The Brief History of Us 3/4

[liiiiiiya]

“Will you stop?” Sehun asked, wavering on the side of irritated.

“What?” Chanyeol asked, blinking rapidly as a mean-looking Sehun threw him out of his former daze. “Stop what?”

“Humming that stupid tune.” Sehun retorted, sipping out his coffee mug as they sat inside the café on the beach. Chanyeol seldom sat inside this place but Sehun had complained about how windy the weather was. “The worst thing the British Invasion ever brought on this world was the curse of The Kinks.”

Chanyeol stared at Sehun in silence, hoping that would gauge some kind of explanation. Sehun looked at him like he was an idiot with two heads. “‘Rosie, Won’t You Please Come Home’?” he said, slowly. “That song, you haven’t stopped humming the tune since we left your apartment.”

Chanyeol honestly hadn’t noticed. After the interesting exchange with Baekhyun two days prior, the song had just been caught in his head. He’d never shaken the feeling of paranoia from having someone inject their memories into you, but he wouldn’t complain much seeing as how the only visible side effect of said experiment was singing some sixties pop song.

“The pinnacle of mediocrity,” Sehun mumbled, stirring some more sugar into his coffee. “Lesser Beatles knock-off…”

It was day sixty-two now and they were inching ever closer. There were some changes already beginning to show.

“You heard about that telephone line crisis?” Sehun asked, seemingly taken by the mahogany of the café tables. He played around with one of the coasters, which oddly had images of various Indian deities on them. Sehun had Rama on his. “Something about how signals all over are being screwed with, like, radio stations are being interrupted, a lot of people can’t reach each other by cell phone. The word ‘interference’ was thrown around a lot on the article I was reading.”

Chanyeol looked at Sehun with a refrained worry. It really was happening, right under everyone’s noses. “Won’t that mess with airplane flights and stuff?” Chanyeol asked, “Didn’t you book the tickets to see your parents? Do you think it’s still safe to go?”

“I don’t mind.” Sehun said quickly, before clearing his throat to regain some posture. “I mean, I doubt this is gonna last till December.”

“But if it does-“
“Hey, just let it be, okay?” Sehun said, looking visibly uncomfortable. “I’m going to see them, no matter what.”

Sehun was wearing an expensive-looking grey Armani topcoat, and on his wrist, a crisp leather Frederique Constant watch, earning him looks of envy and attraction from many girls entering and exiting the café. Thought Sehun was a little too involved with his own thoughts to notice.

Sehun was an intelligent man, who subsisted on his own skills, was on a full scholarship in university and majored in business. He made his own living co-managing an online fashion business that obviously paid him handsomely. It always made Chanyeol wonder why someone that smart, that savvy, needed reassurance from parents who never wanted to understand him.

It wasn’t a secret that Chanyeol didn’t like Sehun’s parents, but he did love Sehun and wanted to see him happy. It just made him a little confused to see that under the watch, he wore the brown and blue knotted bracelet Chanyeol made for him in the seventh grade, while no where on him could Chanyeol see the custom-made black opal ring his own parents got for his middle school graduation. It just made Chanyeol think that maybe Sehun was trying to force himself to love his parents, because it was a moral obligation that he felt like he didn’t deserve to ignore.

“-cream he uses.” Sehun finished his sentence that Chanyeol apparently ignored.

“What?”

“Your roommate.” Sehun said, furrowing his brows. “I said you should find out what skin cream he uses. I swear a couple months ago, he looked prepubescent and now he’s practically porcelain. Find out what skin cream he uses.”

Chanyeol couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. Baekhyun’s skin was clearing up due to him evolving up to some weird apocalyptic standard Chanyeol didn’t want to think about, but the fact that Sehun noticed Baekhyun’s skin flustered him for some reason.

“Yeah,” Chanyeol grumbled, suddenly feeling like the lights in here were too bright, it was harrowing. “Yeah he’s got… great skin.”

“So, when did you two start dating?”

“We’re not…” Chanyeol started, saying the next word like it was a curse. “Dating. We’re in the beginning stages of a potential relationship.”

“Dating.” Sehun said, sipping his drink.
“Okay, yes, we’re dating. All is well, everything’s fine, he hasn’t killed me or my dog yet.”

“You don’t have a do-“

“Can we drop this?” Chanyeol said nervously. “I feel like saying anything more about it will jinx it and I’ll have to start all over again.”

“You’re sure working hard for some recluse who doesn’t understand why it would be considered wrong to bring an iPad to a wake.” Sehun said, raising his brow.

