My eyes finally settled on my mother, unconscious and bleeding heavily.
“Call an ambulance—now!”
Amid the chaos, Ryan leaned in close and whispered into my ear,
“This is just the beginning. You and your pancake-selling mother are in for a nightmare.”
Then he turned and walked away, leading his gang of boys like nothing had happened.
By the time the ambulance arrived, the school gate was swarming with curious onlookers.
“How did he get hurt like that? Did someone beat him on purpose?”
“I heard he’s the top scorer who faked being a martyr’s kid to get bonus points!”
“Well, serves him right…”
My mother rushed into the emergency room.
I received a quick bandage for my wounds—then was taken straight to the interrogation room.
“Severe blood loss, shattered bones in both hands, and facial lacerations…”
“She’s also suffering a mild concussion. Prep the OR, now!”
While five doctors fought to save my mother’s life,
I sat under a harsh interrogation light, answering the same question again and again.
“Why did you go berserk and attack people?”
For the tenth time, I replied,
“I told you—it was Ryan. He led the attack on me and my mother.”
“Do you have any proof?”
The interrogator rapped his knuckles against the table.
“Every witness says you suddenly went wild and started hitting people.”
I looked up, eyes blazing.
“Check the surveillance! Or look at the crowd’s phones! A lot of them were recording!”
“The security cameras are broken,” the interrogator cut in flatly.
“And the footage on the students’ phones? Doesn’t exist.”
A cold wave swept through me.
It all made sense now—they’d already covered their tracks.
The interrogator sighed.
“Wesley, considering you’re a minor and the circumstances are special...”
“We’re letting you off with a verbal warning. But if this happens again—”
“Again?” I laughed bitterly, tears hitting the metal table.
“My mom’s fighting for her life! I’m reporting Ryan for intentional assault. Will you hold him accountable?”
He shook his head.
“There’s no solid evidence. You say Ryan did it—can you prove it?”
“We were beaten half to death! Isn’t that proof enough?!”
Again, the interrogator shook his head, helpless.
“No direct evidence—no case.”
When I was finally released, I ran to the hospital.
Standing outside the ICU,
I stared through the glass at my mother, hooked up to machines, barely alive.
“Her condition is stable for now. She’s not in immediate danger.” the doctor said, removing his mask with a tired expression.
“But her hands are badly shattered, and the facial wounds run deep… I’m afraid in the future…”
I nodded silently. My throat burned too much to speak.
The police wouldn’t help. So, I turned to lawyers.
I searched the entire city.
Out of 321 law firms, not one dared to take my case.
Left with no choice, I learned online how to write my own legal complaint.
But when I tried to file it at court, I was dismissed—“procedural errors.”
Out of options, I took my case to the internet.
I created a new account and uploaded my father’s martyr certificate, along with hospital reports detailing our injuries.
[I’m Wesley, this year’s liberal arts top scorer in Cedarville.]
[I’m reporting Ryan, son of the Caldwell Group’s president, for leading others to insult and violently attack the family of a martyr.]
[My mother suffered shattered bones in both hands. The words ‘fake martyr’s relative’ were carved into her face. She’s still unconscious in the ICU.]
The video went viral almost instantly.
[My father gave his life to this country. Is this how his family is treated?]
