Dangerous Mind 「 interlude 」
Author’s Note: I’m going to finish this story even if it kills me, says the author who last updated in 2010.
Side note 1: Oh, if I haven’t mention it already, I’ve changed journals a while ago (y0naki_x3 → starmocha ), so I’m now posting stories under starmocha.
Side note 2: Yoochun takes a stroll down memory lane. This chapter is a break from the current story (and therefore, much shorter than usual), the calm before the storm, if you will.
Yoochun remembered that night. He remembered it perfectly well. Too well, unfortunately.
("Jaejoong?"
The darker-haired boy looked up from his position on the floor in front of the fireplace, his eyes having long ago lost its innocent sparkles. "Hmm?"
Yoochun touched a key on the piano before continuing, "You wanted to know my story, right?"
Suddenly, Jaejoong became uncomfortable, but he made sure it was not visible to Yoochun. After all, he would rather avoid any topics from the past if he could. He nodded his head slowly. "You don't have to tell..."
"No, I want to," Yoochun said abruptly, his eyes once again held a faraway look. Yoochun would frequently reminisce to himself, going down the dark, bleak memory lane of his past. Usually during these moments, he was lost to the outside world, and Jaejoong knew better than to try to bring him back to reality. All he could do was just watch over the other boy during his frequent trips, and hoped that everything would return to normal.
"It was 1989..."
At the tender age of three, I was discovered by my parents to be a piano prodigy when they had introduced me to the accursed instrument. It was strange, I don't recall how or why, but the moment I sat down in front of it, it was like the music came to me. Music from the past that I have never known and music that I would later become famous for composing would form at my fingertips.
This gift would later become like a white elephant, something that brought my parents fame and fortune, while it brought me all sorts of different misfortunes.
I never attended any type of school. My parents opted for me to have a tutor instead, so it would be more convenient for me to perform when necessary. I had grown accustomed to this type of lifestyle, partly because I've never known anything else.
It was a mundane life. I didn't even feel like I was alive. It was almost as if I was just an empty shell of a person, a puppet if you will, forced to perform not for pleasure but for money. By the age of six, I had realized my parents' marriage was beginning to fall apart as they fought over money and where and to whom I should be performing.
I was no longer their son, but simply a money-making machine. Even now, I'm disgusted that they chose money over their own flesh and blood, especially when he appeared. You remember him, right? Yes, that fucking drunkard.
"I'm the headmaster of this school, famous for taking in young musical prodigies like Yoochun," he had said. "Let him attend. We'll give him a full scholarship, and it will be worthwhile for all of us."
Fools. Why did they not see through his obvious guise? Were they that blinded by greed that they would trade their son to a complete stranger that provided no background of anything? Yes, fame and fortune are temping little things, and we, humans, are weak against enticements. Even so, was it worth it to trade their son for a vague deal?
"Mom, I don't want to go," I remember pleading with tears streaming uncontrollably down my face. Why was I the only one that could see the wicked smile behind that mask? Was his real self only visible to me? He was the monster in the closet, the boogeyman under the bed, the nightmare only children could see. More than anything, I wished for just a split second, his mask would disappear in their presence, and for them to shelter me from this beast and all others like him.
"Please, please, I'll be good, I'll do anything, please don't send me away!" Countless pleadings fell on deaf ears, nonstop tears touched no hearts, and everything was just futile. The empty life I would now yearn for was replaced with a living hell.
Night after night, he would abuse me until I would pass out from exhaustion. The more I resisted him, the more painful he would make it for me. Eventually, I had given up on trying to escape, having lost faith in everything the moment he brought me to that old, broken-down house.
Just do as he says, and it will be over quickly, I would repeat to myself thousands of time like a broken record.
Five years had passed since he had brought me to the house. Five years since I had seen someone's face other than his. And then, one day, he brought...you there. That perfectly pale face, framed by dark, soft raven hair. A beautiful little angel unconscious in his arms, resting unaware of the Hell that awaited you, and the God that had forsaken you.
I couldn't let him damage your beauty or dirty you in any way. I may have been forsaken, but I couldn't abandon you. I could never abandon you... Never...)
"Boss?"
Yoochun opened his eyes and turned away from the piano he was sitting in front of. He looked at his goons with disinterest. Reaching into his pants pocket, he pulled out a carton of cigarettes, lighted one, and took quick, short puffs. He seemed tired.
"Should we go after them?"
"No, you should just sit around and have a tea party. Of course, I want you to go after them." His tone was irritable despite not raising his voice. He waved his hand impassively, turning around to face the piano. "Just go, leave me alone. Don't come back unless you have some important news."
The men promptly shuffled out, speaking lowly among themselves, and occasionally eyeing Yoochun with unease before finally closing the door. Yoochun grinded the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray before he began playing a mournful rhapsody, slowly losing himself in the dark rapture.
