05.5
It does happen
Minho threw his backpack next to his desk and changed out of his school uniform. It was another day of no focus in class, another day of growing more quiet with nothing to say to anyone, nothing to really care about honestly. He had spent most the time doodling and writing things he wasn’t even half-aware of while doing it. He had glanced at the paper once and almost panicked at the time, quickly wadding it up and shoving it away, not wanting anyone in class to find it incrementing thoughts or drawings.
Minho now sat on his bed, running hands through his hair while staring at his desk. He debated if he should try forcing himself to study while he waited for Jinki or do a whole lot of nothing. He could grab one of his unfinished comic books and try to read, but reading was harder than ever in the past, a mind that was easily distracted since he was a kid. Now it was hard to read for different reasons. Just no desire. It was pointless effort.
Minho didn’t have time to decide what to do next, before there was a knock at his door and is brother was letting himself in. Minseok quickly closed the door behind him.
Minho grabbed for his pink log-pillow at the end of the neatly made bed, putting it on his lap as a subconscious barrier, worried by Minseok’s expression. He knew whatever was on his brother’s mind, it wasn’t anything good.
“Minho, we..” Minseok took a breath and continued, voice stronger, “We need to talk. I know what happened.”
Minho stiffened as Minseok’s serious eyes locked on him. He forced a smile, “What happened?”
“That weekend.”
Minho looked away, still smiling, fingers picking at the pillow in his lap, “Nothing happened.” He turned back when Minseok started pulling something from his pocket. It was ripped up paper. Part of Minho already knew, but he continued to hope it wasn’t true.
“What you wrote on this paper.” Minseok waved the pieces of crumbled paper in the air.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Self-preservation kicked in then. Minho smiled big and he believed his lie. He was fine. Everything was fine. He couldn’t face his brother actually knowing the truth. If he thought it was hard sitting in a dark place of feeling family knew, it was even worse than actually knowing they knew.
His brother didn’t actually know. There’s nothing on that crumbled paper. There’s no proof he wrote anything.
“Why are you lying to me?”
Minho’s voice was sincere, “I’m not.” He actually convinced himself.
“You told him, your friend- Jinki knows.”
“Whatever he told you was a lie. He doesn’t know anything.” Minho clutched his pillow tighter, old speech habit slipping again to a near stammering, but heavy lisp. “I’mma fine. I’m fine.” Minho smiled though his breathing became faster, body beginning to burn with anxious sweats. His smile faltered once Minseok moved towards him and knelt to meet at eye level, Minho’s head soon dropping to break it.
His self-conniving was crumbling around him.
Minseok’s voice was only a whisper, spoken like he truly believed every word written on that paper- like it finally explained Minho’s unusual mood and behavior shift the past few weeks – month? Much too long. “Tell me who did this. Minho-ya? Who did this to you?”
“Nothing happened, hyung.” Minho’s head fell lower and his voice was small, “I’m okay. I’m always okay.” Minho didn’t even know what he was talking about anymore. Maybe lies he wanted to believe so badly. “I didn’t let them..”
“Who- who hurt you?”
When Minseok reached a hand for Minho’s knee, he jerked back and jumped up from the bed, pillow tossed aside he had been clinging to for dear life like a security blanket. “I’m okay. Jinki-hyung.. he’s.. he’s lying.”
“Minho..”
The teenager was out the door and clumsily pulling on shoes before rushing out of the house. He ran as fast as he could, not sure where he was going but he had to escape.
Jinki’s lying.
Jinki…
Jinki had told his brother the truth.
______________
After leaving Jinki’s place, knuckles sore and mind blocking out the older boy and the betrayal from his thoughts, Minho spent the rest of the day mindlessly playing at the arcade. Without being able to acknowledge he was even really violated in the first place, Minho didn’t acknowledge what had happened, what a best friend had done, was another violation upon him.
So Minho stood around the arcade staring off at nothing once he ran out of the small amount of pocket money he had on him after he had thoughtlessly run from the home, dreading and pulsing with a sickening anxiety. He couldn’t bother checking his phone for calls he was sure he had since he left his cell at home too. He didn’t care. That was the least of his concerns now.
