I'm going mad.

Maths papers came back today. That idiot Song Yuming got ninety and bragged in the forum. Me? I crumpled mine into the bottom of my bag. That glaring red 43 felt like it was laughing at me! Nobody can know that number. My greatest shame!!

I want to cut this faded, frayed old uniform to pieces.

I hate home. The dark, stinking alley, the stairwell smelling of mould and urine. I don't even have my own drawer in that rubbish heap. My clothes are my cousin's castoffs. Beside classmates in new shoes, I feel like a cockroach crawling over them.

If they knew how poor I was, they'd look at me like a sewer rat. They'd laugh and bully me.



Another fight last night. Mum cleans other people's homes, swallows their insults, then comes back to smash dishes. Dad lay drunk on the rotten sofa, cheap liquor spilled everywhere. They argued over bills, unaffordable pork, and why they had to feed me.

Li Heng is the richest, smartest boy. Even teachers fawn over him. If we're friends, people will think I'm like him too.

Yesterday I carried his bag back to class. He tossed me an unopened pencil case: glossy red, with little compartments that spring out. The price label was gone. When I asked, he used my drawing paper to add up the gift box and pencil case prices.

Half a month's meals. My heart raced. I didn't care he'd written over my new drawing. Holding it carefully, I nearly cried. Today I displayed it on my desk. Seeing everyone's envy, I finally felt like a normal student.

But then Li Heng bought limited-edition trainers for over two thousand yuan. My happiness turned sour.

I polished the pencil case, afraid of a single scratch. I treasure it.

Its price is the password to my next entry. I'll remember it until I can afford one myself.

After school today, I went to the roof.

They said they'd punish the person who insulted them. I didn't hit him. I'm too small to fight. But watching him kneel in dust, blood at his mouth, I felt a strange relief.

I expected him to beg. He said nothing, wouldn't admit writing the insults. They hit harder.

Idiot. Just beg. But when they kicked his stomach, I laughed loudest. I even stomped on his scattered bag and called him useless.

He trembled, holding his wounds in silence. What's that saying about sharing another person's danger? I understand it now. But I can't do anything. Don't blame me. Poor, stupid and small like me: as long as I'm not the one being beaten.

When everyone left, I helped him up. I don't hate him. I even believe he didn't write it. We're alike: life is already bad enough. Why offend people and ask to die?

I kindly told him to apologize. He tried to leave without speaking. I got angry and pushed him down.

He hit the ground hard, raising dust. No words, no resistance. Just those dead eyes looking at me.

That look! Already crushed underfoot, poor like me, unable to afford a decent pen, too weak to resist. What right did he have not to beg?!

Humiliated anger made me shake. "Stop acting so superior! You think they'll leave you alone if you hold out?"

He slowly got up. Still silent, he limped toward the door.

I screamed at his dirty back: "Stop struggling! People like us are worthless! We're only stepping stones for others! Better to die, start clean, get rich parents next time!"

The iron door closed. I was alone on the roof.