When he was young, his father used to harm him in every way. His father would hit him with anything that came in hand; his father would throw him at the wall and punch him until he was barely unconscious. His father never acted like a father to him, they were father and son by blood but nothing more. How could a father hit his son until he was bleeding everywhere? Sometimes, he would blame himself, sometimes he would think that all the hitting he got was very well deserved. Who would not want to kill the person who killed the love of his life? His mother died upon giving birth to him, his mother died the moment he lived and his father gone the moment his mother descended to the dead.

Every person had a way with coping up with life, every person had their own way of dealing with the tragedies that came to them; every person had their own way of living this life. He didn’t know nor remembered how it happened but he needed to be strong, and so, one day, he became one. He didn’t remember much about it but he could picture his body standing up, pushing his father away and running for his life. The doors were locked so he had no option but to hide, everything happened after that was a blur to him, he could not remember anything aside from the scream his father let out that moment. He was not sure but every time something hit his skin, every time his father would scream at him or every time his father would throw him or throw something at him, the next moments would be a blur of I don’t knows and what happened. The next moments were an image of daring and tiger eyes, a confident self after him.

-----

He was always within, hiding inside. He was always there inside, angry, rage flowing through his blood. He was always present and never sleeping, he was always awake in every hit and struggle the little kid had. He never slept, he was always there, guarding but not doing anything. He was always there, watching, always watching, only watching. He was always present but that was it, just present. He was always there, but unmoving, paralyzed while clouded with hate, agitated with a burning fury wanting and waiting to ablaze. He was always there, always there, always only there.

Until that day came.

He was not sure what was happening, the kid was crying, his father was hitting him, his cries was all he could hear and he wanted to punch the father who never acted like one, the cries and mourns of the kid was all over the room and he wanted to hit the father, the man, the monster, who never really treated his son as a son. And that was it, he wanted to punch the guy and a few seconds later, said guy was bleeding, his mouth was bleeding and he was lying on the floor. Red. All he could see was red, blood flowing from his hands, a bleeding face of the man lying under. He looked above then side to side, then he hit his face and he was hurting. He was there, always there, but this time, he could move, he could punch the man under him, kick the man under him, hurt the man under him. And he was there. Ah, he was finally out.

-----

He was feeling so lost, he didn’t know what was happening. He would cry because of his father’s hits then the next thing he would remember was that he was locked in his room. Sometimes, he could see blood on his hands and he was not sure as to why was it there. Sometimes, he could feel his father on his guard, as if it was intimated by his weak son. Sometimes, he would black out one the middle of the punches of his father and then the next thing he would see was his father faced bruised while blankly staring at him.

-----

He was not sure what happened but he could move, he could not hear the cries of the poor bullied child. He was breathing, he could smell the cold coffee beside the bedside table, and he could feel the soft linen, drenched with the poor child’s cold sweat. He was not sure what happened but the moment he punched the man, the monster father of the very poor child, all he could remember after that was darkness and the next thing he knew was this moment, sitting on a bed covered with cloth drenched with cold sweat, hands tied under the bed, a cold coffee beside. He tried to free himself but his attempts were useless, he was tied and he could only struggle until all of his energy was used. So he decided to just stay still, then a few moments later, he could hear the door unlocked. The monster father came in, asking him what did he ate that he had the guts and energy to fight back. He didn’t flinch nor backed out, instead, he spat on the bed and stared at the monster across him. He was not afraid.

-----

He was thirteen when the hitting gradually reduced until it became silent and still interactions with his father. His father treated him as if he was air and so he did. They learned a new way of dealing with each other without harming one another. Maybe, it was because his dad was finally seeing someone again. It was a beautiful girl who was in her mid thirtys. She was a woman of elegance and class but beneath those was a static personality who didn’t care what his man did to his son. They were a pretty good combination, someone who would not treat a son because of the belief that he killed his wife and a woman who only cared for the man who did nothing right to his son. And he didn’t care, actually. As long as his bruises were slowly healing without adding another one, the he was okay. As long as his father was not hitting him, then he was okay even if he felt so lost and lifeless inside.