The walk home in the dark was so hard, Minho’s legs almost gave out knowing he had to face his brother when he got home. The cold weather against a skinny body helped numb every part of him. He had forgotten a jacket on his hurry out, and it seemed to pay off. Minho grew up thin and sensitive to the cold, but now the effect of it was the desire he wanted.
Once home, parents asleep, Minho sat on Minseok’s bed, after a long shower cleaned up in his warm pajamas, neither knowing what to say now. He played with one of his brother’s old trophies, gripping it tightly in his hands and fiddling with it idly, having grabbed it down just to have something solid to hold on to.
When Minseok pressed for who did this to him, Minho shut down again. He didn’t know. All they were were strangers with vivid faces.
Vivid voices.
Vivid touches.
Minho shook from his thoughts and excused himself for bed, feeling nauseous. Minseok nodded, saying they would speak more later.
When later came, it was again awkward silence. Though Minho did grew slightly less stressed with his brother knowing the truth. His brother never acted like he was too dirty to touch or look at, like Minho had worried he would.
Maybe his brother really wasn’t as ashamed of Minho as Minho was of himself.
______________
Some night later, Minho wiped sweaty bangs from his face, standing out outside Minseok bedroom door in the middle of the night. His hand rested on the doorknob, hesitating – not wanting to bother his brother who needed his own sleep for school. While Minho was only in his early years of high school, Minseok had just begun university with the new school year at one of the best colleges close to home – one parents where thrilled and proud he made it into. It nearly made Minho nauseous knowing the stress he’s caused to an already stressful workload of school.
With a sigh, Minho glanced down the dark hall and back to his room. He only shared the upstairs with his brother, parents’ bedroom on the first floor.
No. He couldn’t go back there though.
Minho rubbed his face again, vaguely recalling a nightmare from minutes ago. He woke, unable to breathe. He didn’t want to be alone now. And since his brother knew the truth now, he felt like, maybe it was okay if he looked to him – subconsciously wanting comfort.
Quietly, Minho pushed Minseok’s door open and just as quietly closed it behind him. He stumbled in the dark towards the bed, tripping over a few discarded items over the floor on his way. He stood over Minseok’s bed, wondering if he should leave – don’t drag people further with you.
It was still too cold to sleep on top of sheets, so Minho took a shaky breath, then pulled Minseok’s blankets up to crawl under them, squishing in beside his brother over a small bed made for one. Minho curled up next to his brother nonetheless, staring off in the dark room. He tried not to make much noise, move even, but soon Minseok was stirring in his sleep and he woke with a jerk. “M-Minho-ya?” He rubbed his face, trying to clear sleep, “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
Minho nodded, “Yes.. I uhh..” His voice fell, unable to finish. It’s not like they hadn’t shared a bed before, even a bedroom, it had just been so long since he was small enough to get away with crawling into bed at night with his brother. Minho figured he grew up, outgrown such childish things, like nightmares or missing a father who was too busy with work for Minho. Especially once getting his own bedroom when they moved from the apartment complex. How childish was he now?
Minho just didn’t want to be alone.
Without jokes or mocking, Minseok pulled Minho closer, voice tired, “Just.. go back to sleep, huh?”
Minho fell asleep again close to his brother, but it was an hour later when he woke thrashing and startling Minseok awake. His brother shushed him though, telling him he was okay, told him to breathe as Minho begun to choked, and there was missed fear in Minseok’s eyes, like he was staring at a problem so much bigger than he could handle and he was left helpless.
When he calmed down, found air again that had escaped him and body settled from tingling jitters, Minho stared off at a wall with blurred vision, fingernails digging into his skin without realizing it.
It wasn’t until he was shaken awake the early next morning, Minseok’s eyes running over him in worry, did Minho realize he had been bleeding. There were small specks of blood on his brother’s sheets, having leaked from his arms where nails broke scabbing skin with rough nail digging.
Minho sat up, nearly falling from the cramped space of a small bed. He rubbed his sleepy eyes with the back of his hand as he hurriedly said, “I’ll clean it. I’ll clean this.” Minho tried rubbing his fingers over the dried blood, but it wouldn’t go away that easily. He still wasn’t awake enough to realize that though, not to mention sleep deprived.
White sheets won’t clean no matter how hard he tried, just like him. He was ruining everything.