“It was a neighbor’s friend and we didn’t even know the guy that well.” Chanyeol said as he rubbed the back of his neck, not bothering to sound invested because he knew Sehun was partially right.

Exiting the café, Chanyeol walked Sehun back to his car and refused the offer to hitch a ride home with him.

“It’s like a fifteen minute walk from here,” Chanyeol reasoned, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “And I need the exercise.”

Sehun kissed his cheek and left, allowing Chanyeol to be alone with his thoughts.

The streetlights were on in the small college town, cars were parked outside and the night was silent save for young couples walking on the sidewalks. The air was especially cold and Chanyeol popped the collar of his jacket to stay warm. He walked past the sparsely occupied restaurants and bars. There was a football game on tonight, most people were in their houses watching. It was more peaceful this way; there was something about an empty town that Chanyeol found comforting.

Ever since the memory exchange happened, Chanyeol couldn’t help but want to be around Baekhyun even more. He regarded living through the memories of another as an intimacy so great, he just wanted Baekhyun to hold.

Chanyeol was apparently out cold twenty minutes after the entire thing happened, to which Baekhyun explained that it was a particularly challenging procedure for humans with weaker physical attributes, which offended Chanyeol greatly until he remembered that the last thing he lifted was the boxes to his apartment, and he had help with that.

But waking up, Chanyeol stared at Baekhyun like he was the only thing in the world. Chanyeol wouldn’t go so far as to call it love, but it was a connection that ran deep and he felt like he wanted to dive right into the center of the ocean that was Baekhyun and discover all the mysteries under his murky surface.

He just wanted Baekhyun and he didn’t realize someone like him, unoffending, neutral and lukewarm in all areas, could want something this much.

Chanyeol smiled to himself and it actually hurt his cheeks, but the impending doom of this planet hardly dampened the glow of his feelings. He couldn’t wait to get back to the apartment and learn more.

He couldn’t wait to see him.

__________________________________________________
Spring Cleaning was over rated. It happened monthly for Chanyeol, in fact. His neurotic habits paired with Baekhyun’s incessant need to just throw things everywhere, including the fine mix of pizza boxes and discarded socks, prompted the traditionally monthly clean sweep.

He wore his old cleaning bandana to keep his hair out of his face, aware that it made him look like a bad nineties video game character.

He had already commenced in the scary task of dusting out the shelves, filled with beat up books on string theory and cosmology, old Proust novels and finally, Chanyeol’s pathetic section, the incomplete volumes of Death Note and a couple George Orwell’s. The top of the shelf, however, was home to little boxes, shoeboxes, and old watch boxes, filled with little trinkets that couldn’t be thrown away. Chanyeol fished down boxes with labels like “Grade School, Spring” and “Mom’s Photos” but ducked away, falling right on his behind when a box came tumbling down, threatening to land square on his face.

He noticed that it was an old beige shoebox with the label “Cool Stuff”, filled to the brim with random little things. He picked the box up and examined the fallen possessions. He collected an old one Yuan coin he remembered his aunt had gotten him on a trip to China. This was his old box, just things he never really had the heart to throw away. He felt a jolt of nostalgia as he studied the items before putting them back in the box.

He found an old, wrinkled piece of paper, with colorful borders drawn on with highlighters and the note inside, in choppy handwriting:

“Go suck a fuck, you note-pad hauling nerd ass”

Chanyeol grinned; he remembered Sehun, or Seyeon then, passing this to him in class to make him laugh and get him in trouble. It was in high school, or was it junior high?

He sifted through old birthday cards, sticky notes and random prints of pop idols with horns and beards drawn onto them. He picked up one photo and sat still looking at it, lost in thought.
The date on it was New Years’, five years ago when Chanyeol was still in high school. It was slightly out of focus, faintly blurring the complexions of the people in the picture. Him, his mother and Minah all sat at a round dinner table, Minah poised in a position where she was talking, with her arm raised, her mouth opened awkwardly but her face looking perfect, as usual. His mother was in the middle, smiling at something off to the side, her hair done up, lacquered and neat. Chanyeol, the only one aware that the photo was being taken, leaned close to his mom and smiled, bright and toothy, donning a hairstyle that should’ve been illegal.

The picture had been taken at their aunt’s New Years’ party by Chanyeol’s father on the rare occasion that they spent an actual celebration together and unlike every other holiday gathering, he had no memory of any argument between his parents or his mother and Minah happening afterwards; it was probably why he kept this picture in particular in his box.

