FIC: Rules of the jungle
Just last week, Henry was pumped, ready to kick start and get on the stage and play. He felt as though this was a dream; he was definitely on cloud nine - he had an appreciative audience who screamed for him, he had ‘friends’ to lean onto.
This week though…he wasn’t so sure. The atmosphere backstage was tense - it wasn’t the same tension that hung in the air like the night of his debut live performance with the boys. This time round, it was unsettling and the silence from the other boys was deafening, even amidst the bustle of the backstage crew who were scuttling around, like black beetles.
Their cue was given and twelve of the boys went out to the adoration of the fans. Henry avoids eye contact with the tall blonde standing beside him; he didn’t felt like making friends today. All his efforts had been futile so far, who was to say that today would be any different? He could speak barely any Korean past ‘Ahnyeong’; how was that going to help? He suddenly misses his friends back in Canada. He knows they’re doing fine without him - he knows it’s wrong to wish that they weren’t, that doing so was being selfish but damn it, he couldn’t help it. He wants someone to at least share a bit of the pain with him, the dull ache that was spreading. He wonders about his family, he wonders what they’re doing right now; he looks at the watch and makes a mental reminder to call home after the performance, if only to hear their voices once again.
He steps out onto the stage and he can’t help but wonder if he was walking straight into a whirlpool, to his death. The once welcoming sea of blue now looked nothing like the lakes of home but rather, more like the violence of the Canadian Falls - intimidating and unfriendly.
He gulps, trying to steel his nerves as he takes a step forward. He absently notes that each step he takes is heavier than the last - he knew it wasn’t possible that someone could have added weights to his boots but that was exactly how it felt like.
Settling the violin into the crook of the shoulder, he finds comfort that at least, his violin hasn’t changed; it was his anchor, his rock. He smiles to himself, trying to ignore the screams of ‘YEOLSEMYEONG’. He tries hard to pretend that he doesn’t know that it means thirteen in Korean, almost desperate to pretend that he didn’t know a single damn word of what they were saying but he knows. He knows that he doesn’t belong here and he knows that they know that he doesn’t belong here.
It was worlds apart from their previous performance on the same stage, they were screaming for him, applauding him for serenading them with his violin - their thunderous response brought a sense of joy into his heart, it made him feel like a superstar even before he started. And he couldn’t help smiling the rest of the week after that.
Standing in front of them, the lights dimmed and the red strobes casting shadows, he tried hard not to cry. He was a professional damn it, he had to act like one, he told himself.
And so he played, pouring out the anguish and misery that now resided within his heart. He bites back the tears that threatened to spill; it wasn’t his intention to make such sorrowful sounds for a hit song. He wonders if any of the audience members could have picked up the alteration; if they could hear the pain in the music or perhaps, they were too busy screaming for him to go home.
He stalked off to the back, hidden behind the twelve once his solo piece was finished, much to the delight of the fans, he notes. He wants to scream at them, he wants to rant. Hell, he wants to show them the finger and tell them to fuck off. It wasn’t his fault that the management had decided to make him part of Super Junior China - he had no say whether or not he agreed to it. He wants to tell them that if he did, he wouldn’t have joined the subgroup - hell, he could barely speak any Mandarin for that matter. Henry feels as though he’s caught between a rock and a hard place; he realizes bitterly that he had signed away his soul the moment he won the Global Audition.
It was tempting to walk away from the stage right now, to make a statement. But he knows that it was wrong to leave this bunch of artistes in the lurch. It is his responsibility to ensure that the strains of the violins accompanied them as they made their way out. Absentmindedly, he wondered how the Pipe Piper felt as he led the children of Hamlin away from their homes. Did the man even feel a sense of sadness, being forced to resort to such an act as revenge? He almost misses his cue, lost in such thoughts and he mentally cursed himself.
With each step forward, he felt vulnerable, naked like a newborn. He tried to concentrate solely on the melody he’s played countless times. As soon as it was over, he fought back the urge to break into a run - a stray tear had dropped. He held his head high as he made his way backstage, trying not to hurry as much - he told himself to try and walk at a normal pace, despite knowing it wouldn’t work - he still had pride and dignity within him, he was damned if he was going to allow them the satisfaction of knowing that they had killed a part of him.
Once safe behind the curtains, the tears fell fast, like the Niagara Falls. Turning away from the growing group of boys who were now coming in, he realizes just how small the dressing room is; there was little to no privacy in a tiny room, shared with thirteen other guys. Henry feels like a small kid all over again but this time, his mother wasn’t here to wipe the tears away. There was no one to lend him some comfort - he was all alone in this foreign land, where it seems no one spoke a word of English. He wondered if this was how his parents felt when they first arrived in Canada - was their sense of alienation the same as his right now? Then again, they had each other and they had him. Here…here…he had no one. It feels as though someone stabbed his heart repeatedly with a blunt knife; the pain was unbearable.
