“𝑻𝑯𝑹𝑶𝑾 𝑼𝑷” – [𝑲𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒀𝒆𝒐𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒈]
Summary: In which Yeosang goes for a coffee willing to finish his new story but ends up writing something with much more meaning, without noticing it: something that could heal his miserable soul.
Warnings: mentions of sa, victim, trauma, abuse
A/N: This idea has been in my mind for a long time and I wanted to write it since then but I was afraid of what people might say about it; this story is dedicated to all those who went through many traumas in their life (especially this kind), know that you have a voice and you are not alone. This story is for you, especially for your inner wounded child, you are not alone. I love you.
A/N 2: Sorry if there is more than one mistake, english is not my first language and I am still learning it. However, I hope you enjoy it and have a good time, thanks for reading! (:
The figure of a young man was in front of him waiting his turn to enter that place that at that moment and judging by the weather, seemed to be the best option and was close to home. The young man kept his eyes on the other's shoes, it wasn't for anything special, he was too cold and wanted to get inside at once; his coat was soaked in water and yet he kept one of his hands in his pockets while the other gave all his attention to a pack of cigarettes, which he rolled between his fingers. They weren't his, he would never be able to get the cursed cancer into his body, which was ironic given the way and the lifestyle he had. The cigarettes belonged to his best friend, his favorite, Camel. He had bought them for him to celebrate their anniversary as neighbors. Those respiratory and cancerous disease facilitators, was one of the things he liked the most. Unfortunately for him, that was the only thing he could get him and give him; his friend's tastes were not the best and to risk getting him the best of the best he would probably have to put his life at risk; so he bought the only thing he knew that could not hurt him completely and, honestly, he hoped he liked them, because he had spent his last pennies and he had nothing left. He really hoped he would like them.
The entrance bell resounded in his ears and a deep gratitude settled in his chest when the sweet aroma of puddings, cakes and coffee hit his nose making his insides roar, not to mention the warmth that invaded his body when he set a foot into the place. He was in the new coffee shop in the neighborhood, they had opened a little over a month ago and the place used to be a small store where they sold "who knows what" (since a few weeks later they had a clause order); even so he could not believe his eyes: it was one of the most beautiful places he had ever seen ( even though he knew the city left and right). It was a cozy place for their size in which only five or six people were able to get in, it was more like a place where you take your coffee on the way to work or home, but that made Yeosang consider it perfect: a couple of wooden armchairs with earth-colored pillows around a small table, and from the ceiling a beautiful white chandelier greeted him. He had found his place of rest and freedom from the noise in this city.
He went to one of the tables and took off his coat, ruffled his hair to remove all traces of rain and sat down in the armchair. His luck was tremendous: he got the only table near the fire of an old fireplace; a fireplace he recognized instantly since they used to produce dr...
"Good afternoon, have you decided what you are going to order?" the smile of that waitress was so bright and sweet that his heart skipped a beat; he loved to take into consideration the small gestures.
Since he had spent all his money on the damn cigarettes, he could not afford luxuries and ordered the first thing that crossed his mind.
"A black coffee, please. Thank you."
The moment the handsome waitress was out of sight, Yeosang took out his notebook from his coat along with a worn pencil and a piece of eraser, both gifts from the son of one of his neighbors in the building where he lived. He opened the notebook and quickly flipped through the yellowed pages, it was an old notebook that was several years old, stained with coffee, ink and some tea. The notebook had two functions: to write down his stories and, on the other hand, his thoughts. That's why as he turned the pages he could see the titles of stories and on one side highlighted in a small box: "income and work options" or sometimes, you could read motivational phrases: "how did you make your life end up this way, in that house, with those "friends" of yours? how did you manage to be all alone? you are just as stupid as your mother!"; two types of letters predominated: italics for his stories and capital letters for the thoughts that day and night were going around in his head.
