Hatred Child - 197

Hatred is seductive. It wraps itself in the guise of strength, offering a false sense of security to those who feel powerless. In general, hatred is a defensive reaction of the psyche—a brittle armor donned to protect a wound too tender to touch. Compton’s hatred shields something far more fragile: pure affection, love, and the desperate desire to be significant. That colossal core, overgrown with a shell of rage and contempt, becomes both his engine and his poison. It fuels his every move forward, yet it slowly poisons him to the very end.

Compton has built an empire on this hatred. All the praise from others, no matter how lavish, cannot compare to the praise of that one person who belongs to that primal core. Every accolade from the outside feels wrong, not quite right, because it misses the mark of the only approval that ever mattered.

Compton wanted to leave his teacher, but deep down, he longed for his return. In chasing escape, he became a mirror image of the man he resents. Your sincere desire, once upon a time, was to become worthy of him.

Now, Compton sees Garam as an extension of the teacher—the closest person to him, the living echo of that unresolved relationship. He wants from Garam exactly what he wanted from his teacher: recognition, understanding, validation. He surrounds himself with the adoration of orchestra members and basks in superficial devotion, but none of it satisfies the hunger at his core. Garam is not merely a comrade; he has become a glimmer of light in the black hole in Compton’s chest. Compton craves Garam’s acknowledgment as the one person who can truly comprehend his predicament. You grab him because Garam’s sound reminded you that your hatred is nothing more than a facade, and the sacred image of the teacher and his first protege will forever remain in your memories full of flowers. You don’t want to face the truth. You’ve buried it so deeply that you can’t admit it to yourself.

Garam is the priest you can confess to. He is the shepherd who drives the hapless sheep toward enlightenment, toward the music of the divine. He is the judge who stands ready to forgive you and take you back—even for the crime of betraying music itself.

Compton, you are a sheep in wolf’s clothing. Beneath the snarl and the commanding presence is a timid child abandoned by his parent. You are a young dreamer who still wants a pat on the head from his mentor. You want to become worthy. Your hatred is all-consuming, yes, but it is also self-consuming. It burns bright and hot, yet leaves only ashes in its wake.

So, did love win? Love did not triumph in grand gestures or reconciliations. But it survived—hidden, buried, warped—inside the very hatred that sought to annihilate it. Love is the reason Compton still cares about recognition. Love is why Garam’s opinion cuts so important. Love is the ghost that haunts every angry note his orchestra plays. Hatred may have built the fortress, but love is the prisoner inside—and that prisoner has never stopped hoping. And at least, love is the music. I will never stop reminding you of the teacher's words to Heejae: only a heart full of love can create good music

I want to finish with one phrase, because I think she is very suitable: «If you didn’t have a bike as a child, and then you grew up and bought one yourself, you still didn’t have a bike as a child».

No achievement, no revenge, no orchestra, no applause can rewrite the past. Compton can conquer the world, but he cannot conquer the absence of what he never received. He can achive his acknowledge, but the child inside him will always remember the cold heart.

And that child—not the shepherd, not the conductor, not the warrior—is the one who still waits for a nod, a word, a hand on the shoulder. Until he learns to give that to himself, hatred will remain his professor, and love will remain his unspoken prayer. He needs peace. He needs his field of flowers.