As he wiped his tears away, he finally notices the mood of the room - awkward and foreboding. And suddenly the red haired man started rambling in rapid Korean, clearly agitated. The other guys had broken off into their smaller groups, making small talk, whispering amongst each other. He never felt so…alone and displaced before. He wished he could understand what they were saying, occasionally glancing at him - he felt uncomfortable under their scrutiny, even more so as the words just flew over his head.
The red haired man started to approach him, his face contorted and twisted like a wax model gone wrong. As the man started advancing, his heart started beating rapidly, drumming louder and louder with each step, to the point that it drowned out the noises in the room. All he could hear was his heartbeat, beating rapidly. But it didn’t take a genius to figure out that the man was obviously screaming at him, flailing about as he yelled. And Henry knew, he just knew that the man was reprimanding him; was this…punishment for not playing his violin properly. He hadn’t thought that anyone could have picked up the one wrong note he accidentally played earlier. The screaming and the yelling, it made him feel pathetic, useless…weak.
Who was he kidding, he thought. He was no professional, he was only an amateur and already, he had screwed up big time. The tears came down harder this time, along with the epiphany that perhaps he wasn’t cut out for this. He knew the entertainment industry was challenging and tough but he never knew just how vicious it was until today.
Hearing other voices screaming as well, he wiped away his tears and saw that the other members were screaming at the red haired man. Seeing how some of the boys not caught in the argument were glaring daggers at him, he knew then that he had clearly made a huge mistake. He had broken up their nice little family arrangement with his appearance - and Henry prayed hard that the earth could just swallow him whole right now. There was nothing more that he wanted than to just disappear. It would do the group good he figured if he was gone. And he quietly shuffled himself out of the dressing room and headed for the restroom, noting that the argument was getting violent.
Washing his face, he looks into the mirror and he barely recognises the face that stares back at him. Feeling the onslaught of more tears, he quickly doused his face in water, trying his best to suppress his tears. It was useless to cry, he realised as he was stuck here until the moment the management told him he could leave. And he prayed that day would come sooner, he didn’t know how long more he could last as an unwelcome addition to a close-knit group.
He hears someone step in and he pauses. It was Kibum, he notes who just stood there, silent. Henry tried hard not to shudder - the boy unnerved him. And then the boy spoke, it’s gonna be okay.
Okay? Okay? Henry’s mind was in a whirl - things were definitely not okay, far from it. And the way Kibum spoke, it was as though the boy was a robot, nothing more than a seemingly polite gesture from the other guys held up in the room, a mere messenger. Henry doesn’t dare turn around; he just stares at Kibum’s reflection instead and notes the apathetic look on the boy’s face.
Kibum walks up to him, pats his shoulder and leaves.
His touch burns, Henry thinks, as he continues to be rooted to the spot. Henry wonders if things have cooled down outside. Grabbing the cool metal bar, he unconsciously stops himself. Returning back to the sinks, he washes his face and then proceeds to call home.
“Hello?”
And Henry almost breaks down as he hears his mother’s voice, groggy with sleep. In his mind, he sees his mother, rubbing sleep off her eyes. And she quickly sounds anxious and worried (he sees the wrinkles form on her forehead) and soon, he knows he’s roused the entire household. Making small talk, he feels right back at home and the pang of homesickness feels heavier. The guilt that overcomes him settles in the pit of his stomach - he shouldn’t even be making his parents worried. He was a young independent adult now, not a young child of ten who still needed some babying from his parents. And he feels all the more guilty when he’s told it’s about three in the morning. The day had yet to begin back home and over here, night was approaching.
“How…how are you coping?”
“I…I’m doing fine, Ma. I’ll…I’ll talk to you soon,”
It kills him to lie but he knew it was for the best; they didn’t need to be burdened, to be worried about him. He forces himself to smile, hoping, praying that he could somehow fake happiness in his voice - that they wouldn’t notice it. It wouldn’t be that hard, he thought since they were still groggy from sleep.
Ending the call, he allows himself to cry a few seconds more before he washes his face one last time and practices his smile. Satisfied with the way he looked, ignoring the dullness that now resided within; he grabbed the restroom door handle and pulled as he stepped back out to face the world.
That day, a part of Henry dies and no one was the wiser.