-----

He didn’t sleep, he never sleeps, so it was a puzzle to him as to why he woke up on the sofa, his clothes was different, too. The last time he was drenched with cold sweat, but, today, he was wearing a white shirt, the stain of red blood was obvious. Did he bleed himself? What did he do? He was puzzled as to what was happening with his surrounding, he was looking around the room, scanning the things his visions could get, when he realized that he was not tied, he could move his hands free. He touched his face, pinched his cheeks. He could feel the slight pain and itchiness it brought to his face. He was wobbly but he tried his best to stand up until he could balance himself. He stepped, slowly, then stepped again, wobbly and sometimes losing balance, until he got the gist of what he was doing. He was walking, he could walk. He looked around the room, went to every corner possible, until he saw an open door. It was a comfort room, he could hear the little child uttering comfort room to himself every time his father was about to hit him again. Most of the time, he was not fast enough to lock the door, but there were times where he could lock the door and the banging was so loud he thought it might break. The floor was a little slippery so he had to lean on the wall for support. He looked around the comfort room, and then he saw the child, the poor child who was always hit by the monster father. He asked if the child was okay, but the little child was just staring at him, face blank and emotionless. He asked and asked again, but the child wouldn’t answer him. Then he reached out for the child and, strangely, the poor child was also reaching for him. They touched each other’s hands, but it was cold. It was not warm, unlike the skin of the monster father when he was under him, skin hot and bleeding with his nonstop punches. He looked at the child’s emotionless eyes when he realized something wrong. He touched the child’s face, it was cold. He touched his face, it was warm. But the little child was touching his face, too. He was wondering if the child wanted to touch his face to feel a little warm, so he reached out the poor child’s hand. Then realization hit him.

He was the child.

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He was fifteen when he first realized that something was wrong, he was fifteen and he was confused and depressed with his life but that did not explain the blood dripping on his hands a two unconscious body lying before him. He was fifteen, depressed and feeling a little worthless and rebel but that did not explain the video of him hitting two persons at a time, didn’t caring about the two of them bathing in their own blood. He was feeling lost, as if he was not suited to be there and that he should not be there, but that did not explain the daring and tiger eyes he sported as he looked at the CCTV.

-----

He knew now what was happening, but he didn’t know how it was possible. But he didn’t care, he was free, finally. He knew that the body was never his to start with; he could feel the small child sleeping inside him. He wanted to protect the poor child in all costs. He saw how the poor child struggled with every painful hit and he could remember how his blood raged with so much anger that time he felt like he could explode. And it used to be him not being able to do anything. But now was different. He could do something; he could save the poor child. And in exchange of saving him, he would do anything, he would do anything what he wanted with this body.

-----

Monster.

That was what people called him. He was not a monster, he wasn’t. The real monster was his father and the man inside, the Hoshi guy inside who would come out to do awful and scary things. He was anything but monster. A monster was not bathing on his own blood or screaming for help. The monster were the ones who did this to him. The mad father and the crazy person inside. But its okay, its okay to be called a monster. Because without him, without the Hoshi guy, then who would know if he would still be breathing or not? Monster or not, it didn’t changed the fact that he saved him. He saved them.

He was not a monster. His father was.

--

Monster.

That was what people called him, them. He was not, he knew he wasn’t. He was not a monster, hitting a few people until they were bleeding was not being a monster. Hitting the father of the poor child was not being a monster, and if he was, then he was on the little side because the real monster was that awful father who blamed the death of the woman he loved to the poor small child hiding inside him. He was not angry; he could never be, at least, to that child. He was thankful, a little, but not really. Without that child, he would not exist, he would not be able to move or the even breathe. So on account of being a little thankful, he wrote a letter on his palm, on the child’s palm, saying call me when things were hurting, I’ll hurt them. Then his next appearance and his pulse were covered with red. The small child was frightened with what he did, but, he got a little token of welcome that time, aside from the angry red marks around his pulse. And it was a name. The child named him Hoshi.

He was Hoshi, not a monster.

-----

He was admitted again and it was another hospital. This was another hospital and he lost count of how many hospital was it after his father decided first to lock him in a white institution full of people just like him, crazy as what his father said. It was better for him, he didn’t have to deal with his father anymore. He didn’t have to face him every day of his life. His father is the living reminder of how miserable his life actually was.

He was a very fragile child, a kid who was made of glass, tarnished with abuse, stained with depression and broken in every way. One more hit and he would finally break into pieces. He was barely struggling with life and he was just tired, he was feeling so depressed inside that he just chose to see the light in all ways, in every aspect and angle. He would smile over the way the sun would hit his skin, it was hot but he was alive. He would feel grateful over the bittersweet taste of the coffee given to him; at least it was not only him having a bittersweet moment in life. He was thankful to all the nurses who stuck with him even if he was remotely treated as a crazy patient, they never hit him. He just decided to see the good thing and brighter side of life because he could. All the people ever did to him was to pain him black, and he decided that he needed some white in his life, some light that would make him a little worthy of life.

