Blackfish ; Prologue
rating: pg - 13 to r
genre: psychological, humor
pairing: onew/taemin
length: chaptered
word count: ~2k w
summary: a deconstructed coming of age story that features two boys; one who sticks out by default while the other is invisible to the radar by choice.
warnings: (as the chapters progress) disturbing themes, violence, blood
a/n: as a whole, this is very character driven and dialogue heavy, transit feel. just letting you know why the summary is so vague. ^^
BLACKFISH
A Story By Yoonis
Prologue
black sheep by metric
Growing up, Jinki never really had to beg for anything.
It wasn't just because his family was rich. It also had to do with his devotion. The thing about Jinki was that when he committed to something, he did so with every fiber of his being. Which is why he rarely ever did.
Jinki was thirteen when he killed a deer for the first time. Right between the eyes, he got it, and not even a second later, it collapsed onto the forest floor. His father, the natural born hunter, shook Jinki so hard that his muffler slid off and he couldn't pick it up because it was right next to the deer's head.
The worst of it all was coming home and finding the head mounted on his wall, right above his desktop computer, directly in front of his bed.
"It'll be the last thing you see before you go to bed, and the first thing you see when you wake up. Good job, Jinki." His father had said.
And while everyone in his house slept soundly, Jinki kept his rifle close to his chest as he watched the deer's head during the first night it hung on his wall, fearing that it would come alive and eat him.
He slept during Home Ec and stayed awake all night, just staring into the onyx eyes of what was once a deer, now reduced to some prize that Jinki had originally thought was worth it. All he wanted was a head pat, and that hat his father wore.
∞
Jinki wore that hat when his mother passed. It was a month after his 15th birthday, justdays after the new year. He spoke about his last words to his mother without shedding a tear, his head held high, a boy in a black suit and a red hunting cap, waiting to be stricken down by emotion through his own words.
He stood behind the podium, reading off of his cue cards what he had wanted to say to his mother if she were still alive, enumerated the things in his life that she would never witness and, in the pauses he made, he wondered if he ever truly loved her.
He wanted to understand why the death of a deer scarred him in ways he couldn’t even explain in comparison to his mother dying from a freak accident. His mother suffered more, possibly a greater deal of pain. And she was capable of hoping, of expectations-- that slither of what if.
She gave birth to him, clothed him, fed him, made sure he had nothing but the best because that was how she showed her love, and in return, Jinki couldn't even surrender just one fucking tear.
His dad was this expressionless man in the crowd, and maybe it was just Jinki's imagination, but he might have even seemed more frustrated than he was distraught. And when people shook his hand, he bowed instead and walked away.
Jinki didn't know half the people that came to his mother's funeral, didn't know what right they had to cry before him, but they did. And Jinki felt worse.
In his last seven minutes with his mother --still freshly buried beneath the dry dirt-- he pictured a scenario wherein his mother's fist would break the earth from beneath, and she'd rise from her grave, claiming victory over death while doves flew overhead.
Then he reasoned that the doves might have been overkill. And that he should not be thinking about words related to death. He should have mentally prepared better adjectives for himself.
∞
What movies fail to capture in moments of tragedy are the bits in between. That quiet ride homefrom the funeral would have been cut and tossed, even when it proposed something more honest than any face covered in tears.
Jinki couldn't even turn on the radio. It wasn't that he was too weak, but he didn't want music to deafen that human noise; the sound of him and his father breathing out of sync, rough palms on the rubber of the steering wheel, aggravated exhales when another car raced past without any decent notice beforehand. Jinki agreed with a grind of his teeth that that driver should have at least given them a honk.
They had just lost a family member.
Jinki contemplated whether he truly understood death and love. People talked about life and love much too often. Maybe because death and love were simple and only went one way. When you love someone and they die, you will be sad. You will mourn. Was there such a thing as crying subconsciously? Or a deeper level of devastation, something beyond tears.
He decided to turn the radio on anyway and left it on the first station that greeted him.
∞
After her death, his father began speaking about his work more to him. Jinki listened with dull interest, a head nod here, perhaps some eye contact. Each time, it sounded like conversationsthat had beencramped into their daily lives, a filler. When Jinki sat in front of his father during dinner, did he see this boy who was just dying to know about what he did at work today?