With his focus still on cleaning, Minho didn’t notice tears he was blinking from his blurry vision. “I’ll clean this, hyung. I’ll..” He sniffed, fingers burning from friction over the sheets. He didn’t want to be a burden messing things up. All he’s tried to do his whole life was live up exceptions, be someone everyone could be proud of.
He was only screwing everything up now, worse than ever. All his trying wasn’t ever good enough, was it.
“Minho,” his brother’s voice was still sleepy, but it showed an edge of panic. “It’s fine. Leave it.”
Minho forced a smile, head still down, focused on his blood while tears still fell from his eyes. “I’ll fix it.”
So tired - so tired of everything, Minho’s mind repeated. And he could feel it as well. He just wanted to sleep forever. Dreamless.
“I’m tired,” Minho confessed, voice a broken whine.
Minho didn’t mean to, but when his brother pulled him into a tight hug he sobbed and shook against Minseok, releasing built up stress and confusion in a way he wasn’t used to since he was a small child.
Instead of fighting he willing cried, wet and loud, giving in to the inward tug of so much hurt and sorrow.
He didn’t want to be a burden.
When Minho got home from school later that day, Minseok’s bedding was changed. At the dinner table, Minho slouched, poking food while meeting Minseok’s worried glances. Like usual, Minseok spoke up, defusing any thing that could turn into a fight with father, attention on the older son who always seemed to bring more acknowledgment than the younger.
That night, Minho watched his brother enter his bedroom for bed, looking exhausted.
Minho stayed in his own bedroom that whole night no matter how little sleep he could achieve.
______________
A day or two later, Minho sat in his bedroom, the buzz of it the only noise in a now quiet house. Father had left, angry, done with Minho and another argument over soccer. It was so heated he actually had to leave the house to calm down again.
Mostly, it had been father speaking while Minho listened quietly or answered a question if it was asked of him; quiet and listen, just like mother had taught him as a young boy. Just like the kid waiting in the shadows for his turn in anything, and once the opportunity was given, he had so much to prove. It was easy, learning to observe from a young age, to read nothing good was going to come of him answering his father.
Half of them were full of lies, leading to more lies he’s told so far, and it became hard to recall what his story even was anymore or how to keep it consistent and believable.
Minho’s reluctant talk with a coach who nearly cornered him one day, wanting to know why his head wasn’t in the game, why he was often absence now, finally got around. The lie about his dad needing him elsewhere got back to father like he knew it would eventually. Just like when he tried to hide bad grades from his parents growing up, ashamed while at the same time struggling with schoolwork despite actually trying. He wasn’t lazy, just struggled to concentrate sometimes, almost always active and hard to sit still so long. These days he was doing a lot more sitting still, everything slow in a mind that used to run from one thought to the next.
The fight made Minho question again why he ever even loved soccer – was it for himself or for his father? Had he always wanted to become a professional soccer player or did father want him to? He couldn’t tell. But he knew his drive for the game wasn’t there like it used to be, and no amount of practice or kicking a ball around was making it really return.
What if it never came back?
To a father, the son just looked like he was slacking the last few weeks, months, for no apparently good reason – maybe just teenage rebellion or a lazy outlook and that needed to be whipped out of shape quickly with a stern voice and harsh demands. To Minho, it was so much more complicated than that. But such a secret, a reasoning for what he had become, couldn’t be told. Not now, not ever.
So try harder, be better, maintain a positive attitude in everything, the Choi Family way.
Who ever thought that would actually be hard to do.
Minseok noted the tension once he got home, but neither Minho nor father would tell Minseok what had happened. Minho was almost envious; he never heard father and his brother fight about sports or soccer, they always seemed connected on that level, calm and collected about the game. While Minho would bounce between too over-hyped and aggressively excited about it or angry and sulking he wasn’t as good as the rest. He never was just level-headedly calm about sports. He never did understand that about himself either. Maybe it was in part knowing he forced himself into liking things he wasn’t sure about as a kid just to be like his brother, just to make dad proud of him.
Minho was sure father was more proud of the first born, more proud of Minseok, than he had ever been proud of Minho.
Mother tried to smile, urging all her boys to eat up at the dinner table, maybe pretending the fight she heard earlier in the day never happened.