He placed the box off to the side, with the picture in his hand. He stood and studied it a little while, trying to find any new details.

He was pulled out of his daze when he heard a door open. He looked up and saw it was the bathroom, steam pouring out of the door as Baekhyun, with towel-dried hair walked out. He was wearing boxers, but not his own, they were Chanyeol’s.

“I wore your boxers,” Baekhyun said, in a matter-of-fact tone. “I couldn’t find anything else in the bathroom.”

“No problem.” Chanyeol said, quietly. He eyed Baekhyun’s damp skin, seeing how the droplets of water in his hair slipped off the strands, landing on his collarbones and sliding down his chest. Baekhyun’s skin looked flawless as usual.

Baekhyun lazed against the couch with his back against the seat cushions, dragging his laptop onto his lap. Chanyeol stood there, leaning against the shelf and staring. He dropped the photo onto the floor absentmindedly, leaning in close, “How was your shower?” Chanyeol said in his ear, and he saw Baekhyun’s mouth twitch.

Chanyeol placed the laptop on their coffee table, crawling on top of a smirking Baekhyun.  He began kissing him, running one hands over Baekhyun’s chest, ending up his hair as he used the other hand to balance on the couch, as Baekhyun gladly deepened the kiss. Baekhyun’s mouth was wet and inviting, his lips plush and Chanyeol felt heat pooling in his stomach with every swirl of Baekhyun’s tongue.

Baekhyun nipped at Chanyeol’s lip and Chanyeol drew back smiling, sitting ontop of Baekhyun and couldn’t help but chuckle at the mess he made of the boy’s hair.

Baekhyun leaned his head back against the seat cushion, noticing something on the floor. “What is that photo?” he asked. He reached down and snatched the polaroid off the carpet. Chanyeol got off of Baekhyun’s legs and waited for him to sit properly, before joining him and throwing an arm over the boy’s narrow shoulders. He held the wrist of the hand Baekhyun had grasped the photo with. “Just some picture of me, my mom and sister a couple years ago.” Chanyeol explained.

“Just?”

“No.” Chanyeol admitted. At this point in their relationship Chanyeol understood the futility of keeping things from Baekhyun, who seemed to grow more and more ethereal each day.

“I sense it’s been a while,” Baekhyun said, gazing at the blurry photo. “Since you’ve seen them, I take it.”

“Since my high school graduation.” Chanyeol replied, also looking at the photo and feeling a little sad.

Baekhyun glanced at Chanyeol’s fallen expression and leaned his head onto the shoulder of the taller man. “There are eighteen days left.” He said, quietly.

Chanyeol hummed in response. That was Baekhyun’s way of nudging him in the direction nobility. Go, he really meant, visit your mother before it’s too late.

But Chanyeol hadn’t seen his mother in three years, even Minah never bothered to write or call. Chanyeol supposed now, with the ever malfunctioning power lines and the end of the world, would probably be the best time to see his mother’s face before the opportunity was lost.
But that also meant visiting people he willingly never wanted to see again.
__________________________________________________
The summer vacation after graduating high school is one of the most exciting summers one can experience. The gravity of school work, exams, projects and extra credit work lifting off your shoulders and welcoming you into a whole new world.

Chanyeol’s mood was through the roof on his last day of high school, but you could never tell his excitement by looking at him during summer.

There he was, lazing about the house in nothing but boxer shorts and an old Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt, reading, surfing the web or just plain sleeping. He graduated at the top of his class with astounding effort and now he wanted nothing more than to lay around and not worry if Mr. Lim was going to beat him with a steel ruler.

His mother would stick to her usual routine by waking him up at 7 AM despite the fact that he didn’t have school, but he learned to understand his mother and waited until she was at a point in her schedule where she wouldn’t notice him going back to sleep again.

Her disorder had been worsening, often costing her sleep and nourishment. It was more than once when Chanyeol had found his mother limp on the floor and rushed her to the hospital in his old Daewoo only to discover that she hadn’t been receiving proper sustenance or that her disorder was preventing her from getting ample amounts of sleep.

His mother was at an age where that behavior could have really taken a drastic toll on her health so the doctor advised someone to watch her and make sure she received proper care. Chanyeol’s father certainly wasn’t up to the challenge; he was hardly home and Minah had become a phantom. Chanyeol wasn’t really sure if he had a sister sometimes, because Minah came in and out as a stranger.

Chanyeol was willing to help his mother, but he always worried for her; he had to be in university this time next year, and wondered if she’d be okay with two invisible people.