-----

He woke up from deep slumber of nothingness, he didn’t know where did he go on those blank moments, he could feel nothing, so he just named those blank moments as his sleeping. He was on a white room, all he could see was white, no red, no blood, no ropes to tie him up. Only locked doors and white, white and more white. They said white was a very pure color, a sign of purity, of being innocent and clean. that. White was the color of his cloth, white was the color of bracelet with a label Kwon Soonyoung, white was the color of the room, the color of the bed and the color of the floor. All he could see was white and he felt like puking, it was so suffocating. Was this really the sign of absolute purity? White was anything but pure. It was the color that makes black look evil; it was the color of the cloth that made him different from another. It was the color of the place that locking him up. White was the color that was screaming, slapping on to him that he was not normal, and he never was. But it was also the color of purity and made him feel dirty. It was the color the made him feel like he was really a monster.

-----

He had a new nurse. His nurse looked like a child but he was actually older than him. His nurse was probably a head shorter than him, he looked like a baby and he wanted to squish him. His nurse asked for his name and he was slightly feeling down. This happened a countless times already, them asking for his name until they didn’t know anymore who he was.  He refused to give his name to his nurse, but, to his surprised, his nurse called him. And it was not a simple call or saying his name, it was seeing him, as if he was only seeing him. He looked at his nurse’s eyes and he could see the genuine spark inside. He was feeling happy, someone was actually seeing him as a person, not the monster those people used to label him. He was feeling so bright and happy and a little alive, he was feeling a little accepted after the flood of rejection he went through.

-----

The poor child’s heart was beating so fast, he was not sleeping but he was not also free. He was staring on himself, but the child was awake. They were both awake. But he was like when he used to feel the rage, useless, only there. He could see the child smiling, he was feeling so happy. He felt a little lighter; he was always a little concerned with the poor child. He was kind of attached to him. He could see the small child tracing on the mirror letters that formed into “my friend Jihoon”. The poor child had a friend? It was the first time the poor child had a friend. He was curious as to who was this Jihoon.

He was not sure as to how many but he knew they were in another jail, in another white trap, hospital. He was a little curious as to how this hospital works because he could feel that the poor child was feeling better. Better in the sense that he was always smiling and happy. There were very rare moments where he could see a glimpse of what was happening outside their body while the poor child was awake. He was not sure as to how it was possible, but he was seeing pieces of the child’s moments and he could feel the poor child was feeling a little more alive, genuinely. He wanted a way out, he wanted to see what was happening. He missed the outside world and he was feeling a little envious because his purpose was to hurt who was hurting the poor child, it was the very reason why he was free, why he was present. But the poor child was little by little becoming more happy and he didn’t want to disappear. He was fighting, he was fighting for a little dominance because he want to move again, he didn’t want to be useless even if living was not his purpose.

-----

He was seeing black, darkness. He looked around him and all he could see was black. He could feel his body moving, he could feel the slightly cold breeze from the window he forgot to close last night. He was feeling and he was conscious with what was happening to his body, he could feel. Oddly, that was all he could do, as if all of his senses were paralyzed and only the sense of touch was functioning. He tried to listen, he tried to make out any noise from his surrounding, and it was silent. And it was not a simple silence, it was not the kind of silence he would hear at the middle of the night or early down when half of the world is asleep. It was not the type of silence that you would hear when you are the only one awake, the kind of silence that made you feel so infinite. It was not the kind of relaxing silence, but, rather, a kind of silence that is strangely deafening, like his ears were buzzing but there was no noise. The kind of silence that made everything feel like dead, as if time stopped moving and everything was missing and lifeless. It was very deafening, he didn’t want this kind of silence. It created chaos inside him, it made him feel afraid because silence would mean peace but this kind of silence felt like the dead moment before starting a war. The kind of silence where you knew someone was dead and someone would die.

