𝟶𝟶𝟷: 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 ( accepting! )
@gaenarirp submitted: 💙 — a sad memory that makes you cry
& ( also sent in by @gnminhyuk & @gnjiho. )
his first tattoo made his mom cry.
he had just turned nineteen, and he decided to mark the occasion he’d try getting his first one. the design wasn’t even that bad, just tiny three little red x’s on the outside of his wrist because he was curious about what it’d feel like. as it turns out, he didn’t mind the sensation much at all — the tattoo artist even expressed surprise at how calm he was.
“how could you do this to yourself?” his mother asks frantically, holding his arm out in front of her. he doesn’t like the feeling of her hand gripping him so tightly, but he doesn’t pull away. his expression is blank even as she raises her voice, he doesn’t let his frown even twitch ( for he can feel two sets of younger eyes on him coming from the far end of the kitchen, and he doesn’t want them to see them argue so much — even if it happens almost every day — ) “do you understand that this is permanent, sunghyun? what does it even mean, ‘xxx’? is this, what, some kind of satanic symbolism?”
satanic? please, his mom isn’t even religious. it annoys sunghyun when she pretends she cares about this kind of stuff. she’s overreacting over his tattoo, making a show of it, but why? to make an example of him in front of the kids? because it’s what a 'good mother’ is supposed to do? sunghyun has felt suffocated by them and their rules and judgements for so long, why is it so wrong for him to start trying to express himself?
he didn’t want to make the divide bigger, but he supposes he knew his impulsive actions would come to this. if he really wanted his parents to love him properly again, going out and getting a tattoo — however small it is — was maybe not the best idea. but he’s here now, so, whatever.
he lets her ramble on for a minute or so, blinking at her slowly. honestly, when he got the tattoo, he wasn’t really thinking about the meaning; it was just an option in the tattoo artists’ examples and he thought the red looked cool. he’ll admit that the first thing that comes to mind is x-rated, though, which was perhaps a testament to how he’d just become of age.
“no, it means explicit. you know, x-rated.” whoops. he probably, definitely didn’t need to say that, even if it was too quiet for the kids to hear, but he can’t help the way the sarcasm slips out of him when his chest starts to constrict in the way that it does when he feels trapped; however, he regrets it immediately, as his mother’s expression goes from shocked to disgusted and she finally drops his arm.
in a last-ditch effort, sunghyun mumbles: “mom, i’m joking, that’s not why i-”
“what happened to you, sunghyun-ah? i don’t understand why you’ve changed so much. we’ve been trying so hard with you—” his mom’s voice is weak now. her hand goes up to her chin, and her fist stays in front of her mouth as she shakes her head. sunghyun’s heart sinks as he hears her voice break, realizes that she’s crying. why? why is she the one who gets to be hurting? "where did my baby go?"
i’m right here, he thinks, a lump forming in his throat. fuck this. he never changed, or at least he never meant to. at some point after childhood his parents just took everything they loved about him as a child — the independence, intelligence, creativity he was praised for until he was expected to grow out of his shell, but didn’t — and warped it into other things: disobedience, arrogance, laziness. he still doesn’t understand why, or what he did to make them feel this way.
but, like the little tattoo stinging his wrist, some things can’t be taken back.
"don’t worry,” he says, the tight-lipped smile on his face quite obviously meant to be taken as sardonic, angry even. “the next one i get will be less visible."
as he turns around and makes for the stairway, he hears a sob from his mother, and then the footsteps of his siblings leaving their hiding spot to comfort her. he leaves them be, trudging up the stairs and rubbing at his arm with a sour expression on his face.
( his words to his mother that night turned out to be a lie — the next tattoo, and the one after that, are bigger and bolder but they’re pretty and he doesn’t let himself regret them, no matter how many tired, sad stares he gets from around the house. eventually, it just became habit. )
( remembering that look on his mother’s face that night is still enough to make his throat close up a bit, though. )
