Disclaimer: I don't own the idea of Battle Royale.

Cockroaches

So...you want to know about me? I wouldn't be surprised if that's the case. I was on live television after all.

Yeah, I killed my classmates. I have often wondered about people's reaction to that statement. Of course, they'd slobber pity and horror all over me.

Disgusting, isn't it? They don't know me and they still shower their sympathy.

Luckily the majority of the population, including the government, chooses to stalemate the situation. They pretend I don't exist, that it was all a whopping great lie the press threw in for kicks.

They, especially the government, wish to hide me from the world and continue living in ignorance.

Which is how I ended up here.

...You think I'm crazy, don't you? You think I'm some raving lunatic who decided it would be fun to kill the entirety of my class in a matter of two days?

Normally, I'd be pissed off at that ideology. Since you obviously don't know how I got "crazy" in the first place.

...You say you understand what it's like to be helpless? Don't get me started. I know more now than you'll ever experience on the subject.

No one, including you, will ever understand what it's like. To see friends you've known since elementary die before your very eyes. To watch as everyone's minds cloud with panic and animalistic fear. To witness the effects of insanity first-hand. To run around on an island of hell as one of the government's laboratory rats.

It's an experiment, didn't you know? An experiment on fear. And each year, fifty classes receive the "honor" of participating in it.

Now I've told you how "the program," as those bastards call it, destroys your common sense -

What? You want to know more?

Let's just say it gets worse. A hell of a lot worse.

After you win, the press makes you their unofficial poster child. You get a spot of fame and a chance to make your parents and your nation proud that you endured its toughest test. Better yet, you get a card signed by the dictator himself. Great, huh?

Unfortunately, not many of the survivors live long enough to appreciate it.

...Why are you looking at me like that? I already told you things got worse.

Just to let you know, before I was endowed with the knowledge, I heard rumors. Not facts, since everyone is in denial of what happens to the survivors. Again here is where I retch in disgust.

Anyway, it all depended on the survivors' sanity in the end, according to these rumors. Some went mad from guilt and left with a bullet or slit wrist. Others changed their identities and went into hiding. And some even decided to join anti-government groups in an attempt to get even.

Pathetic attempt, if you ask me. The people here are so blind to what's going on, I doubt any revolution will change their state of mind. It's all hopeless.

Finally, there are those in my category. They are pronounced insane by their families and thrown into the madhouse to be locked away and forever forgotten.

Yeah, that's what my parents did with me. I guess they couldn't bear to be the producers of a murderer or whatever. So now they've gone and thrown me in this cell, thinking that by hiding me away, they'll forget me and my dishonor to our name.

Just like the rest of this shitty government. Never facing up, always hiding.

Then again, that's pretty much the point of this government. It lives on fear and breeds distrust to everyone and everything around it. It really makes me ill just thinking about it.

Anyway, remember me saying I was thrown in here to be "hidden away?" Let me demonstrate how wrong they all were. "There are some marks that'll never go away..."

Don't recoil from me! These scars...these bullet holes in my skin...they will never go away! Never! They will always remain here, a testament to the pain this fucking government caused me. And none of your denial will change that.

See those cockroaches? They frequently infest my cell. See them crawl up the walls and across the floors as we speak? See them? I think I can relate to them more than ever.

Don't you get it? All the survivors of the program are like cockroaches. We are feared and despised, repulsed by everyone around us. We are shunned, unaccepted, constantly stepped on...

But like the cockroach, we get stronger. We become more resistant to the pressures of secrecy and blackmail. In the end, we'll become so strong you'll have to see us for what we are and accept that something is wrong. It won't be today, oh no, but eventually you and the government will pay for ruining our lives. Do you hear?

...That's right, go. Go run, like the coward you are, to the men in white coats with their tranquilizers. I don't care.

You'll hear me out.

YOU WILL ALL HEAR ME OUT!