-----

He woke up and he could feel the light weight of the soft blanket caressing his exposed skin. It was those little things that made him realized that he was living, not just existing. He liked to call these borrowed, stolen, moments of the poor child’s time as living. Anyways, he was using the child’s life and time and body. He sat up right and reached his feet on the floor. The floor was a little cold but his insides were feeling warm. He knew his situation that he was not supposed to exist in the first place. He heard all those people wearing white coats; he knew they wanted to get rid of him. He was not sure if he wanted to seize or to continue existing but he didn’t want to disappear. He was feeling a little selfish but he was deep inside fond of the little child, because somewhere, somehow, they were one, that he was part of the child’s tragic puzzle; he was the dark piece, the bold red that gave the child’s life of tragic but strong image. He was not like the others; he was not like what he heard from stories in which they wanted for dominance. He didn’t want a whole lifetime of existing, but a little moments of living would not be bad.

The nurse, the one the poor child was talking about, entered the room. He wanted to know what made the petite nurse so different from everyone that the poor child made him his friend. He was envious and a little curious; because the child having a little friend meant that he was not alone anymore. But the poor child was never alone because he was always there with him, for him.

He wanted to know what was really about this petite nurse. He was curious as to who was really this petite nurse.

-----

He woke up, sweat was all over his body. He was trembling because in that dead moment was another episode of him, that guy, appearing. He was afraid, he was back. He was back again after a long time of sleeping. He was back and he would mess again. He was back and he would hurt someone again. He was back and the thought of tiger eyes made him into a trembling mess. He was scared. He was afraid as to what would he do again, he was afraid of how the peace he had would finally come to an end again. He was back and he was afraid of how things would go. It was not easy, knowing that you were keeping a beast inside, knowing that you were part of the said beast. He tried his best to keep him asleep, to keep him at bay, to keep him inside and stay still. But he was afraid, he was terrified, he was scared to death that his insides felt like bursting with so much fear. Make him stop. Stop him from reappearing. He was crying, a mess of hysterical child finding comfort. Jihoon came inside his room. He was thankful for Jihoon’s presence, he was calming a little. He was glad, a little less of afraid, knowing that someone was holding him, trying to keep his broken pieces.

-----

Envy was not good but curiosity was dangerous. Curiosity would lead to opening closed doors, searching for hidden and lost things, knowing the unknown and seeing the invisible. Curiosity would lead to doing things that would satisfy ones burning passion to know something and knowing something would lead to a thousand of possibilities. Ignorance was a bliss. Ignorance was a bliss in this world of curiosity, ignorance was a bliss in this world of falling in love.

-----

He was in love. He loved his nurse. He loved Jihoon with every scattered pieces of his tormented soul. He was in love with the person who chose to see him. He was in love with the person who didn’t backed away from him. He was in love with the person who accepted them. He was in love with the very amazing person who didn’t give up on him. He was in love with the person who was willing to help them. He was in love with the person who didn’t mind the grotesque piece of broken imperfection him.

-----

He knew, they were both in love. He knew they were both in love with the same person who never treated them as one. He was in love with the person who saw the person in him, he was in love with the person who didn’t saw the monster in them. They were in love with the person who never treated them as if they were a piece of trash of a monster who was having identity crisis. They were both in love with the person who never took a step away after seeing the splash of blood on their awful life. They were both in love and he was not sure if it was because they only had one heart or the person was just ing amazing to make two one-halves of the so called and labeled monster to love him.

----

His father was asking for forgiveness. He was not sure if it was a genuine one, or if he just wanted to feel a little better so he was asking for his son’s forgiveness. But he didn’t want. He didn’t want to forgive the person who made him that way. He didn’t want to forgive the person who put him in so much pain and trapped him inside. His father made him this way, molded him into something scary and crazy. His father trapped him in his own body, wrecked his life and took away all the beautiful memories he could have in exchange of bleeding and wobbly body. He didn’t want to forgive him.

His father was crazy. His father was a real monster. His father didn’t care if he was forgiven or not, because he knew what he did was unforgivable and no amount of sorry and apologies would compensate for it. His father was crazy and his father was the same monster he was when he was a child. His father wanted him to start anew, said he was getting better and his father was planning to send him to a place where nobody knew him, them; him, the guy inside. His father was a ing sadist because he wanted them to move, start anew. His father was a hypocrite for acting like a father now because he was years late of being one. And now he was trying to mess his life, to ruin his life again. His father wanted them to go in a faraway place, start anew and try to build the family that should have been built and taken care of the moment he was born. But he didn’t want any of it. He didn’t want any of it. He’d rather die than be with his father again. He’d rather die than be faraway with Jihoon. He’d rather become a real crazy and monster than leave this place where he found the comfort he was searching for ever since he was young. He’d rather die or be crazy than leave. So he started to make a mess, he started to become the ty person they were expecting him. He started to break his self because a broken boy meant a need to stay on this four-corner white room. He didn’t want a way out of this institution and he would do anything to stay, even if it meant of completely breaking himself.

