Wild Smoke

32. Perpetually Gone

Seokjin

It's quiet here as usual. This place, it feels like a sanctuary of some sort.

Dead bodies resting, oblivious to everything around them. This graveyard was a family heirloom, gifting itself to my family generation to generation. Members of the Kim household—my dear family rested here, oblivious and tortured. I always felt peace here, knowing it would feel right.

The place where I stand was wet earth, the mud squelching under my boots. A few crushed stubs of my cigarettes are thrown without any particular order. I was smoking before I came here but couldn't find myself to stop, just because I should.

I stood silently, thinking and thinking. Seconds passed. They slowly turned to minutes and then to hours. My long coat was lightly swaying in the breeze and my hair was softly caressing my eyebrows The light drizzling kept me drenched, my eyelashes feeling heavy under the weight of the raindrops nestled on them.

The grave in front of me was unique. Yellow marbled stone, polished and cleaned. A huge wreath of lilies adorned the whole structure. It was beautiful.

Just like my mother.

I don't remember how long I stood here, watching, waiting.. admiring.

My mother was extraordinary. A ravishing kind of beauty. She knew she had everyone wrapped around her little finger, everyone at her beck and call. A silent voice she was. She hid every weakness, every sorrow and projected a strong superiority to anyone who came across her. It was evident that she was a force to be reckoned with. I heard her stories once—the one which showed her real self. Fierce, strong and passionate. These were her main qualities. She never loved less. It was an insult to her.

Full of life and brimming with vigour, my mother was a vision. She was unbeatable. Then misfortune struck her—she married my father.

After that, it went downhill.

Constant shouting, curses spewed back and forth, shaming, insulting each other. My parents found their favorite pastime the moment they were betrothed to each other. Sometimes, I used to wonder how and when they tolerated each other and had mellowed down to fuck and have me. Beats me.

I was seven when the beatings began. Mom wasn't home that day and the house help were off duty. I was in my room, playing Mario and having ramen when I heard the dull thud of heavy boots making its way to my room.  I knew it was my father. He slowly opened the door and hobbled inside, clearly drunk.

He saw me sitting on the floor and made his way to my bed. After sitting on it unceremoniously, he summoned me with his forefinger. Even at such a small age, I understood the deranged look in his eyes. He was nowhere near to being affectionate. He came to my room with a purpose and I soon got to find that out.

After slowly making my way towards him with a slight shake in my legs, I stood in front of him.

He looked at me for a second. Before I could process anything, he grabbed my collar and pulled me close to his face. His breath reeked of smoke and alcohol. I had a strong urge to gag but I held it in.

"You should have died that day, boy."

There was no mistaking the hatred in his voice. I knew what he meant. I always doubted my father's affection towards me. He would pat me on my head, or sometimes my back, when we were in public but he never bothered to smile at me. Never. That was one of the many reasons my parents fought over and the only reason I used to cry in my room in the dark.