright. I'll take care of it. Where are they?"

Freeman shook his head.

"Can we not go? Your dad might come home. He'll be furious if you're not here."

"He'll be mad regardless. Let's go. I'll tell them if they keep bullying you, I won't play with them anymore."

"I don't want that! You don't even like them! I hate that you smile at them just because of me!"

Marsha pressed a finger against his forehead and pushed him back slightly.

"Aww, how touching. Then how about you toughen up a little? Big words for someone who always needs saving."

"I still don't want to go!"

"Why are you like this today? If only you could talk like this to them too. Wait... do you... like me?"

Freeman's face turned red from his ears down to his neck.

Finding it amusing, Marsha waved her hands dismissively.

"Hey, I was just joking. Seriously, you're such a scaredy-cat..."

"Yeah! I like you! So what?!"

"...Huh?"

Marsha's eyes widened as Freeman, his voice shaking, blurted out his feelings.

"What's wrong with liking you? It's my feelings! I never asked you to like me back! Why do you get to tell me what I can and can't feel?!"

She knew he was bad at expressing emotions, but sometimes, that made him even scarier.

Marsha held up her hands, trying to calm him down.

"O-Okay. I get it. That's your right. I won't say anything."

"Damn it! You're treating me like an idiot too!"

Freeman didn't even understand why he was so angry. No—he knew, but he wanted to deny it.

Marsha sighed and pulled him down to sit on the floor.

"I'm not treating you like an idiot. Just stop overreacting. You bottle everything up, and then you explode."

'But I really mean it.'

It still hurt, but part of him was relieved that things had at least settled for now.

Marsha grabbed a tattered cloak and got ready to leave. Freeman asked hesitantly,

"Are you really going to play with them?"

"No, I'll tell them off and come right back. Let's hang out after."

Freeman's face brightened.

"Really? You have to come back soon."

"I will. If you're hungry, eat my bread."

Once Marsha left, the house fell silent.

Left alone, Freeman finally understood her feelings.

'Wow... there's really nothing here.'

From his pocket, he took out a small hand mirror.

He had planned to give it to Marsha with a confession, but that plan had fallen apart. Still, imagining her happy face made him smile.

"Her father's an idiot. He has such a pretty daughter but never buys her anything. Just beats her."

Looking at the mirror, he saw a boy with tragically droopy eyebrows staring back.

"Sigh..."

Those eyebrows had earned him the nickname "Crybaby." Living under that label for ten years had turned him into exactly that.

"Are they really that bad? I think they look okay..."

Years passed, and Freeman turned seventeen.

Thanks to his diligence, he had a good reputation in the village, yet Marsha remained his only friend.

As he grew older, his feelings for her deepened. He worked tirelessly, believing that one day, he would take responsibility for her.

But Marsha had always been different.

She rarely smiled anymore.

Freeman couldn't pinpoint when it started, but as she grew, so did the abuse from her stepfather.

At the time, he didn't think much of it. Many households were the same—his own father called him useless every day while drinking himself into oblivion.

But now, as an adult, Freeman understood.

He hadn't been oblivious—Marsha had simply been cunning, hiding her pain too well.

That evening, he made a fateful decision.

He went to Marsha's house, prepared to be an unwelcome guest.

Her face had seemed unusually flushed that afternoon.

"Marsha, are you home?"

No answer, no matter how much he knocked.

Freeman's unease solidified into certainty.

Through the open window, the scent of blood wafted out.