No. Jinki would have been fine just listening to them live. He would have been okay with watching them both spiral into a heavy dose of depression, and allowing themselves to be sad because they were. But Jinki felt like he had some faulty wires, and the only good one he had was linked with his mother. And she took that and everything with her when she died, just yanked herself free from him without a proper goodbye. Because of her permanent absence, he felt betrayed. He felt wronged, as though she had no right to die just like that.
Jinki saw a lot of his mother's belongings the day he helped his father move them to the attic instead of making the maids do it. While they boxed her jewelry, her clothes, her shoes, even the sheets that she last slept on before she died, Jinki's dad was talking about a support group that they could attend.
"We could go together. It's only during the weekends. Or what about you come with me to the firing range? Practice your shooting. It might help."
"Yeah, maybe," Jinki absentmindedly spoke, tracing a black velvet box in his hand which he later found out was his mother's engagement ring.
"Would you like to keep it?"
Jinki pocketed the box and the ring immediately, glad he didn't have to ask. He thought it felt cold in his pocket as though it wasn't a right fit at all, but he knew his mother would have wanted him to have it. His dad said so.
When his father took him hunting again, he killed two ducks. His father roasted them and they had the best dinner that they have had in a while. And when Jinki slept, he dreamed that his mother's head was mounted on his wall in replacement of the deer.
He woke up sweating, finally thankful to see the deer's head on his wall.
Jinki went up the attic that night on his own, searched for the bed sheets she last slept on, and took them to his room to wrap the black box in.
∞
It wasn't until Jinki was seventeen that he began to fully appreciate guns.
While kids his age developed an affinity for tiny cellphones or each other, Jinki tried to see how fast he could assemble a fully oiled and cleaned semi-automatic pistol.
He had stubby fingers that worked against him, so he could never hit that one minute mark exactly. The magazine was trickier to slide in than people expected when you were in a hurry, and when Jinki was in a hurry, he panicked on the inside, hearing himself, his human noises in chorus with a repetitive why is that smaller this time.
His father had an arsenal of firearms, larger guns that Jinki had yet to master. And when his father had time, they'd go to the firing range together, trying to carve their initials on the target with bullet holes.
There was a week when Jinki managed to beat his father by an average of four to five seconds. His dad patted his head where he wore the hunting cap he never washed, askinghim if he wanted a new one.
Jinki shook his head. "This is fine."
∞
Jinki had no idea if it was a regular routine, to just check his body in the mirror. He did it sometimes, testing the way he looked without a shirt and just a pistol in his hand. His shoulders were broader now that he'd enjoyed puberty's visit, dark hairs under his arms… and in other places.
He thought that maybe he should try smiling more now that he was eighteen and he was growing pit hair. He wanted people to see that he was okay with puberty coming inlater, and the way to do that was with a smile.
He smiled at his reflection.
∞
"I will not be the hall monitor this week, I will not be the hall monitor this week." Once again Jinki was talking to his reflection, the morning of his first day as a senior in high school. He practiced his stance, his new smile, straightening out the hunting cap on his head that did not go with his navy blue uniform at all. Or maybe it should be slightly to the side to make me seem cooler. He tugged one side down. "I don't think I should be the hall monitor for this-- no."
He straightened the hunting cap on his head again.
The driver was waiting for Jinki by the time he exited the wooden double doors of his house, engine on, radio set to 89.9 FM, the same station Jinki woke up to that morning.
He settled in the back seat and greeted Jongguk, the driver, good morning by tossing a pack of animal crackers his way. Jongguk accepted them gratefully, winking at him through the rear view mirror.
I will not be the hall monitor for this week.
∞
Naturally, Jinki was assigned the hall monitor the moment he stepped into campus because as it turned out, he couldn't refuse the principal even if he wanted to. He pinned the hall monitor badge on, and wore the armband to go with it, feeling like a Nazi on his first day.
There were six hundred students in his school that needed looking after, and as far as the fourth floor was concerned, Jinki had it guarded. His duties were to make sure that the halls were empty of students loitering, during the hour after the bell rang in the morning and after lunch, and before the bell rang at night. Considering he’d been doing this more than he remembered being in class, it earned him the nickname "Pyramid Head", afterthe Silent Hill game.
