He was five.
Grains of sand nestled itself between his toes as he stood at the coast of the East Sea. Ships were seen in the distance, carrying some cargo and some carrying people between Korea and Japan. From Busan to Fukuoka. There were fisher men and divers, all looking for their fresh catches to sell at the local markets. The sun was just beginning to rise over the horizon, slowly warming the waters and warming the sand.
Jiwon basked in the warmth of the burning star, letting the rays hit his body.
Dawn was the time he loved the most. He loved the sun. (If only he knew it was his father who dragged the sun across the sky and lit up the world. A man absent in his young life, leaving him deprived of a masculine figure, never knowing anything outside the four walls that he was subjected to under the discipline of his mother. It left an aching void in his chest, forever knowing that there would be an emptiness that would never be filled. His mother never spoke of the great Apollo, god of the sun, god of music, god of healing. Her only words were that of hatred. He heard her foul words when she didn’t know he was listening. She always worried that Apollo would see their son and decide he wanted to be apart of his life. A foolish worry. What god wanted to be involved with their half-human, half-god children?)
In the distance, the sound of a mother’s voice called for her son. (“Jiwon-ah! Jiwon-ah!”) Was it worry in her tone? Must have been. The scolding he got the moment she saw him standing on the shore was one he never heard the end of that day. Her grip probably could have bruised his arm as he was dragged back to their home.
Jiwon didn’t cry.
Not even when his step father scolded him as well, telling him how ungrateful of a child he was to disobey his mother’s wishes. Jiwon never liked him. A military man through and through, strict and stoic. He told Jiwon crying was bad, and to take it like a man — whatever that meant. Choi Byungchul. The man Ahn Junghee claimed she fell in love with at first sight. But Choi Byungchul always left her for months on end, sometimes a year or two at a time and Jiwon didn’t understand until he was older. He hated to see his mother crying and alone all the time. He tried to comfort her but she told him to go study.
His heart broke a little more each time.
He was eight.
Jiwon tried to sneak out just before dawn to see the sun rise once again. The skies were clear blue, not a single cloud in sight. A perfect scene, as if it had been a painting as the sky began to radiate pinks and purples with soft yellow and orange hues. He didn’t get very far. His mother stood in his way, and he immediately hung his head and apologized. She knelt down and held his shoulders firmly yet tenderly. Junghee spoke in the softest voice that she could. (”Jiwon-ah, promise eomma that you won’t chase the sunrise anymore. Promise you’ll listen to eomma from now on. The sun is will hurt you. Please stay inside.”)
He didn’t understand. But he wanted to be the good, obedient son that she wanted him to be. (”I promise, eomma.”)
From then on, when he was alone, he would peek out his bedroom window and watch the sun rise and set every day. It made that emptiness feel a little less empty.
