When I was a kid, after my mother died, I’d look at the other boys in my class, playing at recess and lunchtime, laughing, and then going home to their families, and I’d think; “They have it so easy. They have no idea what it’s like to really hurt.”
So I showed them.
I’d walk up to one of them while he was playing or eating lunch or sitting quietly reading, and I’d punch him in the face. It didn't matter if he was the biggest kid in school or some weedy runt. I’d keep punching him until some teacher came and pulled me off.
I’d look at their bloody nose or already swelling eyes, and I’d think; “Now you know.”
But it wasn’t just that they were in pain. I knew that would pass. It was that confused look on their face. It was the fact that now they knew they lived in a world where something like that could happen.
The Ghost Sonata