4. the girl and the dream catcher
yfxwonpil
years later the two left on separate paths. little did wonpil know his box of art tools would be the scissors that cut his strings with jihye. forbidden to talk or even see her, he grew up with regrets and hopes of one day seeing not only her, but her drawings as well. he was now at sunhwa, a newbie trying to get through school peacefully. his soccer practice had finished and so did his conversation with his coach. “tell your mom i said hi.” he could only smile and nod, hoping this conversation would end so he could go drown himself with only the finest porn school had to offer: food. “ 땅은이죠, 선생님.” and thankfully after he said that, the old man left. b l e s s u p. as wonpil began walking away, his name was called from afar. a ball, kicked too far landed right by him on the bleachers. he threw it back and once he was about to continue his way, his name was called once again except this time, it sounded feminine.
“땅은아지...”
she remembers him now in vignettes. the boy with the monotone voice and a goofy accent; he visited her almost every day, and to hear his voice through the bars of the gate was enough for her to realize that she wasn’t alone anymore--she had him. but just as anything that she ever loved as a child, he, too, was taken away from her. if only she hadn’t been so careless with his gifts. if only she hadn’t fallen asleep on her bedroom’s rug, her drawings scattered across the floor along with his gifts. if only.
she remembers how she slipped her drawings through the cracks of the gate just so that she’d feel as if her art was appreciated, even in the slightest bit. she drew different rooms of the mansion just to show him what it looked like on the inside, and she would ask him to draw what it looked like outside of those gates (what lied beyond the gates that kept them apart). and so, the two children would exchange drawings depicting isolation and freedom.
but her father never let her see him again. he made sure that jihye was guarded every second of the day. he beat her much more often after he found her art materials. he made her believe she deserved it. she was supposed to put her energy into something better than “something as pointless as art.”
a few of the phrases that her father mentioned as his daughter lied on cold marble, numb and bruised
you’ll never see that boy again.
do you hear me?
you did this to him.
you did this to yourself.
you’re just as pathetic as your mother. both of you, pathetic, really, wasting your time in arts.
do something useful with your life instead of tormenting me with your ridiculous dreams.
the entire time, however, she couldn’t stop thinking about what had become of her friend. did her father make him and his family disappear? her father was certainly cruel enough to do so. it terrified her, the thought of never being able to see her dear friend ever again. the thought of not being able to show him any of her drawings anymore.
she remembered his story of how he was terrified of seeing a man beat his partner up. she wanted to tell him that it was something that happened in the mansion every day. she wanted to tell him that it was normal in their household. he could’ve saved her, but as far as she knew, what her father did was what happened in other homes too. she knew that there was something wrong about it, but she didn’t want to scare her only friend off. she decided that what he had seen was enough for another child to ever experience in their life. she didn’t want to lose him. so, she stayed quiet.
“wonpil-ah,” she calls out with a quiet tremble in her voice. it’s been so long since she called his name. it was as if they had never parted. it was him. he was the wonpil, her wonpil--she knew it in her bones. she would finally be able to hug him, and not settle with placing her hands against cold metal just to try to hold him. he was right there, no bars separating her from him.