After all, this was the entertainment industry where the rules of the jungle applied. Where only the strongest survived and Henry knew that if he wanted to make it big, he had to be strong. Even if it meant a small piece of him dies every day.
This week though…he wasn’t so sure. The atmosphere backstage was tense - it wasn’t the same tension that hung in the air like the night of his debut live performance with the boys. This time round, it was unsettling and the silence from the other boys was deafening, even amidst the bustle of the backstage crew who were scuttling around, like black beetles.
Their cue was given and twelve of the boys went out to the adoration of the fans. Henry avoids eye contact with the tall blonde standing beside him; he didn’t felt like making friends today. All his efforts had been futile so far, who was to say that today would be any different? He could speak barely any Korean past ‘Ahnyeong’; how was that going to help? He suddenly misses his friends back in Canada. He knows they’re doing fine without him - he knows it’s wrong to wish that they weren’t, that doing so was being selfish but damn it, he couldn’t help it. He wants someone to at least share a bit of the pain with him, the dull ache that was spreading. He wonders about his family, he wonders what they’re doing right now; he looks at the watch and makes a mental reminder to call home after the performance, if only to hear their voices once again.
He steps out onto the stage and he can’t help but wonder if he was walking straight into a whirlpool, to his death. The once welcoming sea of blue now looked nothing like the lakes of home but rather, more like the violence of the Canadian Falls - intimidating and unfriendly.
He gulps, trying to steel his nerves as he takes a step forward. He absently notes that each step he takes is heavier than the last - he knew it wasn’t possible that someone could have added weights to his boots but that was exactly how it felt like.
Settling the violin into the crook of the shoulder, he finds comfort that at least, his violin hasn’t changed; it was his anchor, his rock. He smiles to himself, trying to ignore the screams of ‘YEOLSEMYEONG’. He tries hard to pretend that he doesn’t know that it means thirteen in Korean, almost desperate to pretend that he didn’t know a single damn word of what they were saying but he knows. He knows that he doesn’t belong here and he knows that they know that he doesn’t belong here.
It was worlds apart from their previous performance on the same stage, they were screaming for him, applauding him for serenading them with his violin - their thunderous response brought a sense of joy into his heart, it made him feel like a superstar even before he started. And he couldn’t help smiling the rest of the week after that.
Standing in front of them, the lights dimmed and the red strobes casting shadows, he tried hard not to cry. He was a professional damn it, he had to act like one, he told himself.
And so he played, pouring out the anguish and misery that now resided within his heart. He bites back the tears that threatened to spill; it wasn’t his intention to make such sorrowful sounds for a hit song. He wonders if any of the audience members could have picked up the alteration; if they could hear the pain in the music or perhaps, they were too busy screaming for him to go home.
He stalked off to the back, hidden behind the twelve once his solo piece was finished, much to the delight of the fans, he notes. He wants to scream at them, he wants to rant. Hell, he wants to show them the finger and tell them to fuck off. It wasn’t his fault that the management had decided to make him part of Super Junior China - he had no say whether or not he agreed to it. He wants to tell them that if he did, he wouldn’t have joined the subgroup - hell, he could barely speak any Mandarin for that matter. Henry feels as though he’s caught between a rock and a hard place; he realizes bitterly that he had signed away his soul the moment he won the Global Audition.
It was tempting to walk away from the stage right now, to make a statement. But he knows that it was wrong to leave this bunch of artistes in the lurch. It is his responsibility to ensure that the strains of the violins accompanied them as they made their way out. Absentmindedly, he wondered how the Pipe Piper felt as he led the children of Hamlin away from their homes. Did the man even feel a sense of sadness, being forced to resort to such an act as revenge? He almost misses his cue, lost in such thoughts and he mentally cursed himself.
With each step forward, he felt vulnerable, naked like a newborn. He tried to concentrate solely on the melody he’s played countless times. As soon as it was over, he fought back the urge to break into a run - a stray tear had dropped. He held his head high as he made his way backstage, trying not to hurry as much - he told himself to try and walk at a normal pace, despite knowing it wouldn’t work - he still had pride and dignity within him, he was damned if he was going to allow them the satisfaction of knowing that they had killed a part of him.
Once safe behind the curtains, the tears fell fast, like the Niagara Falls. Turning away from the growing group of boys who were now coming in, he realizes just how small the dressing room is; there was little to no privacy in a tiny room, shared with thirteen other guys. Henry feels like a small kid all over again but this time, his mother wasn’t here to wipe the tears away. There was no one to lend him some comfort - he was all alone in this foreign land, where it seems no one spoke a word of English. He wondered if this was how his parents felt when they first arrived in Canada - was their sense of alienation the same as his right now? Then again, they had each other and they had him. Here…here…he had no one. It feels as though someone stabbed his heart repeatedly with a blunt knife; the pain was unbearable.
