06.5
It does happen
Minho’s fingertips brushed over healing scabs. The doctor he had seen, when horrifyingly forced to the hospital, told him he needed to stop scrubbing his body so hard. It sounded like he was round about telling Minho to stop hurting himself intentionally.
Minho wasn’t, was he?
He didn’t see it that way. He just needed to wash everything away and feel like it never happened.
Sometimes, some moments, he would feel like it never happened, but then he would scrub skin raw again. He wouldn’t pay any mind to the speckles blood that would leak from his body. It was, in a sense, purifying.
Bleed it away.
Minho pressed his fingers harshly into dark scabs. Right now, the pain was welcomed. He deserved it for hurting everyone around him. They shouldn’t hurt because of him.
Nails suddenly dug into skin, drawing tiny amounts of blood and small, pained noises from Minho’s tightly closed mouth. The blood smeared over his skin while fingertips ran up his inner thigh. Minho grabbed tissue from beside his bed and quickly wiped blood away. He pulled his loose pajama bottoms back down his sore leg and flipped his lamp off before rolling over in bed.
He wasn’t hurting himself, right?
Minho pulled his blankets over his head. Hands absentmindedly ran to the back of his thighs, scratching between fabric.
He just wanted to get clean again.
______________
Digging through the bottom of his wardrobe for a soccer ball, Minho found an old notebook he had held onto for some reason. It was one buried quite deep, kept out of sight, even had slipped his own mind.
Minho flipped the pages, finding old doodles and writings. Most the doodles were full of bows and pink, stories of cute girls.
Minho had forgotten about most of it, but looking over the notebook it reminded him of his mother, spending lots of time with her, just the two when he was young. How he would find himself in the mirror with one of her headbands or blouses on. At first prompted by her to coo over, be called a sweet ‘daughter’ and a ‘pretty little thing’, making him feel proud because mother was happy, and father was busy, not as much time for two sons. Then eventually, Minho found himself doing it alone when she was busy. He would smile, still young, still little understanding of society and roles to be played.
Girls. Boys.
He liked kicking balls into nets and he liked the pink stuffed toys on his bed. He liked to build up legos and he liked fluffy feathers on the end of his pens as he studied at his desk. Sometimes he felt like a boy, like the person society said he was by birth, other times he’s he felt like the girl mom gushed about, and then there were the times Minho was so anxious, trapped in between he didn’t know what he was, but he was young, right? To his mind it confused him and he found no one else quite like him, no one to relate to. Why couldn’t Minho just be both, why would no one allow it?
Minho would watch his mother and the thought he wanted to be just like her nearly pushed aside his desire to be just like his father. He wore an apron too big, helping her cook, clumsily in his efforts but wanting to grow up to be just like her, in every way – a housewife. It would upset him when he heard phrases like ‘you’re a boy, you can’t do that- you can’t like that’. Minho would want to hide and cry some days when all people did was refer to him as a ‘boy’, which he was when you looked at him, declared so at birth. But inside Minho felt different but couldn’t express that feeling at such a young age other than cry when he kept hearing he was a boy. No one understood those tears.
His brother would laugh curiously when Minho had held out nails sloppily colored, polish taken from his mother’s things to try, because he wanted to, age only seven. Father didn’t notice, had no comments on it, because he was absent with work.
The polish quickly chipped away while he played outside in dirty fields to kick a soccer ball around. He liked it just as much, or he thought he did. Dad loved it, a brother loved it, so Minho loved it. It made father proud. He was as good a boy as anyone else.
By eleven and twelve, Minho grew tired of the teasing, of being told he looked more like the girls in class than the boys, even though he grew taller than a lot of the schoolboys. He was still very thin, face small and eyes big, something older girls were envious of he found out once he was thirteen or fourteen.
No one, not even Minho, realized how much anxiety as a child he had, how it disrupted his focus and concentration in everything he did, and a lot of it was due to being in these situations. Feeling left in the shadow, so much to reach for and achieve, told he was too much a girl or too much a boy. Who would notice the inner turmoil when he was the younger child, after all.
Minho didn’t like pink anymore, or to paint his nails because it made him feel special, or reading the female genre of comics as much as the male genre. He didn’t write little blurb stories about being a famous female soccer star with pretty bows in her hair, imagining it could be him – how happy it would make Minho on the inside.
He no longer thought of actually being a girl and what that would be like. How easily he could see it, actually feel it as part of a true identity – thoughts of wearing cute dresses while still kicking a ball across fields in efforts he put into the game as much as days he really felt like a boy, not upset by being looked at as one. He wasn’t supposed to have reoccurring dreams where everything was normal as usual, but he was female in body – he wasn’t supposed to have those types of dreams return, but now dark and twisted, attacked because he was a helpless female.
