i. the boy who belongs to the wind the sea carries, where mother is the dust that lays against his eyelashes till he blinks and welcomes the sting of open salty wounds.
ii. self-para; timeline: past.
iii. trigger warning: domestic violence.
She rarely ever smiled, but he never held it against her it must have been hard to even try.
Because if it wasn't the right corner, it was the left one always left bruised. It’d heal but by the time the skin cleared up he would have managed to break her jaw. Cheeks colouring with the strength of his fists that never cared much for the traces it left behind. So he smiled for her because she never did really smile. When she easily healed and patched and fortune made it that he hadn’t put new ones on her, she tried to return it, but he never expected much of them.
She barely ever smiled but he always had one on his face.
Even when she came to tuck him in, bones where flesh should be, broken words that she’d manage to get out for a story she wanted to read him. She didn’t have to but she sat and he listened, fell asleep to her frail voice. Remembered the story as if he’d lived in them. He let her do it because it felt as if she believed in those fairy tales more than he did.
She never really smiled but her words through the stories carried a gentle tone that felt like the breath of a smile against his ears. Smoothing. He’d dream of her smile. Dream of her warmth. Of her laugh. Which he never heard.
She never laughed.
But that day, he remembered the rose on her face not caused by his father's hands. High up where her smile was curving her cheeks, he remembered the touch of her lips against his own rosy cheeks from the blush that crept its way on his face. Bliss that was brought by her voice soft against his ear.
You’re my little boy and I love you. Love you love you.
She laughed against his skin, kissed it countless times and then sent him away to school.
That day she gave him everything he’d dreamed of, made him leave with a heart as light as feathers, footsteps barely hitting the ground. Then run back home with promises on the tip of his tongue. Sweet like the candy his teacher gave him for being obedient the whole day. For looking more like a little boy, for participating, for showing he lived. It was odd. Being rewarded for that. Odd and it made him happy. Hope dancing in his eyes when he pushed the door open.
She was nowhere, he was everywhere.
It never was noisy, their home, but this silence was not the same as the one that was often waiting for something to shatter. For pieces to break. It was heavy with something else.
Her absence at the door to greet him the way she'd do everyday when he came back home, even when she was bruised and moving was more of a chore than an exercise.
She'd always be there, always.
She left he said. Because of you he said. Jaebum was a little boy, did not understand. He did not get any of his father's words until the pain hit his cheek. He felt it before he saw it and somehow instead of crying, he laughed. He had a hand against his reddening cheek, laughing, crouched at the entrance without ever noticing that the pain had brought tears to his eyes. Despite the salty taste on his tongue all he felt was the sweet taste of her kiss this morning.
She left.
Took a piece and quit.
Never again could he feel the rise of heat on his face from the touch of tenderness, because none compared to the one she'd left on his skin.
Where do you belong?
Wherever she's gone to.
snowghoul
dededos
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