far from you | oneus

eight. 06-08-20

His finger hovers above the computer mouse, his mind racing with silent contemplation.

[ SUBMIT SCHOLARSHIP APPLICATION? ]

One would perhaps question why someone from as financially comfortable a background as his family would consider going in for a scholarship, but truth be told, the amount of money he had at his disposal for education wasn't a lot to begin with. His father made sure everything to do with Dongju was left up to his mother, and he was aware that she had a good monthly salary at the company as well as money from his father, but if Dongju's plan was ever to come into place, he needed all the money he could get his hands on, and there was none to spare for university education unless he could get a full-ride scholarship.

Besides, he was used to having to make decisions like these on his own by now; his mother barely had alone time with him anymore, what with her work at the company and appeasing his father. He didn't blame her for it, just as she never blamed him regardless of everything that happened. He couldn't. Not ever, not after that day.

It had been a windy fall night, close to a decade ago, that he knelt with his mother on the floor of the sitting room, her arms red with angry, swelling welts, her perfect makeup marred by streaking tear tracks.

"I want to run away, Mommy," he begged softly, his little hands holding tight to the satin of her skirt, shaking with fear. "W-Why can't we go away?"

"Your father is a good man at heart," she said, her voice unstable but her spirit firm. "Sometimes he is angry, sometimes he is frustrated, but he can learn."

"He can be better, but what matters is that he loves you and he loves me, okay? I need you to remember that, Dongju."

"But h-he beats you," he hiccupped, choking back tears. "With his belt, I saw it-"

"Didn't he buy us a beautiful house to stay in? Doesn't he take you to dance lessons, and bring us out for good food?" she said, smoothing back his tear-soaked hair from his forehead. "He wants to give you a good future. He loves us, Dongju. Sometimes he just doesn't show it well."

There was a long moment of silence for Dongju to absorb what she had said.

"I miss Dongmyeongie," he began to sob, collapsing into his mother's lap. "I miss him."

"I miss him too, baby. I love Dongmyeongie just like you do, but he's not here anymore, okay? Mommy's here now. Am I enough for you?"

No, he wanted to say. No, mommy. I want Dongmyeongie to come home.

He couldn't describe with his eight-year-old vocabulary how painfully his heart wrenched as he got into bed every night, the other side of his bedroom sitting awkwardly empty, the once-matching racecar loft bed ripped out of the wall, paint covering the marks of nails hewn into the drywall.

He couldn't find the words to speak of the suffocating knots of loneliness that embedded themselves deep in the pit of his stomach as he lay sleepless on moonlit nights.

But Mommy hurt more, more than he ever had, and if she could smile and wave and say "Everything's okay!", then he would learn from her. He would wake up in the morning and smile and wave and say "Good morning Daddy, how was your rest last night?"

He would eat the expensive food he brought them out to eat, he would smile and say thank you, he would make cards for him on Father's Day and shape sweet ice-skin mooncakes with him on festival weekends.

He wouldn't talk about Dongmyeong. He wouldn't shout, or cry, or ask Mommy if they could run away.

He would stay with her, no matter what happened. He couldn't lose anyone else.

He wasn't really sure if he could bear to anymore.