-----

Would you even take a part of your time to think about love if you were in the midst of breaking and falling? Broken. That was what they really were. He didn’t like it; he didn’t want to be the so called monster shadow of the poor and weak child. He didn’t want to become one with him in a sense that they were an individual. He liked to think that he was the small piece of puzzle with a whole picture in it. Like the missing tree on a farm image, or the missing sun on the sky. He was part of the so called tragic image but he could also be his own, incomplete but stand alone picture. He was that, he was that kind of person. He could be incomplete but he could still stand alone, a tree, a sun or even the ing dirt on the sand. But the child, the poor child could never be complete without him, that something would always be missing without him. What was a farm without a tree? Just a field of crops. What was a sky without a sun? Darkness. He was that, the small, individual puzzle piece that would complete the image of the broken child. They were a ing perfect partners, a broken child and an incomplete individual. They fit each other perfectly and they would break and fall apart together.

The man was here again. The monster father was back, waking the sleeping and almost dead hate, raging again and wanting to burst. Wanting to create a fire that would seize everything it could see. And then there was the fear again. And inside they were like volcanoes on the verge of eruption, close to the awaiting and coming destruction. Their lava of emotions that soon would burst, flood the peaceful white trap with mixed emotions and personalities fighting for dominance and comfort. When the sleeping fear was woken up from its slumber, it would create a storm of emotions that would surely destroy everything. And everything was him and the poor child and their love for the petite guy.

Somebody, please help them.

-----

He was tired, he was feeling so tired. His father came again and he was feeling so tired. He didn’t want to live like this but he also didn’t want to live like the way his father wanted. He was feeling so tired and he just wanted to stop. He could feel the guy inside him, he could feel the monster inside and he was tired, too. They were both tired. They were both drained from life, they were both exhausted with the emotions they were feeling inside. His father was a living reminder of his awful life, his father was the wake up call to all of his fears and traumas. His father was the salt you would poor on blood. His father was the storm that destroyed him.

They both stopped trying to be better. They knew they would never become normal. They both knew that they were the same but very contrasting side of the coin. And he hated it, he hated hot out of all people in this world, it has to be him. He hated the man inside because he saved him. If he didn’t save him, then all of the fears and sufferings would have end. He should’ve just slice his wrist harder and deeper that time when he first introduced himself to him. Or maybe, he should’ve just let him die from the hits so that nothing like this would happen.

Jihoon was comforting him. He was saying he loved him and he didn’t care about the situation and he was feeling a little stronger. He was tired but he was gaining a little strength with Jihoon’s caresses. He loved Jihoon so much but he didn’t know if love was enough in life to survive. But he wanted another try. He wanted another try to life because it looked like Jihoon was really sincere and worth it. But not now, not at this moment, because he was tired. He was tired and exhausted and he needed some rest from life. He wanted some sleep.

He was staring at Jihoon, Jihoon’s I love you’s was playing on his head and he weakly smiled. He wanted some sleep but he would give life another try.

----

He could see the poor child, he could hear the door closing, the man disappearing and the poor child was screaming, hurting. He hated it, he hated him, and he hated this. He wanted to come out but he wanted to sleep too. He wanted to feel the lips of the petite nurse on him again and he wanted to feel move and run but at the same time he wanted to stay. He hated the child who he borrowed time, life and body with and the same time envied because he got the life he never had and the man he loved. He hated the poor child he willingly protected, he hated the poor child who was making a scene and he hated the situation he was in.

The petite, Jihoon, was comforting the poor child. He could see but not hear anything, he could only see what was happening, like what happened in his first memory, only the difference was that it used to be hit that time, but this time it was caresses and soft gaze. He was feeling tired, he was already, long ago. He already stopped trying, trying to what, he was not quite sure. He was just tired at the emotions that were sleeping at bay that woke up suddenly with the appearance of the man. He almost killed him, and he realized that he didn’t want blood on his skin again if it meant taking one’s life away. He almost killed him and that was the last time he stopped trying. The image of the man barely alive, knife buried on his side would forever haunt him. He was used to blood, but he was never used to dying.

He was seeing Jihoon’s soft eyes smiling at him, too bad Jihoon was not seeing him.

He was tired.

He, Hoshi, was tired, and he wanted some rest.

He decided to sleep.

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