Physical Education was exempted from such restrictions, obviously. Jinki walked to the football field at his own pace as he watched lower classmen in one line, ready to jump overthetire rubbers laid down on the grass just so they could kick the waitingsoccer balls into the net.
He sat downon the lowest part of the bleachers, feeling unevenness where his butt should be touching a flat surface.
When he stood up, he found shoes, soles up, hanging from the edges where the space between the seats were. His brows furrowed in wonder, trying to distinguish how they were doing that, when suddenly they parted from the edge of the seat one by one and he realized he just sat on someone's feet.
He hopped down the stands and jogged lightly to the end, where he could enter the cave formed by the bleachers. It took him a minute to distinguish whether he was looking at a girl or a boy all thanks to the low ponytail. However, he didn't have an unfamiliar face, Jinki knew he saw this person around before.
"You can't be here," were the first words out of Jinki's mouth.
The person smirked, revealing a small black water gun.
Jinki smiled back without realizing it, repeating himself: "I'm serious, you can't be here." His name started with a T, T something.
The boy raised his gun, aiming it at Jinki when the latter tried to come closer. Jinki stopped in his tracks, even though he knew the worst the gun could do was stain his clothes.
They just stood there for a few seconds, the boy making Jinki guess whether he would pull the trigger or not. Jinki betted that he wouldn't.
A few breaths after that, he found out that he was wrong. The boy shot straight at his chest, squirting clear liquid along hisblazer, the line darker than the rest of his clothes.
Jinki looked down at the spot, blinking at it, while the boy tucked the gun's head in the garter of his sweatpants, covering the rest with his two-sizes-too-big shirt.
He casually made his way past Jinki, whispering something suspiciously similar to nice hat, Pyramid Head.
Jinki looked over his shoulder, following the boy with his stare, watching as he jogged back to the soccer field and placed himself at the very end of the line.
*masterficlist | tumblr | twitter | comment here to be added
-- Thank you to linnhe for beta-ing this monstrosity and holding my hand through it all ;;
genre: psychological, humor
pairing: onew/taemin
length: chaptered
word count: ~2k w
summary: a deconstructed coming of age story that features two boys; one who sticks out by default while the other is invisible to the radar by choice.
warnings: (as the chapters progress) disturbing themes, violence, blood
a/n: as a whole, this is very character driven and dialogue heavy, transit feel. just letting you know why the summary is so vague. ^^
BLACKFISH
A Story By Yoonis
Prologue
black sheep by metric
Growing up, Jinki never really had to beg for anything.
It wasn't just because his family was rich. It also had to do with his devotion. The thing about Jinki was that when he committed to something, he did so with every fiber of his being. Which is why he rarely ever did.
Jinki was thirteen when he killed a deer for the first time. Right between the eyes, he got it, and not even a second later, it collapsed onto the forest floor. His father, the natural born hunter, shook Jinki so hard that his muffler slid off and he couldn't pick it up because it was right next to the deer's head.
The worst of it all was coming home and finding the head mounted on his wall, right above his desktop computer, directly in front of his bed.
"It'll be the last thing you see before you go to bed, and the first thing you see when you wake up. Good job, Jinki." His father had said.
And while everyone in his house slept soundly, Jinki kept his rifle close to his chest as he watched the deer's head during the first night it hung on his wall, fearing that it would come alive and eat him.
He slept during Home Ec and stayed awake all night, just staring into the onyx eyes of what was once a deer, now reduced to some prize that Jinki had originally thought was worth it. All he wanted was a head pat, and that hat his father wore.
∞
Jinki wore that hat when his mother passed. It was a month after his 15th birthday, justdays after the new year. He spoke about his last words to his mother without shedding a tear, his head held high, a boy in a black suit and a red hunting cap, waiting to be stricken down by emotion through his own words.
He stood behind the podium, reading off of his cue cards what he had wanted to say to his mother if she were still alive, enumerated the things in his life that she would never witness and, in the pauses he made, he wondered if he ever truly loved her.
