Our wounded little āun has a series of three dreams, or maybe more, but thereās three that heāll remember for as long as he doesnāt try and swallow them whole. The last one he lives in for a duration of ten minutes. And it has his coarse, un-maintained brows knitting together as he sleeps. Itās a nightmarish thing that heās in. Heās at a place heās sure heās never seen before, and thereās tall grasses, ones thatāll tickle his knees when he wades through. Thereās a spot for him, a tiny stool for a tiny boy amidst the sea of green. Itās ok for a moment, perhaps calming for the regular that doesnāt need people around to feel comfortable. And then, scanning the horizon, thereās dozens of people advancing towards him. Their faces are heavily distorted, like someone circled their finger in the wet paint of someoneās freshly made portrait. The Indistinct, theyāre called, and heās seen them quite a few times before. Been dreaming of them at least once a month for as long as he can remember.
They line up in single file, maybe twelve rows in total surrounding the scared thing. They take turns, and their time, touching his hands, and when he looks down theyāre the hands heās had when he was five years old. Tiny, inscribed with black marker ink. He remembers that time at The School. He was told to cover his hands in permanent marker by another boy (one of the older lads) staying there because if you do, youāll gain super human strength. He believed him.Ā And the fumes were too much. There was a fall and the knocking of his head off the side table. Now thereās a scar, a long one there still today. Shadows bled over round eyes and crimson dribbled from a small nose. He was punished. Because he took the blame. Told not to be a rat. At The School, being a rat was the worst offenseāthe worst thing to be called. And he couldnāt have that.
Itās a test of strength. Each of The Indistinct try tearing a finger off and he cries out when they do. Only heās stuck in place and all writhing is internal. Most fail to succeed in their mission, and theyāre left with slumped shoulders and if their faces werenāt so indistinct, theyād be in a glower. He has an indescribable weightiness filling the cavity of his chestāsad that he canāt give them what they want. But itās also laced with anger! At himself! Because he shouldnāt want them to feel good! One of them manages to tear off his littlest finger and in the real world, in Jiyongās bed, our childās breathing is irregular. Lashes flutter over ruddy cheeks. He stirs, and itās subtle, but enough to shift his arm sling and send a burning surge of pain up his spine. Thereās a whimper-thing. Itās in time with someone ridding him of his left thumb. The crowd cheers, hoots and hollers as they display their prize in the air and blood renders green grass red. It seeps onto his already-dirtied white shoe. Heād pass out in the real world.
But instead he wakes up. In good time, consciousness awakens his shaken body and he doesnāt have to open his eyes to conclude that itās dark, that itās late and heās slept far too long. He knows this because thereās that familiar sinking feeling in his chest, the one telling him that thereās a lot of people sick and in immense pain and his absence makes that possible. But then he remembers that heās sick too, and in immense pain, and heās been laying with his arm not-right so now when he moves he draws in a hiss that sounds as though thereās a layer of film covering his vocal chords. Sounds gross, and heāll clear his throat to lessen the chance heāll have to hear that ever again. Itās wet and dry at the same time. Doesnāt know if he needs water or to cough until his lungs collapse. Probably both.
Thereās something sweet chiming in his ears, and he wonders if heās still dreaming. Maybe a happy ending to that Hell of a horror film. Itās faint, serene and he couldnāt, for the life of him, name the composer. Never could do that so well. Can play the shit out of the piano himself, but couldnāt name Moonlight Sonata (he couldābe nice!!) if he heard it. Heās no prodigy in that sense and itās always disturbed his mother. Maybe it makes him a little ashamed, too. If he were young again, the sound of piano would make his finger itch with crave, make him want to hop on the bench and mess about on it. But she ruined that for him. And he hasnāt played for amusement in a long, long while. Last time he tried, his hands wouldnāt stop shaking. Because they remember theyĀ have to be perfect and when theyāre not mother wonāt love me.
Ā
Youād think hearing it would make him miserable, but heās still young sometimes, his heart is, and it fills him with a pleasant delight. He grazes a thumb over the birthmark on the wrist of his wounded arm. Thereās a tiny smile to evolve over dry lips, and he opens his eyes.
Heās no longer swarmed with whiteness and the potent medicine smell isnāt in his nose. Heās not in the hospital anymore and thatās enough to lift any lingering traces of sorrow in his bones. Heās still disoriented, thereās still so much his mind has left to absorb, and heāll do it, slowly. Danger and threat arenāt his first instincts here.
Heās in clothes that arenāt his, who do these belong to? and if he werenāt himself that fact would probably make him embarrassed. But when youāre raised in a place with hundreds of children youāre bound to be a little shameless, in that regard. The clothes are nice, but he wonders if theyāve tossed out his jacket, too. He liked that thing. It was special. He makes a mental note to go dumpster-diving later. A dumpster-date.
Thereās a table set up next to the bed, a dish of soup, water and a spoon, too. And next to that...his blonde-headed friend! He hasnāt left yet! His insides chirp, guts glow, but his outsides remain quiet and flat (because he isĀ still disoriented after all) aside from the sheepish grin planted right square on his face. Itās too genuine, the light in his eyes, and itās always there when he sees his friend. Always will be, I reckonāno matter what he does to him. Grind him into the dirt with the heel of his boot,Ā spit on him and heāll still worship the ground Jiyong walks on. Because his untarnished perception of Jiyong is that his actions are justified by the Greater Good. You mustnāt think of people as ill-intentioned, Thatās just the way our boy is. Not such a great boy.Ā
A silent huff, he shifts, and pulls himself up with his good arm. It takes a long while to do because he has to be mindful of the arm sling. Itās uncomfortable, and he canāt maneuver himself quite right to fix the pillows, so heāll let them remain unadjusted and awkward behind him. Heād like to crane his neck, lean in closer and read the small print on the web page his friendās browsing. But he hurts and his eyes are shit. If he knew it was an article on tai chi heād probably find that a little amusing.
Heāll try and turn towards the food now, slowly but surely. Shuffles to the edge of the bed and dangles his legs off like a kid. Being out from under the blankets feels like breathing air for the first time. He hadnāt noticed heād beenĀ sweating. But rightfully so, as his nightās been a little rough on the noggin. Even with over a dayās worth of sleep, heās still exhausted by the thought of it. Instead heāll think about something else, like how the clothes are sticking to his skin in some places. The thin cotton shirt drapes off his shoulder, eyes are puffy, his hair looks like the home of a bird-family and is it even possible to look like more of a mess? When will he stop looking a mess.
Extra careful in his movements, coiling blunt fingers around the spoonās handle. The soupās grown cold now, but he doesnāt mind at all. Hasnāt eaten in forever, supposedly. Sip sip. And another sip reserved for that glass of water. Fascination takes over him, briefly, at the chilled condensation collected around the shaft of the glass. He draws little shapes in the fog, squares and triangles. A lopsided happy face with a phallic nose. Admires a droplet of water racing over his fingerās knuckle before his eyes flicker up to his friend. Whose preoccupied with the article. Why does he suddenly feel shy?
Because he remembers that his friend hasnāt spoken an actual word to him yet. Should he ask now? He should ask now. Now is a good time and here is as good of a place as any. Heās scared to ask. But he shouldnāt be scared. They should be open, right? Jiyong most likely saw him naked.Ā
Ā ā...I like soup.ā Not just the soup. But soup in general.Ā Cool. He didnāt mean for it to come out like that. Thatās not even close what he meant to say. A pause. Eyes downcast, adjusting the position of his arm in the sling. He shuts his eyes. Lets wary lips part, and he speaks.
āDidāsomething happen? To youāā