Minho couldn’t stomach much food that night.
______________
Minho crinkled his nose, carefully taking the burnt cup of noodles from the microwave to toss away. His heart still raced, adrenaline pumping, smelling the scent of smoke and realizing he made a mistake. Just frightful moments before, lead him to believe he was going to burn the whole house down.
Brain-fog so thick, maybe just not enough restful sleep, Minho tried to simply make himself some noodles, not hungry nor a desire to eat, but doing it for a mother who asked it of him.
He put the cup in the microwave in packaging not meant to be heated.
Adrenaline lifted the fog, but it almost made him feel ill again; coursing through him in a beating pulse that reminded him too much of something else. His skin began to crawl.
When mother asked later if Minho had eaten, he put on what felt like a smile and said yes, while the only thing he attempted to make to eat was still buried burnt in the trash.
Daily tasks, even the simplest ones, were getting so much harder than thy used to be. How was that even possible.
______________
Minho was twelve or thirteen, puberty really kicking in, when he would wake nights or early mornings with tight pajama bottoms, and the stranger part was he would cry. He would sniffle, repulsed by something he didn’t want, something that didn’t feel like it should belong to him. Like his body didn’t match inward, something was very wrong with it. Puberty, voice deepening, features changing, was destroying part of Minho, but he didn’t understand what that part was.
It was strange, when he had been getting used to it, found no reason other than to be annoyed by it, especially when they came at public moments. Or other days, a curious thing his body reacting like that, between his legs until release, and it usually felt pretty good.
So why wake crying, disgusted and frightened some days?
By fourteen those disoriented, weepy moments stopped and he handled them like a man, because that’s what he was growing up into – a real man.
Now Minho was back to hating it, instead of natural or gaining some pleasure out of it, but not so much in that confused, puberty way of hating it. He knew why he hated it now.
He was awake, drifting out of an actual pleasant sleep to find tight pants. It wasn’t the time since home from that weekend trip, but it was over by the time he woke from dreamless sleep, nothing left to do but change pants. This time, the first time, Minho shoved a hand down his loose pants, trying to relieve the problem like it used to be simple to. His face scrunched, lips bitten, trying to will himself through something that was only causing more anxiety instead of relaxation. Breathing became uneven until he choked on a sob, not realizing he was crying.
He rolled over with a whining cry on release, face burying into the pillow, whole body triggered back to that room where he was forced to–
Minho pulled out a dirtied hand from his pants, gripping at the bed as he was lost to an intense flashback, some sort of horrid nightmare while awake, and it felt like his heart could stop then. He couldn’t breathe.
Minho wasn’t sure how long it took him to calm down and grasp reality again, but he had to get up and leave his bedroom. He sat on the bathroom floor instead, staring off at nothing, unable to sleep and unable to focus. Minho sat there until an early morning knock at the door asked if someone was in there and they needed to use the bathroom.
It was mother, up early like usual to prepare breakfast for the family. She still looked surprised to see her son up so early. It was no secret he slept later than everyone else, often needing to nearly be dragged from bed to get up and ready for school in the mornings. Minho had been up a lot earlier lately though, and like those times before mother checks his forehead for a fever or something, anything she could help her child with. Minho said he had just woken up and hurried back to his room that was a little less frightening now that some sunlight was peeking through the shades.
Minho would ready for school, and go about another day with little sleep.
______________
Minho leaned in Minseok’s doorway with one of his easily forced smiles now. “You.. you going to tell them?”
A week had past of just the two of them knowing about the note – about what happened.
Jinki, his friend, had been pushed to the back of his mind, part of him blaming him for everything – not wanting to see him. He avoided any attempted calls, he avoided any thoughts of Jinki. They couldn’t possibly be best friends anymore. Minho couldn’t really have friends anymore at all.
Besides, it was better for Jinki to wash himself clean of Minho anyway.
Large, tired eyes glanced around the bedroom, admiring a brother’s proud achievements set out on a shelf still – trophies, awards, many more than Minho had ever achieved. They also reminded Minho his brother had made team captain of a soccer team before Minho’s age, and even now Minho still hadn’t made that achievement, he wasn’t as good or as cool. The sight used to annoy him, cause his own competitiveness to flare up fiercely. He didn’t care now. He even thought about shoving all his away in a drawer, hide them, he wasn’t that person anymore, the one that achieved anything.
