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This world is cold;
Hyukjae was seventeen, and he had never been called beautiful. The word ‘beautiful’ is rarely associated with boys; however he craved for the term. He constantly compared himself to the photographs of his idols plastered over his bedroom walls; they were all so pristine with their flawless skin, stylish clothes, and beautiful hair. He wanted to be one of them – to be a different person than his reflection portrayed him as. In fits of frustration and rage, he’d take scissors to his hair, slashing and hacking until it vaguely resembled an on-trend style that he couldn’t pull off. He could never pull it off. He wasn’t beautiful like them.
But you don’t have to go;
He keeps his bottle blonde hair tied back, away from the eyes of others. He plasters a sad smile on his face to keep people from asking questions. He picks out the beauty of his classmates, depressing himself by realizing he possesses none of the qualities. Gorgeous hair, spotless skin, new clothes, lots of friends. By noon, he’d often be locked up in the school bathrooms, screaming into his balled-up blazer, tears running down his face as he wished he was dead. He’d leave the bathrooms at just after twelve fifteen, laughing pitifully at himself as he realizes just how pathetic he is.
You’re feeling sad, you’re feeling lonely;
He drinks himself stupid every Thursday night in preparation of Friday mornings at school. It was the day people made plans over the weekend. The day people made dates. He never got asked over to people’s houses, to restaurants, on outings. Friday was just another night of self-loathing and alcohol. The drink makes him falsely confident – on occasion he asked girls out to ice cream parlors, and guys on bowling trips. He was always rejected, always laughed at, always mocked.
And no one seems to care;
It’s Sunday morning before he sobers up completely, however he’s still drowning in pity and shame. He lays unmoving on his bed, silently screaming to those up above for them to save him. Save him from his misery and disappointment. His father rushes by every morning, repeating “You’re worthless”, and “Keep the house clean,” before leaving Hyukjae alone in a silent house with nothing but his deafening thoughts.
Your mother’s gone, and your father hits you;
Hyukjae hates his father. He hates the way he beats him when he returns from work, with Hyukjae cowered on the ground crying and pleading and screaming for the world to end. The way he burns him with his cigarette if his dinner is not cooked before six thirty every night, complete with side dishes and dessert. The way he’d throw his coffee in his face if it wasn’t to his taste. His mother had been a victim of his father’s rage, brought to death by his anger. Hyukjae couldn’t go anywhere. “You think you could survive out there, you little punk? You don’t have a job, you don’t have friends, and you have no car. You wouldn’t last a week.” Hyukjae knew it was true. He was held captive in his own house.
This pain you cannot bare.
Hyukjae couldn’t live with it anymore. The pain, the violence, the abuse. He took a knife to his wrists as the tears fell off his face, mixing with the stains of blood as it steadily flowed down his arms as it collected at his fingertips.
And for the first time in his life, he felt relief.