My name was Little Bottle Cap.
I was probably twelve years old.
The Little Girl buried her body in a heap of trash.
She could barely speak.
She could only think about everything in her heart.
I didn't know who gave birth to me, but I knew I had raised myself.
I also knew I didn't have much longer to live.
She shifted her body.
The festering abscess on her stomach was as large as a basketball. Hidden beneath her tattered clothes, no one could see it.
I was born in an orphanage and adopted.
But that "father" abused me, groped me, and beat me every day, so I ran away.
Fighting stray dogs for food in this garbage heap was still better than that.
She raised a hand, picked the maggots off a piece of rotten meat, and stuffed it into her mouth.
Cold, hunger, illness, and stench—she had long grown used to them.
They had forged a unique toughness within her.
But what she had not expected was this.
Human cruelty far exceeded her imagination. A few weeks ago, a group of punks had found her, played with her like a rat, and finally brutally vented their beastly urges.
She had hidden sharp shards of glass beforehand.
If those punks came to humiliate her again, she would kill them.
But in the end, she was still just as helpless.
Treated like a toy, then discarded after they were done playing with her.
It's fine.
I'll find an opportunity.
I have to kill you all.
Little Bottle Cap rummaged through the trash around her. Today seemed to be some kind of holiday in the city, and people had begun wasting food again. There were plenty of leftovers.
Though moldy, this was top-tier food.
Of course.
It was not the