And, perhaps, one of the most logical and interesting questions from the audience, "wouldn't it be much easier to have two separate notebooks?" and you are right. Don't imagine that this idea hadn't gone around his head hundreds of times and he felt a gigantic urge to have something new (even if it was just a notebook), but there was a problem: he didn't have the money. Neither to buy a new notebook or to pay for anything other than a cheap bottle of water, not to mention, the endless struggle that existed with rent. Sometimes, if he was lucky, he would set half of his food apart to give to his best friend, who was in the same situation as him or worse. That was the reality, his reality, one he might never want to announce out loud; so now that you know his reasons and motives, you can see how there are pages with unfinished stories and pages that don't match, yet despite what most would still say, he found it funny to have a notebook for everything: one moment he could be reading and making adjustments to some story, absorbed in the skin of the character but after a moment the magic disappears since a big sign "YOU NEED TO HAVE A LITTLE TALENT, YOU MUST FIND SOMETHING YOU CAN SERVE IN AND BE BETTER AT! " gave him a well-deserved slap in the face; that made him feel so pathetic and small... Yes, maybe he would take note of it and buy a new notebook, definitely.
He sighed listlessly and rubbed his eyes, turning his full attention back to the story that needed more erasures and corrections. "It seems that the more you write and want to become a cult by putting words you don't know, the worse it is. Fuck!" he thought to himself feeling his brain rotting. And being honest, that notebook was his secret, he had never shown it, not even to his best friend. His notebook was the only escape valve that existed in his life, a tool that helped him to distract himself and not to torment himself in consuming drugs, especially methamphetamines. And, besides, he thought that his friend would not understand him and that his hobby was too "feminine" or "empty", although he knew that him was not one of the stupid ones who thought that way.
Absorbed in the correction of his story, letting out little sighs and frowns, the young man barely noticed that his order was already on his table; he gave a shy smile to the young woman but, in a matter of seconds, an confused expression appeared on his face.
"Mmmmmmh... I didn't order this..."
"It's on the house! You're a little skinny, enjoy!"
Before he could answer her, the cat had snatched away his words and bitten his tongue; he was frozen from head to toe by that unexpected comment. Once again, when the girl disappeared from sight, the poor boy couldn't help but look down at himself, he began to pat the sides of his face in a hurried manner and then brought a hand to his stomach, caressing and squeezing it. Did it really look that much? was it that obvious? c' mon! I mean, yes, he wasn't one of the best supporters of following the blessed rule of meals, but it wasn't like he didn't try anything all day either... at least, not that often. However, he couldn't miss this opportunity and ate half of his black bread and salmon sandwich, leaving, as always, half for his friend, Wooyoung. Once again, warmth spread through his body and another smile appeared on his cheeks: Woo now had two anniversary gifts.
Yeosang began to feel overwhelmed by the story in front of him and the words were beginning to seem like a pain in the ass, that kind of attitude would get him no where; so he decided it was time to give it a rest and move on to something new. Something new... what would he write now, a new story or a discouraging and destructive thought? And he had too many of those; the notebook was full on all sides. After pondering for what seemed like a long time, the pencil went to a new blank page and all he could manage to do was to leave the pencil tip inches away from the page, without writing anything, appreciating how his hand trembled slightly. He wanted to write, he needed to write. The idea was already stuck in his head for so many years, but he couldn't do it, put it into words; he realized that after so many years of what had happened, the fear was still there, intact and had never gone away. So many years had passed, so many years trapped in himself....
Yeosang did not say a word, but suddenly he felt a great silence around him as if he were alone and he heard, in a quick way, how his heart was beating in a rush. There at that moment, there was only him and the blank sheet of paper, ready to be filed. Him and his true story. A story that he was terrified to tell and that he had dragged with him throughout his childhood.
"I throw up every day, without fail. I throw up for me, my mom, my brother, my family. I throw up every day because it's the only way I have to declare him guilty, guilty, only him. I throw up frequently, it is so rare for a person to throw up so many times, in such a short time. The blame always falls on the food: "I ate too much mom! Yesterday, remember? we were at grandma and grandpa's house, we ate so much!", or because of the damned stress of staying at home every day, locked up: "I'm fine here, it's nice and there's no noise. I don't need to go out, it's not for me. Here I have everything I need, I'm safe." Not to mention, the intense guilt you have in your chest about being an adult and not having a college degree or a job and looking further out, a faraway place where you have a grip on the threads of your life and know where you're going. "I'm not going to college now, I'm not working either, I don't know what I like, what I could become for myself. But, deep down I know something good is waiting for me out there, I just know it." Not to mention how they took the hope and the glow off his face when he was just a kid, "no, I think you're making a mistake...it can't be, not me. I am young, I have a life ahead of me to know, to live, dreams to achieve, how can I..." and the answer will always be "no", "never", "I am not like that, I am not that", "don't you ever dare to think that again, ever. Be quiet."
