The Cabin

25 - lowercase

he dug at the food in front of him. it was a sickly beige color. it smelled like coffee, though he knew it was pudding.

his spoon continued to dip in and out of the substance in that plastic container. pudding was his least favorite snack. ms. granger had tried to make up for it with getting coffee flavored pudding.

sighing, he glanced up at his foreign therapist as she scribbled unknown words into her folders. the folder had his name written in dark black marker, with a tiny curve to the letters.

her blonde hair was bone-straight today (like it usually was), and her face was bare with glasses on the tip of her nose.

ms. granger was from england, but moved to south korea in order to live with her husband. at least, that's what she told him when he first began to visit her office after class every day.

she looked to be in her early forties, but still had that youthfulness in her voice with smile lines around her eyes.

"san," she began, setting her pen down and looking into his teenage eyes, "i know you're nervous about talking to me since i told you what i needed to start talking to you about."

he glanced up from the unfavorable treat and shoved a large spoonful into his mouth, resisting the urge to gag. he didn't feel like talking.

her features softened. "san, please. if we don't talk about this, it could really hurt you in the future."

he continued to shove his face full of disgusting pudding, not once swallowing it for fear of regurgitating it.

"san, we need to talk about your parents. you said they're mean, but i've been getting reports from teachers that you often have poorly-explained bruises on your body and that you have much different reactions to reprimands and contact than others. i need you to tell me if there's anything going on at home."

his heart pounded into his ears. he felt sick.

no. no. no, no, nononono this was the last thing he ever wanted to talk about.

he couldn't.

he didn't want to.

he wouldn't.

his thoughts rushed in and out of his brain, sending his pulse to unimaginable numbers. he felt faint.

"san, are your parents-"

he hurriedly pulled a trashcan near him and threw up the contents of his lunch and the unswallowed (but digested) pudding in his mouth. with a loud gag, he flushed his system out into a small trashcan with flowers and smiley-faces painted onto it.

---

San awoke in a hot sweat, gasping for air. His gold chain swung under his hunched neck, Wooyoung's old collar around his wrist.

He often had dreams- no, nightmares, like that. Memories of his old therapist constantly haunted him in his adult life. Normally Wooyoung would be there to help him through it, but tonight San was alone.

Wooyoung had gone out to play poker with some old classmates, likely with high stakes. "Shiber," San confided in his stuffed animal, "I just want these nightmares to end. I want a happy dream like everyone else has."

Hongjoong stepped into San's field of view with a sympathetic face and soft eyes. He held a cold rag out to the younger, a fresh shirt in his other hand.

San accepted the items from the leader of the pack with a small smile. He pulled his sweat-soaked shirt off with both arms crossed over the other and gave an almost orgasmic sigh.

"Must feel good to get out of that nasty shirt, huh?" Hongjoong said from the doorway. San, in his disheveled state wearing nothing but gym shorts and his glasses, nodded groggily and dragged the rag over his toned upper body to clean the sweat off of himself. "Maybe you should shower, or drink some water, or something. You look like shit."

San glanced at his bedside clock. "At three in the morning?"

"Yeah, just don't make a mess and don't cause a fuss. I'm going back to my bed," Hongjoong placed a bottle of melatonin on the bedside table and walked out of the room.

San held the bottle up, examining the labels. "'Take two tablets before bed; do not exceed reccomended amount,'" he read aloud.

He exited the room shortly after and made a beeline for the kitchen to get a cold glass of water.

He pushed the memories of therapy out of his head, the memories of his parents going further than the rest. The last thing he wanted to remember while in the same building as his friends and crush was what his dead parents did to him and Wooyoung.

Reaching the kitchen, San absent-mindedly readied a glass cup and ran his index finger around the top of it, tracing the circle around and around.

Replacing his memories of the past were his predictions on what your soft lips tasted like. Would it be refreshing like water? Or would it be sweet like candy? Maybe it would be fiery and hot like pepper.

As he dropped a handful of ice cubes into the glass, his attention was turned to a soft groan at the entrance of the kitchen.

You walked in, unaware of his presence, in a long shirt and what he suspected was nothing else. Your eyes were still halfway shut while you rummaged around for the carton of apple juice, which he'd learned was your favorite.

The way you bent over to reach for said drink sent his thoughts into a fuzzy haze. He quickly found himself eyeing your figure, admiring the way the shirt just barely hid your thighs from him.

Oh, how he wanted to hold you.

Oh, how he wanted to corner you and get you all flustered like he once had done.

Oh, how his self control diminished the second he imagined a blush on your cheeks.