As he wiped his tears away, he finally notices the mood of the room - awkward and foreboding. And suddenly the red haired man started rambling in rapid Korean, clearly agitated. The other guys had broken off into their smaller groups, making small talk, whispering amongst each other. He never felt so…alone and displaced before. He wished he could understand what they were saying, occasionally glancing at him - he felt uncomfortable under their scrutiny, even more so as the words just flew over his head.
The red haired man started to approach him, his face contorted and twisted like a wax model gone wrong. As the man started advancing, his heart started beating rapidly, drumming louder and louder with each step, to the point that it drowned out the noises in the room. All he could hear was his heartbeat, beating rapidly. But it didn’t take a genius to figure out that the man was obviously screaming at him, flailing about as he yelled. And Henry knew, he just knew that the man was reprimanding him; was this…punishment for not playing his violin properly. He hadn’t thought that anyone could have picked up the one wrong note he accidentally played earlier. The screaming and the yelling, it made him feel pathetic, useless…weak.
Who was he kidding, he thought. He was no professional, he was only an amateur and already, he had screwed up big time. The tears came down harder this time, along with the epiphany that perhaps he wasn’t cut out for this. He knew the entertainment industry was challenging and tough but he never knew just how vicious it was until today.
Hearing other voices screaming as well, he wiped away his tears and saw that the other members were screaming at the red haired man. Seeing how some of the boys not caught in the argument were glaring daggers at him, he knew then that he had clearly made a huge mistake. He had broken up their nice little family arrangement with his appearance - and Henry prayed hard that the earth could just swallow him whole right now. There was nothing more that he wanted than to just disappear. It would do the group good he figured if he was gone. And he quietly shuffled himself out of the dressing room and headed for the restroom, noting that the argument was getting violent.
Washing his face, he looks into the mirror and he barely recognises the face that stares back at him. Feeling the onslaught of more tears, he quickly doused his face in water, trying his best to suppress his tears. It was useless to cry, he realised as he was stuck here until the moment the management told him he could leave. And he prayed that day would come sooner, he didn’t know how long more he could last as an unwelcome addition to a close-knit group.
He hears someone step in and he pauses. It was Kibum, he notes who just stood there, silent. Henry tried hard not to shudder - the boy unnerved him. And then the boy spoke, it’s gonna be okay.
Okay? Okay? Henry’s mind was in a whirl - things were definitely not okay, far from it. And the way Kibum spoke, it was as though the boy was a robot, nothing more than a seemingly polite gesture from the other guys held up in the room, a mere messenger. Henry doesn’t dare turn around; he just stares at Kibum’s reflection instead and notes the apathetic look on the boy’s face.
Kibum walks up to him, pats his shoulder and leaves.
His touch burns, Henry thinks, as he continues to be rooted to the spot. Henry wonders if things have cooled down outside. Grabbing the cool metal bar, he unconsciously stops himself. Returning back to the sinks, he washes his face and then proceeds to call home.
“Hello?”
And Henry almost breaks down as he hears his mother’s voice, groggy with sleep. In his mind, he sees his mother, rubbing sleep off her eyes. And she quickly sounds anxious and worried (he sees the wrinkles form on her forehead) and soon, he knows he’s roused the entire household. Making small talk, he feels right back at home and the pang of homesickness feels heavier. The guilt that overcomes him settles in the pit of his stomach - he shouldn’t even be making his parents worried. He was a young independent adult now, not a young child of ten who still needed some babying from his parents. And he feels all the more guilty when he’s told it’s about three in the morning. The day had yet to begin back home and over here, night was approaching.
“How…how are you coping?”
“I…I’m doing fine, Ma. I’ll…I’ll talk to you soon,”
It kills him to lie but he knew it was for the best; they didn’t need to be burdened, to be worried about him. He forces himself to smile, hoping, praying that he could somehow fake happiness in his voice - that they wouldn’t notice it. It wouldn’t be that hard, he thought since they were still groggy from sleep.
Ending the call, he allows himself to cry a few seconds more before he washes his face one last time and practices his smile. Satisfied with the way he looked, ignoring the dullness that now resided within; he grabbed the restroom door handle and pulled as he stepped back out to face the world.
That day, a part of Henry dies and no one was the wiser.
After all, this was the entertainment industry where the rules of the jungle applied. Where only the strongest survived and Henry knew that if he wanted to make it big, he had to be strong. Even if it meant a small piece of him dies every day.