"Be quiet" is what I've always been taught, but with this is it necessary? to shut up? I need to scream, I need to cry until I faint, I need to...all I want to do is throw up. Throw it all up, please.
I throw up because there is sick to my stomach, stress, society, fear and a messy amount of food. Nothing more needs to be said, don't add anything else...because then all of this will become words that I will have to erase.
And we know the look, you know it as well as I do. The look on mom's face when she hears you in the bathroom, you're afraid, you feel disgusted that you weren't able to hold it in. You always hold on, you wait until they both leave the house and you just do it, you do it that way so they don't hear you, they don't listen to you and mom can't worry. But the truth is mom is always worried, mom can't help but stare at the bathroom door and wonder what she can do to help. Wondering how she can ease the pain; be a little extreme, dramatic and ask for the neighborhood witch doctor so he can transform her, switch bodies with her daughter and fix, band-aid each and every one of the wounds that hold you back in life.
Remember the stories of others, remember what they always say: "I am a strong person and this experience should serve as something more, a story to help people, the story of a testimony. When you are ready, tell your story, do it." I have learned that testimonies do not come only from women, men also exist, they are not invisible, they too are afraid and hide, they cry at night and feel terrible dirt, but no one will talk about them because they do not exist, they have no place and if they open their mouths they are no longer considered men. Women also make up their percentage in it, to violence; they are not invisible; those who do this kind of things also exist, they are out there with the smile planted on their face, living their best life as if their sins and faults did not exist, as if nothing bothered their conscience. They live the life that belongs to us, the life that has been ripped away from us.
But we are, aren't we? Victims are invisible at all times, people don't listen to us, they don't see us... victims tend to hide, isolate ourselves because that's what we do when we are scared. Some have the courage to finally call themselves "survivors" and to get to that word, it takes years of tears, beatings and hundreds of thoughts and trips to the bathroom where mom is still watching us. If you are lucky you can change the paradigm, but only the conscience knows that the pain will never go away and that it is simply hidden behind the back, buried in the depths of existence.
And it is horrible, horrible. How the human being can cause so much damage but never know how to reverse what he did, that it can never be reversed, because we are those who have no cure and can never heal.
My story is this and it begins as all the others do: we, men and women, adolescents, boys and girls, us, are many hidden victims and the first to be dead in life. There is no other truth; we cannot beautify it and now, neither can we let it be silenced: our lives have been taken from us and ruined at an age where we could never choose or speak, not even scream. We were not given a chance. And we don't know, we don't know anything; we have no idea how to get it back, what to do and where to go, we don't know how to recover.
My story, my truth is that I am a victim, a victim of sexual abuse and I am part of the hundreds of people, of those who still do not dare to speak because the pain burns their throat and overwhelms them. I am a testimony of human cruelty and of the world, that which they say is a safe place. I am part of one of the many tests that God gave me, maybe, I don't know and I don't know if I want to know. To say that all this was a divine act destined to be, because it is the test that God put in front of me... yes, definitely, nobody who is part of this circle is going to want to hear something like that. I'd rather buy a new notebook.
This is the pain, a routine one that has been trapped since I was eight and this is my best way of expressing it. It is what I have been throwing up every day, in silence and it will not be filled with gifts, luxuries, desserts and chocolates, a night out, parties, alcohol, clothes, sex or with syringes full of methamphetamines, not even with a haircut, folks: life is not fixed with haircuts.
And according to statistics, it is true: people like us commit suicide before we reach thirty and it is estimated that we can do absolutely nothing with our life, that it is already ruined and we must follow the path that has been set for us, without asking for it. We are the part of the world's population that no one talks about, who are pointed out with shame and much pity, we are what everyone is silent about. Nothing but pure victims. But I can't say how true that is, because I am here, I am right here. We all are; we are still breathing. All of us. It must count as something.