Minseok finally looked up from his laptop, “I need to do something, Minho. I..” He turned away from Minho, nearly hunched over his desk, hands idly fiddling with a pen beside framed pictures of friends and good times, those moments sitting out much like Minho’s room before he put them all away. It was obvious how tired his brother was now from all of this, though he put on a strong face. “I can’t help you by myself,” he confessed, like it was the hardest things he’s ever had to say. The Choi Family were all strong willed, or supposed to be. Used to be.
Minho had seen it before though, as an observant child wanting to pick up and mimic what he saw as praise-worthy. He saw a brother burdened with the title of first born buckle under stress, but he never gave in; he was strong like that. Was he now causing that sort of stress to his brother- more a burden than pressures of a first born?
Minho leaned heavier into the doorway, afraid if he didn’t he would fall down, not sure if it was lack of his nutrition for weeks or just emotion. He rubbed his arm anxiously while continuing to smile. He didn’t even realize how sickly thin he was looking these days, how much weight he had lost while already being a thin teenager. He looked about as sick as he felt on the inside, but he wouldn’t look long enough in the mirror to really take notice. He couldn’t look at himself.
A mother took notice though, trying to feed Minho, give him cold medicine, make her son feel better without understanding a cause. It was embarrassing. Minho had been on his way to a fully-grown man, but now he was going backwards. He was only a child.
“I..” Minho’s gaze fell to the floor, “I understand.”
He didn’t understand. How could their parents help? They would only know now and be ashamed. Minho desperately want to beg his brother not to tell, he would do anything just please don’t tell them. Minho opened his mouth, moving his hand faster over his arm. Nothing would come out though. Only the sounds of Minseok’s typing filled the room.
Minho was starting to get used to the numbing that would take over his entire being now. It was almost relaxing. He didn’t have to feel anything.
He slowly walked back to his room.
He wasn’t Choi Minho. How could he ever be again.
______________
Minho refused to be around the day Minseok told their parents, but when he got home later, it was obvious they knew. Their looks said it all. Minho’s gut instinct kicked in, voice almost slipping out to again claim it was all a lie, a terrible joke, they didn’t really believe a word of it, right? It couldn’t have actually happened. The worst he did was underage drinking, that’s all. He made up an awful joke to save his hide from punishment.
It caused an awkward, inappropriate smile out of Minho. No one else smiled with him.
Mom forced Minho into a hug he didn’t really want. He didn’t struggle out of it though, especially when his mother was silently crying on his shoulder, tears he felt he caused. Should he cry too? Should he be angry? What expression should he show? Emotionally he couldn’t feel much of anything.
Dad looked confused, conflicted and silent, maybe even apologetic, or maybe Minho just wanted to see that last part.
It was like all privacy he ever had was taken away, like his parents knew about his personal life at his age, which that wasn’t , or was it? He was still unsure, which confused him at his age, like he should know what was or wasn’t . It had taken him too long to be possibly genuinely interested in to end up like this? It wasn’t anything to be proud of, whatever the case. It wasn’t like bringing his first kind-of-serious girlfriend home a year ago. The only girlfriend he’s actually ever had; smile shy and slightly proud showing his family, and he’s still not sure if it was because he liked her or he just wanted to show he was just as good as an older brother who had already brought a girl home. Eyes had watched the two with interest - not the same as this at all.
His brother looked tired still, touch gentle to Minho’s back, which caused him to flinch and Minseok knew now, he knew why Minho would flinch at his touch that meant nothing more than family support; a touch that had been twisted to make him fear something else. Minho hated that.
Minho didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to bear the shame he felt he just dropped on all of them as a family. He wanted to suddenly not exist. Just disappear, something like never having been born.
Maybe what happened that night on a weekend trip, maybe it wasn’t the worst part, maybe the aftermath was.
______________
Minho fell against slippery, wood floors, violently jerked awake from another nightmare. He couldn’t breathe at first, gasping on air and clutching anything closest to him, and for a moment it felt like might actually die. His breathing calmed though, wide eyes glancing around to find his room, that he was home and it was the middle of the night.