He wanted to understand why the death of a deer scarred him in ways he couldn’t even explain in comparison to his mother dying from a freak accident. His mother suffered more, possibly a greater deal of pain. And she was capable of hoping, of expectations-- that slither of what if.
She gave birth to him, clothed him, fed him, made sure he had nothing but the best because that was how she showed her love, and in return, Jinki couldn't even surrender just one fucking tear.
His dad was this expressionless man in the crowd, and maybe it was just Jinki's imagination, but he might have even seemed more frustrated than he was distraught. And when people shook his hand, he bowed instead and walked away.
Jinki didn't know half the people that came to his mother's funeral, didn't know what right they had to cry before him, but they did. And Jinki felt worse.
In his last seven minutes with his mother --still freshly buried beneath the dry dirt-- he pictured a scenario wherein his mother's fist would break the earth from beneath, and she'd rise from her grave, claiming victory over death while doves flew overhead.
Then he reasoned that the doves might have been overkill. And that he should not be thinking about words related to death. He should have mentally prepared better adjectives for himself.
∞
What movies fail to capture in moments of tragedy are the bits in between. That quiet ride homefrom the funeral would have been cut and tossed, even when it proposed something more honest than any face covered in tears.
Jinki couldn't even turn on the radio. It wasn't that he was too weak, but he didn't want music to deafen that human noise; the sound of him and his father breathing out of sync, rough palms on the rubber of the steering wheel, aggravated exhales when another car raced past without any decent notice beforehand. Jinki agreed with a grind of his teeth that that driver should have at least given them a honk.
They had just lost a family member.
Jinki contemplated whether he truly understood death and love. People talked about life and love much too often. Maybe because death and love were simple and only went one way. When you love someone and they die, you will be sad. You will mourn. Was there such a thing as crying subconsciously? Or a deeper level of devastation, something beyond tears.
He decided to turn the radio on anyway and left it on the first station that greeted him.
∞
After her death, his father began speaking about his work more to him. Jinki listened with dull interest, a head nod here, perhaps some eye contact. Each time, it sounded like conversationsthat had beencramped into their daily lives, a filler. When Jinki sat in front of his father during dinner, did he see this boy who was just dying to know about what he did at work today?
No. Jinki would have been fine just listening to them live. He would have been okay with watching them both spiral into a heavy dose of depression, and allowing themselves to be sad because they were. But Jinki felt like he had some faulty wires, and the only good one he had was linked with his mother. And she took that and everything with her when she died, just yanked herself free from him without a proper goodbye. Because of her permanent absence, he felt betrayed. He felt wronged, as though she had no right to die just like that.
Jinki saw a lot of his mother's belongings the day he helped his father move them to the attic instead of making the maids do it. While they boxed her jewelry, her clothes, her shoes, even the sheets that she last slept on before she died, Jinki's dad was talking about a support group that they could attend.
"We could go together. It's only during the weekends. Or what about you come with me to the firing range? Practice your shooting. It might help."
"Yeah, maybe," Jinki absentmindedly spoke, tracing a black velvet box in his hand which he later found out was his mother's engagement ring.
"Would you like to keep it?"
Jinki pocketed the box and the ring immediately, glad he didn't have to ask. He thought it felt cold in his pocket as though it wasn't a right fit at all, but he knew his mother would have wanted him to have it. His dad said so.
When his father took him hunting again, he killed two ducks. His father roasted them and they had the best dinner that they have had in a while. And when Jinki slept, he dreamed that his mother's head was mounted on his wall in replacement of the deer.
He woke up sweating, finally thankful to see the deer's head on his wall.
Jinki went up the attic that night on his own, searched for the bed sheets she last slept on, and took them to his room to wrap the black box in.
∞
It wasn't until Jinki was seventeen that he began to fully appreciate guns.
While kids his age developed an affinity for tiny cellphones or each other, Jinki tried to see how fast he could assemble a fully oiled and cleaned semi-automatic pistol.
He had stubby fingers that worked against him, so he could never hit that one minute mark exactly. The magazine was trickier to slide in than people expected when you were in a hurry, and when Jinki was in a hurry, he panicked on the inside, hearing himself, his human noises in chorus with a repetitive why is that smaller this time.