That day, as Chanyeol was strewn across the two-seat sofa, he listened as she worked around the kitching, hearing the clank of pots and the closing of cupboard doors.

Then he heard a crash thump and a scream.

Chanyeol threw his laptop off to the side and rushed to the kitchen and the first thing he saw was blood, his mother clutching her hand as she bled profusely from her fingers. Chanyeol noticed on the marble counter top, a mountain of chopped garlic, nearly spilling onto the floor due to its immense size as well as a spatter of red on the cutting board. Broken dishes and fallen pots lay scattered across the linoleum. His mother’s fingers wear nearly shaven off and he scrambled for a towel to wrap around them as she muttered unintelligible things under her breath. He hurried her to the car and stepped on it, running past some red lights on the way to the hospital.

“What has she done now?” was the first thing his father said when he met Chanyeol in the hospital waiting room. His cold, annoyed tone raised Chanyeol’s brow and instead of answering him, he asked where Minah was.

“She’s always off somewhere, isn’t she?” said his father as plopped down onto the hard hospital guest chair. His father had to leave work to be here, and it was apparent to Chanyeol that it bothered the older man immensely.

They sat in awkward silence, spurring Chanyeol to count the times when him and his father held actual conversations, with actual topics that spawned the exchange of actual ideas and opinions. He came up dry, of course, save for the time when he was ten years old and his father complained about how the squirrels were ruining the backyard garden, which initiated a fifteen minute rant on the ineptitude of the local pest control. He then drank some tea and went back to reading his newspaper, leaving Chanyeol to bond with the silence of the living room.

His mother’s doctor appeared behind the large, authoritarian emergency room doors with his mint green surgical scrubs. He pulled down his mask and greeted the two.

“She did lose a lot of blood but she’s been stabilized,” the doctor said in his doctor voice that seemed to turn any crisis into a succession of logic, numbers and reason. “However, as the case may be, this seems to be a cause of compulsive self-mutilation.”

“What does that entail?” asked Chanyeol’s father in his businessman voice, glancing at his watch.

The doctor adjusted his glasses. “A lot of individuals with these types of disorders tend to turn to harming themselves as an imposition of their control over their own bodies, a therapist could probably tell you better,” he said, rubbings his veiny hands. “But something must’ve upset her greatly, to force her to turn and try to sever her own fingers. I’ll write down a recommendation for a clinical psychotherapist, and in the mean time, she’ll be recuperating. She’s lucky she got here when she did.”

“Can we go in and see her?” asked Chanyeol hopefully, earning a look of subtle exasperation from his father.

“She’s resting up now, still lightheaded from all the medication.” The doctor said, but he smiled at the boy. “I’ll be glad to contact you, however, when she’s aptly recovered.”

It was one of the rare occasions that night when everyone, sans Chanyeol’s mother, was there for dinner. With his mom’s worsening condition, Chanyeol usually made his own food, often TV Dinners or Pop Tarts with pizza bagels.

But there they sat, eating Chinese takeout at the dinner table in uncomfortable silence. His father eating his rice noodles quietly dignified, while Minah looked at her food as if it were harvested from the local sewer, only using her utensils to pick at it. Chanyeol focused on his sweet and sour chicken, it was rubbery in texture and unbearably soft in consistency.

It felt like years since he’d seen either of these two. He noticed the subtle changes in their demeanors, his father with the dustings of grey in his beard and the pockets of fat forming under his chin. Minah, who opted on an old sports bra and pajama shorts as dinner attire, had gotten thinner. Chanyeol could see the faint outline of her ribs beneath the pale skin of her torso. She sat cross-legged on the chair, with her bare feet dangling lazily, toenails painted a shiny red. She was wearing makeup; a lot of it, and her glossy black hair thrown up in a bun.

No one wanted to be there, that was for sure.

“How is school going?” asked his father gruffly without so much as a glance at his children.

Minah eyed Chanyeol expectantly; she certainly wasn’t going to answer, she hadn’t attended college at all in the past three months and telling dad that would worsen his already bad mood.

“I… got accepted to all the universities I applied for.” Chanyeol stammered, picking at his fake-looking food.

“You graduated?” asked his dad, looking at him like Chanyeol was lying or, better yet, like he was stupid.

“Yeah,” Chanyeol said coldly, putting his fork down and pushing his plate away. “With honors.”
“What’s gonna happen to mom?” Minah asked finally. Chanyeol glanced her way in vague surprise; she hadn’t said a word all evening.