He woke with a panic attack but didn’t know what to call such a reaction out of himself. Something so severe hadn’t usefully happened to him. But some nights since that trip he woke unable to breathe, choking, long limbs numbing, body shaking.
Really, Minho was still in his room, alone. Safe.
It was only a dream, what had woke him so suddenly.
Horrible dream.
Minho shuddered, wiping sweat from his face, mixed with tears he wasn’t fully aware he cried in his sleep. He sniffed and shook his head, crawling back into his messy bed. Minho practically held his breath waiting to see if his parents or brother heard him and would come rushing into his room like they had been doing lately.
No one did.
Minho turned over in bed, settling on his stomach, unwillingly recalling his dream. Nightmare. His friends. Family. Even Jinki. They all found the pictures, and even video, his subconscious clearly remembered being taken but his waking mind forgotten. In his dreams he could hear those men, their disgusting words about him. Everyone heard them – saw how filthy Minho was.
He wants more.
Minho curled up under covers to the sound of those men laughing at him.
No.
He wasn’t like they said. He didn’t want that. He never wanted that.
Minho tried to sleep, swearing he could feel hands touching him. He pushed himself over his bed until his back bumped into the wall behind him, then shoved his long, thin log-body pillow under the covers, guarding between his legs.
He closed his eyes again, trying to control his breathing and sharp panic.
The hands wouldn’t stop touching him though.
Minho eventually fell asleep again, but he jerked in restless sleep to rough fingers touching and pressing into him.
That morning was the first in a while that mother had to try and wake her son who was oversleeping in habit, sleeping through the buzz of a set alarm. He jerked awake, frightened eyes droopy with sleep staring up at a worried mother. His reaction to her waking him wasn’t usually so stiff and jumpy.
Minho apologized and hurried to get ready for school, declining breakfast, only taking a bottle of water with him out the front door.
______________
Minho sat in front of his laptop at his desk. It seemed he had been staring at the screen forever, hands hovering nervously over the keyboard. He looked around his still clearly empty room, making sure he was alone for sure before he gathered enough courage to search the internet about such as ual assault.
That alone was possibly one of the hardest things he ever made himself do.
Minho started with female assault, all he had to do was type in the simple term and only female articles and links popped up. He felt growing nausea as he read over the pages about signs of assault and the few short survivor stories. The news articles everywhere. In a lot of ways they sounded like him. It was uncomfortable. Not a reality he wanted to face. ‘’. He loathed that word.
This didn’t happen to men.
Did not.
He wasn’t like them at all.
It took a lot more courage and a few minutes of pacing around his room anxiously before Minho could look into something as absurd as male assault. He froze, backspacing every time he typed. He finally wrote fast and pressed enter before he could backspace again.
There wasn’t much to be found on it, like it didn’t exist – wasn’t supposed to exist. There were no laws on it, because it didn’t happen. He even peeked at the laws, and what happened to him, by definition, didn’t happen to men. It wasn’t merely that type of assault listed by law for men. It was much more like the law for females.
But there it was on his screen, written so vaguely, so much vaguer than what he’s been through. But what little there was to bee seen was far more disturbing to him. ‘A disease they spread,’ commented someone on an article. A sickness.
He’s sick. So sick.
Minho scratched at his skin, leaving red marks as he pressed harder.
Most noticed story in the search results was a news article, something from years past. It was written in a mocking tone. A young man ‘assaulted’ by a female co-worker.
Faceless comments laughed. The young man obviously liked it. He wanted it. It’s not assault, that only happened to women. All men wanted .
How could anyone want that?
How could anyone want what happened to him.
He likes it…
Why had men done it to him? At least the woman was more acceptable. The right order of things. Girls and boys.
Why him? Why men?
Why wasn’t he man enough.
Had he not tried hard enough to be a man? That sudden idea through Minho’s mind trickled at something repressed.
If a crime could even be charged, would they label him as the female? Would his gender be finally put in its proper place- that could only happen to females after all, or so the law says- so says everyone.
Mother had always wanted a girl, resounded Minho’s racing mind, that old and odd sensation of being someone he wasn’t, like his body didn’t fit crept over every inch of him, years of suppressing it now as if they never happened and he had forgotten how to.