"Just the two of us...That's how it should be..."
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Side note 1: Oh, if I haven’t mention it already, I’ve changed journals a while ago (y0naki_x3 → starmocha ), so I’m now posting stories under starmocha.
Side note 2: Yoochun takes a stroll down memory lane. This chapter is a break from the current story (and therefore, much shorter than usual), the calm before the storm, if you will.
Yoochun remembered that night. He remembered it perfectly well. Too well, unfortunately.
("Jaejoong?"
The darker-haired boy looked up from his position on the floor in front of the fireplace, his eyes having long ago lost its innocent sparkles. "Hmm?"
Yoochun touched a key on the piano before continuing, "You wanted to know my story, right?"
Suddenly, Jaejoong became uncomfortable, but he made sure it was not visible to Yoochun. After all, he would rather avoid any topics from the past if he could. He nodded his head slowly. "You don't have to tell..."
"No, I want to," Yoochun said abruptly, his eyes once again held a faraway look. Yoochun would frequently reminisce to himself, going down the dark, bleak memory lane of his past. Usually during these moments, he was lost to the outside world, and Jaejoong knew better than to try to bring him back to reality. All he could do was just watch over the other boy during his frequent trips, and hoped that everything would return to normal.
"It was 1989..."
At the tender age of three, I was discovered by my parents to be a piano prodigy when they had introduced me to the accursed instrument. It was strange, I don't recall how or why, but the moment I sat down in front of it, it was like the music came to me. Music from the past that I have never known and music that I would later become famous for composing would form at my fingertips.
This gift would later become like a white elephant, something that brought my parents fame and fortune, while it brought me all sorts of different misfortunes.
I never attended any type of school. My parents opted for me to have a tutor instead, so it would be more convenient for me to perform when necessary. I had grown accustomed to this type of lifestyle, partly because I've never known anything else.
It was a mundane life. I didn't even feel like I was alive. It was almost as if I was just an empty shell of a person, a puppet if you will, forced to perform not for pleasure but for money. By the age of six, I had realized my parents' marriage was beginning to fall apart as they fought over money and where and to whom I should be performing.
I was no longer their son, but simply a money-making machine. Even now, I'm disgusted that they chose money over their own flesh and blood, especially when he appeared. You remember him, right? Yes, that fucking drunkard.
"I'm the headmaster of this school, famous for taking in young musical prodigies like Yoochun," he had said. "Let him attend. We'll give him a full scholarship, and it will be worthwhile for all of us."
Fools. Why did they not see through his obvious guise? Were they that blinded by greed that they would trade their son to a complete stranger that provided no background of anything? Yes, fame and fortune are temping little things, and we, humans, are weak against enticements. Even so, was it worth it to trade their son for a vague deal?
"Mom, I don't want to go," I remember pleading with tears streaming uncontrollably down my face. Why was I the only one that could see the wicked smile behind that mask? Was his real self only visible to me? He was the monster in the closet, the boogeyman under the bed, the nightmare only children could see. More than anything, I wished for just a split second, his mask would disappear in their presence, and for them to shelter me from this beast and all others like him.
"Please, please, I'll be good, I'll do anything, please don't send me away!" Countless pleadings fell on deaf ears, nonstop tears touched no hearts, and everything was just futile. The empty life I would now yearn for was replaced with a living hell.
Night after night, he would abuse me until I would pass out from exhaustion. The more I resisted him, the more painful he would make it for me. Eventually, I had given up on trying to escape, having lost faith in everything the moment he brought me to that old, broken-down house.
Just do as he says, and it will be over quickly, I would repeat to myself thousands of time like a broken record.
Five years had passed since he had brought me to the house. Five years since I had seen someone's face other than his. And then, one day, he brought...you there. That perfectly pale face, framed by dark, soft raven hair. A beautiful little angel unconscious in his arms, resting unaware of the Hell that awaited you, and the God that had forsaken you.
I couldn't let him damage your beauty or dirty you in any way. I may have been forsaken, but I couldn't abandon you. I could never abandon you... Never...)
"Boss?"
Yoochun opened his eyes and turned away from the piano he was sitting in front of. He looked at his goons with disinterest. Reaching into his pants pocket, he pulled out a carton of cigarettes, lighted one, and took quick, short puffs. He seemed tired.
"Should we go after them?"
"No, you should just sit around and have a tea party. Of course, I want you to go after them." His tone was irritable despite not raising his voice. He waved his hand impassively, turning around to face the piano. "Just go, leave me alone. Don't come back unless you have some important news."
The men promptly shuffled out, speaking lowly among themselves, and occasionally eyeing Yoochun with unease before finally closing the door. Yoochun grinded the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray before he began playing a mournful rhapsody, slowly losing himself in the dark rapture.
"Just the two of us...That's how it should be..."
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