It took a while for Chanyeol’s father answer. He continued with his meal as if Minah hadn’t said anything. “I’ve made the decision to send your mother to a home.”

Chanyeol’s eyes widened, there loud noises going on in his head like the sirens of an emergency ambulance. “Send her to a home?” exclaimed Chanyeol, “Like she’s some wayward kid?”

“I will not tolerate being spoken to that way in my own house,” his father responded sternly. “Pretell, what would be your suggestion? Because if you have a better solution, I’d certainly be enthralled to hear it.”

He was speaking to Chanyeol like he was a five year old without formed opinions, like he just hopped off the birth train and was rattling his mouth about some stupid TV show instead of talking about the fate of his own mother.

Minah hunched uncomfortably, keeping silent. “Keep her here, maybe? In her own house, without a bunch of strangers running tests on her and pumping her with every medication known to man?” said Chanyeol, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “She’d be fine here if any of you gave a shit about her!”

His father slammed his hand on the table and looked at Chanyeol with a deadly glance. Minah jumped, startled by the noise and she looked to the waxed wooden floors of their home. “You watch your language.” Said his father evenly, but something told Chanyeol that bad things would happen if he disobeyed. “Be a man and use your words instead of throwing verbal filth like some uneducated imbecile, maybe then you’d be taken seriously.”

“Okay, let’s stop with the childish banter then,” Chanyeol said, standing up and scraping his chair horrendously. “Logically, why are you the ones making decisions for a woman you’ve seen a total of five hours this whole month? Who are you to just walk in and claim what’s best for her?”

His father stood up, towering and Chanyeol suddenly remembered where he’d gotten his own impressive stature from. “Because this is my house,” the old man said venomously, “This is my house and these are my rules and if you are not happy with said arrangement, then get out.”
Chanyeol gawked unbelievingly. This stranger, totally and utterly, decided to walk in during a moment of disaster and dictate what was to be done around this house, including what should happen to a woman Chanyeol had been taking care of since he entered high school.

He looked at Minah and she refused to return the glance. She was trying ever so hard to stay out of this conversation, and Chanyeol glared, hoping that this would his sister’s moment of glory. He felt stupid for even thinking it.

He stormed out of the kitchen and went to his room, slamming the door and collapsing on the bed. He was breathing heavily, livid at everything and everyone. He felt angry tears trailing down his cheeks and he thought of his mother, of her neat hair, her clinically clean smell and how warm her hugs were.

He went to sleep with his dinner sitting heavily in his stomach and hoped things would be better by morning.

--------------------------------------------
The last day he saw his mom felt like the day of her funeral.

She was lead around the house in a drug-induced stupor, with glassy eyes that focused on nothing but the colorful, nonsensical thoughts behind them. Chanyeol looked at her and felt like he was looking at a shell, hollow and echoed drivel that wouldn’t satisfy him in the way his mother’s gentle tones did, holding his teary cheeks in her cold, soft hands and telling him the world was evil, but she could make it safe.

She wasn’t wearing her own clothes but the scentless hospital gown that almost hid everything that was her entirely beneath its rough material. Minah wasn’t there to say goodbye. His father stood, scrutinizing her every move, shadowing her and Chanyeol like they were potential shoplifters at a grimy gas station.

She walked by Chanyeol’s room, and stopped, putting her hand against the doorframe. Chanyeol noticed the chips in her nail polish. Gazing into the cleaned room, Chanyeol saw a glint of that former pride his mother would have when she saw his room tidied and spotless, but it was there as quick as it went, like the gleam of a lighthouse, there and gone.

She was taken into the van, just a van, white and soulless as the rooms she would be kept in. Chanyeol looked out the window and wondered if this could perhaps be a dream, maybe his mother would wake him up again and it would be 7 AM and he would be irritated but not with her, never with her.
__________________________________________________
“So you came here,” Baekhyun finished for him, sitting across from him on their ugly living room couch.

“Yeah,” Chanyeol said, rubbing his eyes. “I decided to come here for college to get away from that place.”

His father initially wanted to pay for his living arrangement but Chanyeol refused and basically, just short of running away, left without notice with all his essentials and lived in the college dorms before he made enough money through programming to get himself a real apartment, albeit with a strange roommate, in this outlandish little town.

“I haven’t see them since that summer.” Chanyeol said quietly, the picture in his hand, a frozen piece of time, long gone. “Three years.”

Baekhyun observed him.

“I know,” Chanyeol said, “I need to go visit them, pay my respects, tie lose ends but it’s just difficult to even think about going back.”

Baekhyun shrugged.