He tried to read on, stomach dropping further each word.
There were no survivor stories to skim over like the females, no reassuring comments they should get justice for a crime committed against their whole being, because there’s no crime for what happened to him. Maybe men didn’t survive it. Maybe he wouldn’t survive it.
It’s not a crime.
Too much alike.
Real.
Minho’s breath picked up, something of a sharp panicked feeling, as eyes roamed over the screen. Every part of his body tensed or trembled trying to face the reality of the situation again, and in a sense it was like being violated all over again. He thought he might actually blackout, but that was the irrational panic that came in waves the last several weeks; a level of it so intense he had never felt it before that night he was– attacked. That’s all it was, an attack, like a really bad, uneven fight.
Just a fight, was all.
‘An meant consent. He wanted it. You don’t get hard or aroused if you don’t.’ Someone added matter-of-factly.
Minho actually almost threw up his dinner, burning the back of his throat, eyes falling away from the screen. He quickly cleared his browser history and slammed his laptop closed, not sure any of that helped his cause at all. Did it make his situation less real or more so? He couldn’t tell.
, all of it, it’s vile and disgusting act. There’s no form of love and passion in it, like he had been made to believe. He couldn’t bear the thought of it anymore. What a foul act of nature.
Minho had only meant to stop in the bathroom real quick incase he was really going to vomit, but Minho ended up in there over an hour, clothes removed and scrubbing more skin red and raw or sitting in the cold staring at the wet bathroom wall blankly.
Dirty.
He wasn’t like what he read about. That wasn’t real. This wasn’t real. There was another explanation.
Dirty.
Never a victim.
Horribly dirty.
______________
Minho once overheard his family discussing – fighting over what to do about the men in his letter he wrote for Jinki. Father didn’t want to turn it into a big scene, everyone know. Dad wanted to keep it on the hush.
To Minho, that meant father didn’t want to be the shame of the town with a son who could be taken advantage like some women. He has sons. Men.
Minseok wanted to do something. There needed to be some sort of justice here – he didn’t care what people thought of his family.
Minho did. Minho cared.
Minho didn’t want to bring that kind of shame to his family. He’s brought so much already. So Minho didn’t press for ‘justice’, and his family seemed to let that go. Minho figured Minseok did it more out of respect for their father, though dad never did outwardly say for no one to go to the police. It wasn’t said out loud, but they all knew they would be laughed out of a police station, especially with no proof. It could ruin a middle class family, ruin jobs, future education and careers. The risk was too high a price. There was no crime, not by the books. No crime, nothing to report.
Instead, they spent their time on fixing Minho.
Minho was broken and needed to be fixed now.
Get better. Get over it. It never happened.
______________
Minho stared out his bedroom window one night, mind clouded and thick from lack of proper sleep in days, so exhausted still, like it would never actually end. He stared and stared, dark ground so close below him despite on the second floor of his home. Stars almost twinkling in the far off sky above, shinning a bit against the stonewall fencing around the house and tiny yard. He remembered his old bedroom, that small cramped one with his brother, the apartment so many stories up in a big building.
He remembered his old bedroom window, big and covered with curtains beside the boys’ bunk beds. Such a fascinating view of the town below it, something big looking so small from all the way up there.
He wished he could jump out of that high window right now, crash into tiny pieces of blank nothings, forgotten by everyone.
Minho fell back into bed, not sure if being a wake was worse than sleeping anymore.
Maybe he wasn’t even awake.
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Minho scrubbed at dishes. He was scrubbing too hard and loudly, clanking the dishes around without thought. He had a growing itch he couldn’t scratch. He wasn’t sure what he was so mad about, but it was boiling and he was about to snap. As Minho was about to set a rinsed glass down to dry, he held it higher ready to throw it at the wall, but his mother walked into the kitchen then, quickly making him realize what he was doing.
“Minho?”
“Ahh..” Minho lowered the glass, itch fading away. “Mom. I’m finishing up the dishes.” he told her and turned back to the sink to scrub gently at dirty dishes again, doing his chores. He tried to brush off the obvious concern in her voice.