His father had an arsenal of firearms, larger guns that Jinki had yet to master. And when his father had time, they'd go to the firing range together, trying to carve their initials on the target with bullet holes.
There was a week when Jinki managed to beat his father by an average of four to five seconds. His dad patted his head where he wore the hunting cap he never washed, askinghim if he wanted a new one.
Jinki shook his head. "This is fine."
∞
Jinki had no idea if it was a regular routine, to just check his body in the mirror. He did it sometimes, testing the way he looked without a shirt and just a pistol in his hand. His shoulders were broader now that he'd enjoyed puberty's visit, dark hairs under his arms… and in other places.
He thought that maybe he should try smiling more now that he was eighteen and he was growing pit hair. He wanted people to see that he was okay with puberty coming inlater, and the way to do that was with a smile.
He smiled at his reflection.
∞
"I will not be the hall monitor this week, I will not be the hall monitor this week." Once again Jinki was talking to his reflection, the morning of his first day as a senior in high school. He practiced his stance, his new smile, straightening out the hunting cap on his head that did not go with his navy blue uniform at all. Or maybe it should be slightly to the side to make me seem cooler. He tugged one side down. "I don't think I should be the hall monitor for this-- no."
He straightened the hunting cap on his head again.
The driver was waiting for Jinki by the time he exited the wooden double doors of his house, engine on, radio set to 89.9 FM, the same station Jinki woke up to that morning.
He settled in the back seat and greeted Jongguk, the driver, good morning by tossing a pack of animal crackers his way. Jongguk accepted them gratefully, winking at him through the rear view mirror.
I will not be the hall monitor for this week.
∞
Naturally, Jinki was assigned the hall monitor the moment he stepped into campus because as it turned out, he couldn't refuse the principal even if he wanted to. He pinned the hall monitor badge on, and wore the armband to go with it, feeling like a Nazi on his first day.
There were six hundred students in his school that needed looking after, and as far as the fourth floor was concerned, Jinki had it guarded. His duties were to make sure that the halls were empty of students loitering, during the hour after the bell rang in the morning and after lunch, and before the bell rang at night. Considering he’d been doing this more than he remembered being in class, it earned him the nickname "Pyramid Head", afterthe Silent Hill game.
Physical Education was exempted from such restrictions, obviously. Jinki walked to the football field at his own pace as he watched lower classmen in one line, ready to jump overthetire rubbers laid down on the grass just so they could kick the waitingsoccer balls into the net.
He sat downon the lowest part of the bleachers, feeling unevenness where his butt should be touching a flat surface.
When he stood up, he found shoes, soles up, hanging from the edges where the space between the seats were. His brows furrowed in wonder, trying to distinguish how they were doing that, when suddenly they parted from the edge of the seat one by one and he realized he just sat on someone's feet.
He hopped down the stands and jogged lightly to the end, where he could enter the cave formed by the bleachers. It took him a minute to distinguish whether he was looking at a girl or a boy all thanks to the low ponytail. However, he didn't have an unfamiliar face, Jinki knew he saw this person around before.
"You can't be here," were the first words out of Jinki's mouth.
The person smirked, revealing a small black water gun.
Jinki smiled back without realizing it, repeating himself: "I'm serious, you can't be here." His name started with a T, T something.
The boy raised his gun, aiming it at Jinki when the latter tried to come closer. Jinki stopped in his tracks, even though he knew the worst the gun could do was stain his clothes.
They just stood there for a few seconds, the boy making Jinki guess whether he would pull the trigger or not. Jinki betted that he wouldn't.
A few breaths after that, he found out that he was wrong. The boy shot straight at his chest, squirting clear liquid along hisblazer, the line darker than the rest of his clothes.
Jinki looked down at the spot, blinking at it, while the boy tucked the gun's head in the garter of his sweatpants, covering the rest with his two-sizes-too-big shirt.
He casually made his way past Jinki, whispering something suspiciously similar to nice hat, Pyramid Head.
Jinki looked over his shoulder, following the boy with his stare, watching as he jogged back to the soccer field and placed himself at the very end of the line.
*masterficlist | tumblr | twitter | comment here to be added
-- Thank you to linnhe for beta-ing this monstrosity and holding my hand through it all ;;