Chanyeol huffed. “Yeah, yeah, I do wanna see her.” he said, “But I’m not even sure where she was sent to.”

Baekhyun raised a brow.

“I am not going to ask him,” Chanyeol snapped, “No way, no how, not at gunpoint.”

There was a silence between them until Chanyeol let out a heavy sigh. “But I need to see her…” he put his head in his hands.

He shifted himself in the couch seat, gazing at the floor apprehensively. His long legs reaching below the coffee table as his face tightened like he was focusing really hard on something. He suddenly got up. “Alright,” he said with finality. “Thank you,”

He kissed Baekhyun’s head and went to his room, closing the door while the short unearthly being smirked and let out an incredulous laugh. Humans could be so strange.

__________________________________________________
The four-hour train ride alone could’ve been a deterrent to ever coming back here, on top of the two-hour layover at a horrendously cold and under stocked station to wait for the local bus to haul everyone inside because Chanyeol’s hometown was the rural backwoods of this great nation.

It was almost evening by the time the bus made it out of the woodland highway, if you could even call it that, and Chanyeol started feeling nostalgic. They passed the old water tower, with new added graffiti markings; that could’ve been a banana or a horrible rendition of some body part.

The one good thing about this place was the fact that there wasn’t an over-abundance of tall buildings, so the purples, pinks and oranges of the sunsets could be properly enjoyed. The pale yellow sun was sinking beneath the Countryside Mountains and Chanyeol was reminded of when he and Sehun, or Seyeon then, would go bike riding in the highlands and hang out in the amethyst mines hidden in the mountain caves.

The houses never changed, they flaky old buildings had never been coated over with new paint. Chanyeol saw children kicking a soccer ball back and forth in the middle of the street. The bus driver honked at them in regular irritation and the children ran out of the way before returning once the bus passed.

The bus stopped at the station, a shabby old green building the size of an expensive suburban house with a large parking lot in the back that situated three buses and a van. Chanyeol got off and thought about calling a taxi, but then he remembered; everything in this town was within walking distance unless you wanted to go to the local mall, which was about twenty minutes away by car.

Chanyeol stood there awkwardly, trying to set his mind up for confrontation. He was going to see his dad. He hadn’t seen his dad in three years. He hadn’t seen anyone in this hillbilly town for three years but that wasn’t exactly a tragedy.

He sighed and left the bus station, on foot naturally. From here, his house was a twelve-minute walk, give or take. Thinking of it now, Chanyeol hardly ever went to the bus station as a kid; no one ever came to this town, he wondered why there was even an outer city bus service, it’s not like anyone ever left either.

Chanyeol looked at his digital watch. Today was December 8th, seventeen days remaining and it was now almost six p.m. At this rate he’d have to spend the night at his old house; he’d find a way around that. There was one motel to speak of in this town and Chanyeol would find it, worst-case scenario, he would sleep under a park bench tonight.

He walked down the rows of houses and pristine lawns decorated with odd ornaments. People that were going about their business stopped what they were doing and looked his way suspiciously. Chanyeol was suddenly remembering why he didn’t like living here.
He passed by a familiar white and blue house and half expected to see Mrs. Oh wave at him with faux-politeness, a tray of butter cookies in one hand, fresh out of the oven as she walked out the door to speak to her yard-worker husband.

Sehun’s old house hardly changed, and if Chanyeol didn’t know better, he’d say that the Oh’s still lived there. But they’d moved away just about a year after Sehun and Chanyeol started college, a college that wasn’t in the Oh’s prospects for their only child, their only girl child. Sehun actually did run away from his parents, before Chanyeol in fact. It was the talk of the town back then, rumors flew like fireworks; the Oh girl had skipped town to become a topless dancer, to move in with her decade-older boyfriend or because she was actually born with no genitals and was tired of living a lie. Sehun’s parents unsurprisingly became pretty unpopular and eventually moved upstate.

Passing by Sehun’s old place meant that Chanyeol had less than two blocks to go before he darkened the hallways of his old home. He wondered what had become of his father, if his father was even there. It was occurring to him just then that this was poorly planned, but when there is a looming Armageddon less than a month away, one tends to skimp on the details.

Even the grass didn’t seem to have changed. It was like the yellowish patches were in the same places they always were. The soft grey paint of it’s exterior had faded like all the other houses in town. The attic window was dusty; no one ever went up there but Chanyeol and his mother. The wood of the porch swing had weakened substantially and in the cool winter winds, it creaked eerily.