Minho didn’t mean to, but he jumped when a hand touched his shoulder. His mother’s eyes narrowed in worry when he turned to look down at her with wide eyes, having loudly dropped the dish he was now cleaning into the sink.
“I can do this,” her eyes moved to the dirty dishes.
Minho shook his head and forced a smile, “No no. I’m almost done.” He looked her in the eyes, his voice steady, “Don’t worry, mom.” He seemed to be getting better at convincing people of his lies. Or maybe he was the only one being convinced still.
His mother’s face seemed to soften and she let him go, leaving the kitchen with slight hesitation.
Minho absentmindedly scrubbed violently at dirty dishes again, finish up his chores.
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Over time, Minho would sleep often in his brother’s bed at night. That was, until he felt guilty enough from waking Minseok that he would stay in his own room no matter what the night brought him.
His brother’s education was far more important than Minho’s sleep.
That was okay in Minho’s mind. It made sense.
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Minho was flipping through muted tv channels, not really paying attention to it. More than anything he was glancing at his brother, who was sitting in a chair across from him on the couch, focusing on his laptop. He figured his brother was working on his own schoolwork. At least Minseok was still doing well in school.
At least one son was. The one that truly mattered, the first born.
Minho zoned out listening to Minseok’s fast typing. He was mindlessly drifting to sleep, head laying back on the couch and eyes mostly closed. He had school work he should do, or try to practice kicking a ball around, hope once again his head would get back in the game before he would have to have another talk with the coach about his worsening skills and teammates disappointed looks. No, he rather sit around doing nothing, listing to the sound of typing. That’s how dull he’s become.
It was somehow soothing. But then the sound abruptly stopped and Minho could hear his mother calling him, pulling him back. He lifted his head, eyes opening to find his mother now in the living room looking quite emotional, eyes damp and nearly red.
It was unsettling.
She slowly smiled though, holding the phone near her. Minho blinked, trying to take in the news she was quickly telling him.
He was okay. Some test results came in and they were good. An all-round good sign.
Minho watched his mother’s tense posture relax. He hadn’t even realized how stiff and restless she’d been since Minseok had told their parents what had happened and he was embarrassingly, but discreetly, taken to the hospital a few days, and family arguments, later.
Doctors had run blood and swab tests, information was kept quiet, never to go public. First he had been looked at like he was a liar, like he made the whole thing up, until what little evidence was left as a marking on his body could be found. Very slight internal damage still lingered as evidence showing up as they searched for tearing and bruising, doubtful samples left behind by this time. Then he was looked at like it was something he had wanted and now had regretted and needed medical testing.
Sodomized. They kept throwing the term around, and Minho felt like he would throw up right there in the examination room.
Of course a man wouldn’t be forced into something ual, he had to have wanted it, just now he was a back-peddling sixteen-year-old teenager, wanting to be a good wholesome citizen again, be socially acceptable and cure a vile disease. Men don’t lay with men.
Maybe most humiliating was being told to pull his pants down and bend over the examination table, gloved fingers prying while an emotionless voice pointed out damage he was sure he had begun to cause himself with scratching fingernails grown too long and scrubbing from rough washcloths. Minho blocked most of it out, too ashamed and left mostly inaudible in the doctor’s office.
But bruises left on the inside? Evidence of healing tears? Minho didn’t even know that was possible. It explained the continued dribbles of blood found in underwear and backside pains for several days afterwards.
Sodomized. Minho thought of that word again.
The testing just left him sore and ashamed all over again, every part of his personal space invaded. Did he even have that anymore? He didn’t own any personal space anymore. Maybe he never did.
If there had been any doubts left in his family’s mind about his story, after the hospital visit it was confirmed something had happened. Still, Minho wished it was a lie; maybe if doctors had found nothing at all, his family would think he made it up just for some sort of attention, maybe knowing how small a person he felt as the youngest, so insignificant. Then he would be punished for such a lie and everything could have been forgotten.
It really did happen though and it’s still hard to accept.
Minho turned to his brother to find him grinning happily at the supposedly good news. Minho noticed then how truly exhausted they both looked. But that was his fault, not theirs.
He forced a smile, trying to put on what he thought he remembered a happy expression to look like on his own face. He tried to act like that call just fixed all his problems and he would be okay now.
He was far from okay.
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