And, every time I write a sentence I feel that I am destroying your soul, that the ink is your blood and it is being spilled because I know that you have called me " dead", " a failure" and it is true, I have lived my life by your name and shadow even though I have never seen your face again. And look at me, I'm still here: with a roof over my head and the love of my family; you have left me dead in life and maybe that's what you wanted most, but here I am, here I am and I don't know how to answer you to that, honestly, I guess your end for me was another one, we agree on that. I have paid with years of my life and I will pay for all the years I still have left, but I know that you are paying in the same way with your failures and problems, keeping in mind that your conscience will never be clean and it is a mistake that you will never be able to erase, you will take it with you for the rest of your days to the grave, where you will die. I do not wish you death because I am not willing to live alongside you and be your mirror, your shadow, but you pay the consequences every day from the moment you open your eyes and get out of bed until you go back to bed, you pay every hour, every moment, with your rotten soul and restless conscience; you are paying with your own blood knowing that I am done with being silent.
Maybe that hole can never be filled again, and it will take years for the truth to stop bleeding; to come out involuntarily from my mouth: yellow, white and red threads. Maybe the hole can never be filled, I am aware and I know it, but every time I go back to the bathroom, I will try to make the taste in my mouth not so bitter, but until then, I will keep vomiting until a good day comes and I can whisper at the same time as my truth does."
The pen slipped from his fingers and a thick tear crossed his cheek staining the page violently, then another and another, he had not realized at what moment he had started to cry but it was impossible for him to stop, part of him did not want to stop because he knew it was something he had kept deeply buried. Never in his life would he have imagined that he would ever do something like that, after spending so many years... of keeping silent, of feeling afraid. The music of the coffee was the only thing that could bring him back to the real world, but even so, his tears wouldn't stop flowing, they were out of control. His throat burned as if he had screamed as he had never screamed before in his life, and in a way it was true: he released that contained scream that had tormented him so much... finally, he had spoken. His writing had saved him. Yeosang had felt that kind of emotions only once in his life, after his first big panic attack, it had been so strong that he did not remember anything and the only proof of what had happened rested quietly in one of the sides of his eye: a small pink spot; it was the first attack he had had related to the abuse since the following times were not so strong and intense. Now he felt again those feelings of years ago and felt a deep fear of not being able to remember again.
"Sir, are you all right?" the worried voice of the waitress caused Yeosang to startle in his seat.
The young woman was looking at him in a frightened way: his eyes were red as well as his cheeks due to crying, his whole face was smeared with tears. The young man didn't say a word, just hurried to gather his things and rushed out of the store, without looking back.
"Hey, wait! Hey! He didn't even leave me a tip.... Why do all the cute guys do that?" whispered the girl as her eyes followed him out of the bar until his figure was lost from sight around a corner; she clicked her tongue in annoyance but still with a troubled heart. The young girl grabbed the dishtowel hanging from her shoulder and prepared to clean the table; however, she stepped on something that made her look down and frowned: it was a notebook. Probably the same one she had seen the boy writing in before he ran away. Intrigued, she opened the notebook and found pages crossed out and erased, one in particular caught her attention. She sat down at the empty table and took the time to read it, and soon after finishing it, she put a hand to her mouth to still a sob and hide the tears she was holding back with a great effort in her crystalline eyes.
“Maybe that hole can never be filled again, and it will take years for the truth to stop bleeding; to come out involuntarily from my mouth: yellow, white and red threads. Maybe the hole can never be filled, I am aware and I know it, but every time I go back to the bathroom, I will try to make the taste in my mouth not so bitter, but until then, I will keep vomiting until a good day comes and I can whisper at the same time as my truth does."
Kang Yeosang had hurriedly left the new neighborhood coffee shop, had kept silent like a good and frightened child, had been a piece of meat and a walking toy for many years. And that day, on a winter night, he had the courage to speak to everyone, to every victim out there, to everyone and fulfilled his one goal: to pass on his pain to others and make them feel it as their own, because he is a part of each one of us, a victim. Someone who raised his voice to tell his testimony and make this a better world.