Chanyeol spent his whole life in that house. There were a lot of unpleasant firsts that occurred under the white-shingled roof. He realized he’d been standing on the grass for a good five minutes. He jammed his hands into his coat pockets and stepped up to the front porch. Even the brown welcome mat remained.

He rang the doorbell and waited. The terrible, echoing silence of a small-town neighborhood is incomparable to any horror, Chanyeol thought with a shudder. The windows were always open and eyes were always watching. He rang the doorbell again.
The door was pulled swiftly open, like the ringing was a nuisance and the owner was about to tell someone off but they didn’t, not then. Chanyeol stared into the brown eyes that were much like his own, both in color and shape. They were hidden behind the thick lenses of a tortoise shell glasses and the grey hair he so remembered just peppering his father’s face and head had now become the main color. He’d grown shorter in such little time, wearing a bathrobe and slippers, looking like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“You,” the hoarse voice cranked out, “What are you doing here?”

__________________________________________________

A lot of things had happened in Chanyeol’s lifetime, but one of the occurrences least expected was sitting down in his ill-lit living room across from his father, and offered a whiskey glass on the rocks.
His father glugged it like he was drinking angel’s tears, and then upon finishing, refilled his glass with more scotch. Chanyeol hadn’t touched the glass that was meant for him; the ice melted within the tumbler, condensation dripping down the sides.

“You’ve gotten taller,” his father slurred, still not looking at him, never looking at him. “How tall are you?”

“Six feet.”

His father hummed. “I was taller than that at your age,” he said, gruffly. “I hit six foot three in college. It’s from all the crap you ate, all those TV Dinners, stunted your growth-“

“Where is she?”

“I told her to start buying some vegetables to eat around here, but she never did, she never listened to me.”

“Where is my mother?” Chanyeol insisted, hands balled into fists from the cold. Why was it so dark in here?

His father ignored him once again and poured himself another drink. He took a long swig and scratched his stubbly chin. “Where is your mother, I wonder?” he said in that quiet hoarseness of his.

Chanyeol sighed, his shoulders slumping. He knew he wasn’t going to get any help here. He wondered why he even came. He moved to get out of the chair before being interrupted by his father’s awful voice. “Going so soon?”

“I’m going to find her.”

“By doing what,” chuckled his father in dark amusement, “Calling every hospice in the country? You’re more intelligent than that, you’re my son.”

Chanyeol furrowed his brows. “My son, graduating with honors, going to college, making something out of himself.” His father talked like he was telling a story to his friends, like Chanyeol wasn’t there.

The silence was deafening and the windows shuttered against the harsh winds of December, there was still no sign of snow but yet the room felt so cold at that moment, it could’ve been snowing inside. “You’re not gonna find here.”

“I’ll find a way-“

“Find a way he says,” his father chuckled before coughing violently. “Unless you have a shovel and some gloves with you, I doubt you’ll be finding her any time soon.”

It felt like minutes had passed before Chanyeol could muster up the energy to speak. “What?”

“She’s dead,” his father said, getting up with great trouble. “She died almost a year ago.”

“You’re lying.”

“For what?” his father spat. “Why would I need to lie? No one’s paying me to deliver you news, boy.”

Chanyeol’s mind worked fast. This couldn’t be true, but his father was right; there was no reason to lie. He felt the prickling of tears but he refused to show any kind of weakness in front of his father.

“No one told me.”

“How was I supposed to?” his father bit, looking at him darkly. “You left, changed your number, changed your email; you abandoned every right to know what was going on in this family the minute you stepped out of this house with the intention of not coming back.”

His fathered walked into the dim kitchen and tried to fish out another bottle of alcohol. Chanyeol followed him slowly. “How?” he asked quietly.

“Suicide.” His father said, and the wind rattled the glass of the windows again.

His mother killing herself, his mother with bloodied wrists, hanged on a noose, biting her own tongue, his mother wouldn’t. His mother would never kill herself. He couldn’t take it; he slid into a kitchen chair, his head in his hands. Stray tears fell out of his eyes. “You never should’ve put her in there.” Chanyeol said weakly, his voice cracking.

His father scoffed. “Would’ve happened sooner than later,” he huffed, “Marrying her was a mistake; you kids were a mistake. Everything that ever happened in this house was a tragedy, all you people ever did was bring on grief.”

Chanyeol cried softly, never wanting to look at his father. The old man walked past him into the living room and sat. The house was a quiet save for the gentle sobs and occasional sip of bourbon.

