Incarnadine | Prequel to "Viridescence"

21

7th November
1993

A woman lays on a hospital bed with no energy. She stares at the ceiling, all hope drained from her system. She then moves her eyes to her husband, who restlessly paces back and forth beside her bed.

And then her eyes travel to the smaller bed beside hers. She stares at her newborn son with mixed feelings. Only aged nineteen, her son feels like an unneccessary addition to her life. Her greatest moment of grief was when she found out that she was pregnant at the age of eighteen.

She's not ready for this. She doesn't want a child; she doesn't want her life to be gone like this. She's not prepared to take care of another life.

"Could we abandon him somewhere?" her husband asks. "I don't know...I don't want him but I feel bad if we just get rid of him like that," she responds in a quieter voice, afraid a nurse might hear. She only gave birth a few hours ago after all, what kind of mother says things like this right after giving birth?

She does feel a small sense of guilt but mostly just grief and hopelessness. "Should we still raise him? We can send him off to a boarding school or something once he's gotten to that point and he'll be gone from our house that way," she suggests. The thought of raising her very own son already makes her feel physically sick, but one glance at the tiny baby pushes her to at least give him a chance.

Even though this chance won't be very fair.

"I don't agree with your idea but we don't have much of a choice, do we? I think we should leave him at an orphanage or something still," the husband suggests. The mother shakes her head. "No, he's our son. Let's maybe try for a while and see how that goes," she argues. She feels so conflicted on the inside. The clashing feelings of hatred towards her child and motherly love fight inside her.

She doesn't even think about how harmful this may be to the child. She doesn't realise that her high levels of distress and despair while she was pregnant may have already harmed the child.

"Fine, we can give it a try," the father of the child complains. He hates this idea so much and the thought of having to dedicate his time to raising a child and providing for another life hurts him on the inside.

"We didn't even think of a name, did we?" she laughs bitterly. Already growing frustrated, the father picks up a magazine beside her bed and quickly flicks through it. His eyes land on one name on a random page and he shrugs. 

"Let's just call him Hongjoong."

The mother continues to stare at the baby and nods. "Sure, Kim Hongjoong it is then."

17th January
1998

Hongjoong, now four years of age, is sitting on the floor and messing around with random pieces of paper. He's fully concentrated on them and is extremely entertained by such a small thing. Despite looking adorable to most, his mother and father watch him stressfully.

"I don't understand. Why can't he do cute things like other kids? I think something's wrong with him," the mother whispers with teary eyes. Her son has had a slow development growing up, or at least that's how his parents see it.

According to every doctor they've seen, he's growing just fine.

"He's a bit stupid, shouldn't he know his times tables by now? Why won't he learn when I teach him?" is what the dad says more often than he thinks.

"Mommy, can you play with me?" Hongjoong asks. The parents snap out of their conversation and the boy's mother flashes him an uncomfortable smile. "I'm busy," she mumbles while standing up. Too used to hearing the same answer every time, Hongjoong simply returns to his previous task.