Chanyeol lifted himself up, looking at the pictures on the wall. His fifth birthday, his parents’ wedding photo, Minah’s baby pictures; ominous shadows were casted on these photographs, enveloping them in gloomy reality. These photos were encased in glass and wooden frames, saving bits of time and space in pixels and protecting them from the ugly, grieving world outside. Nothing was ever safe from heartbreak; nothing could ever be sheltered from pain.

He called out to his father in the living room. “Where is she buried?”

He walked into the dark, quiet lounge and looked at his lazing, putrid father. “Local cemetery.” He answered quietly, “Buried next to her dad.”

Chanyeol rubbed his eyes and sniffed, getting ready to walk out of the door before remembering something. He looked at his father again, the image of him sitting casually in his childhood living room blanketed in shadows, as he talked so lightly about his mother’s dead dealing him pangs of hurt and rage. “Where is Minah?”
His father smiled, his teeth yellowing and gums receding with age. He laughed before waning into a coughing fit. “That one, I tell ya.” He chortled like Chanyeol had told some grand joke. He quieted gradually before taking another sip. Putting the glass down with a thump, he glared at Chanyeol. “Look in the Red Light district.”

Chanyeol and his mother, in their infinite solitude, had a game they liked to play. It was called “I Desire, I Desire” and the aim of it was to sing a little rhyme and use words relating to what the other person had in their hand.

His mother held a red book in her hand, an old copy of The Little Prince and she waited expectantly for her son. Twelve-year old Chanyeol stared hard at the book before breaking out a big grin.

“I desire, I desire,
Mrs. Park, I do inquire,
To open the cover and take a look,
at what’s inside that little, red book!”

His mother smiled brilliantly. “Excellent!” she squealed, “My turn!”

Chanyeol looked around for something to hold in his hand, but his mother stopped him. He stared at her, confused. She laughed at his puzzled expression. She began the rhyme, honeyed and musical.

“I desire, I desire,
Little boy, I do inquire,
to keep this lad so bright, so clever
to stay with me until forever.”

Chanyeol was thinking about that rhyme now, as he walked the cold, dark streets in the seedier part of town. He was never allowed to come here, he never even dared to come here when he snuck out with Seyeon. There were rumors that people found bodies hanging on the regional telephone wires and since then, Chanyeol didn’t like being anywhere near the district limits.

But the fear had never fully wrapped itself around Chanyeol; he felt like a ghost wandering a ghost town, his feelings of loss were heavy and almost numbed anything else. He asked suspicious spectators in odd, offensive clothing where Minah was but they all shook their heads and eyed him as he walked away.

“Minah?” asked a girl who couldn’t be older than seventeen.

They stood outside a mildly loud bar as she smoked a cigarette. Her shorts and boots didn’t seem to be very comfortable clothing for the weather. She twirled her straightened black hair around her finger, absentmindedly. “I knew a Minah, but that wasn’t her street name,” her voice was guttural, “We got to know each other a little, worked on the same street for a while before she got picked up by a madam. She works at that swank place down the road, you can’t miss it, red lanterns and all.”

There were certainly red lanterns, and a lot of women in nice dresses being taken behind screen doors. The entrance was designed like a western saloon, all dark wood and red velvet. It was interesting that the girls weren’t dressed in theme; Chanyeol supposed that was evident of a cheap concept thrown out the window. The orange lights casted a warm glow on the place and Chanyeol was met by a tall, widely built woman. She had a lot of eye shadow on and a creeping smile, asking what he was looking for this evening.

“Just looking around,” Chanyeol mumbled, walking past the waiting madam.

The room was larger inside than it looked. It was wide and spacious, allowing Chanyeol to sit down, unseen and watch as girl after girl walked by.

It wasn’t hard to find her.

Her dress was dark blue, short and tight. Minah was always tall, but in those velvet pumps, she towered. Her hair was slicked back and shiny, with large, heavy gold hoop earrings and lipstick the color of fresh blood. She sat on the barstool but her legs could reach the bottom. She entertained a guest, never smiling, only smirking subtly and nodding.

Chanyeol watched her, not with curiosity, but a vague sense of wonder. Nothing has changed, just moved. His mother was always dead, now she’s in the ground; Minah was always the center of attention, now it wasn’t just at home. Chanyeol was always invisible; he’s just invisible in another place now.

I desire, I desire,
Big, tall girl, I do inquire,
When did the raving renegade in Prussian blue
Become so sad, so desolate, so unbearably see through?

Chanyeol got up and walked out of the brothel, he’d had enough of this.

He was going back home.
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