He was a boy- almost a man.
Nose crinkled, Minho closed the book, shoving it back under belongings and took up the soccer ball to leave the house and try to kick a ball around, hoping that old, intense desire for the game would return.
Minho thought he had put all that confusion behind him. At least buried it as deep as that old; tattered notebook in his wardrobe as proof. He didn’t want it to resurface, but it was, it had been for awhile. He couldn’t stop it.
______________
The teacher sighed, glasses pulled off, classroom nearly empty as has school ended. Only a few students remained, ones assigned to class cleaning duties for the day. Minho wasn’t on duty today, he was still around because teacher wanted to speak to him.
It was another disappointed look and lecture on his studies. Minho rarely achieved a high grade; often in the middle or usually lower rank of the class, unable to keep grades up because of a lack of focus even when he tried to be discipline. It was hard, he rather be active than sit still and try to concentrate. It’s why mother had asked someone to tutor and study with him in the first place. Now though, he was probably the lowest rank in class. Minho didn’t even have a tutor anymore though. And that was okay with him.
The teacher looked up at him from his desk, Minho wanted to look away, but it would be too disrespectful. He didn’t want to stare down more disappointment.
“I don’t know what’s up with you lately, but instead of improving like you had been, you’re slipping further behind. You will be the bottom of the class at this rate.”
It’s not said, but implied how much of a shame that would be, knowing the family’s reputation around town because of his father. How much of his father’s past, as young soccer player with good skills and glowing reputation was rooted in this town? Would Minho even live to see the day the Choi’s weren’t a name to uphold? If it weren’t for an injury that pulled father from the game back in college would he be his own professional soccer player today instead of a desk job?
Yes, so fixing his low class ranking was to study more, that’s all that mattered anyway, right? Studies and grades were what made a person in the world. Without them, you were nothing, nothing at all.
Studies, grades, soccer, competitions. Be positive.
That’s all Minho needed to become a happy, well-rounded person.
With a bow and forced smile, Minho left the classroom, and he would take the long way home, dreading the moment discussion on his grades were brought up again.
______________
It’s a couple days later when Minho walked into the house in the middle of a heated argument between his brother and father, or that’s what it looked like. Attention turned to him while he slowly removed his shoes and jacket at the entrance, neatly setting them each away as if buying time. He slid on a pair of slippers and stepped up into the home, keeping his small mask on, big eyes watching the two out from over it, how silent they were since he opened the door and walked in. Minho grabbed up the bag he brought in with him, having gotten the things his mother needed from the store.
He didn’t say anything, just slowly made is way to the kitchen. While Minho was walking there though, his father rushed past him without a glance, not that that surprised Minho anymore these days. He tried to smile with his visible eyes, turning to his worn out looking brother, greeting him in a muffled voice, “Hyung.”
He bowed his head and walked faster to the kitchen, ignoring Minseok’s delayed greeting.
Their home was like this now, fights and awkward silence because of him. It was only worse now that everyone knew his disgusting secret. Minho was sure he’s never seen his father and brother fight, not until he ruined everything. Now that the truth was out, fights still continued.
Minho wondered if he should go to his father, fall on his hands and knees and beg for forgiveness; sorry he wasn’t strong enough to put up a good fight, sorry he let it happen, so sorry for everything.
Minho hid upstairs in his room the rest of the evening, refusing to eat dinner.
______________
Minho barely heard his teacher while sitting in class. Over his notes, Minho was scribbling fast and mindlessly, over and over in a darkening circle. His mind was far off. He wasn’t in class. He was out somewhere. Somewhere where he could make those men pay, by his own hands.
He stared down at his paper, focus far beyond it. Here, he could do whatever he wanted to the men. Hurt them. Make them suffer like he had. Take everything away from them.
Minho’s hand moved faster, circle a dark black now.
It felt good. Right, even. It’s what they deserved. Minho’s lips slowly curled into a small smile, his eyes still looking vacantly at his desk.
There was blood everywhere. But it wasn’t Minho’s. Not one drop, not this time. In his drifting dream, Minho lifted bloody hands. He stared curiously at them until he began laughing.
It was perfect. They were dead and could never hurt him again. He was never a victim. He showed them.
Minho’s paper broke under his pen, now scribbling on the fresh and worn through piece under it. He’s angry, he’s so abnormally angry, and he burned with rage all over.
Hey.
He wished he could do so much worse to them. Why were they already dead?
Heeey.
Why..?
Hurt them more. Like he has been hurting.
“Minho? Heeey~.”
Minho jumped when a hand jerked his shoulder. He turned to the classmate beside him, eyes wide.
“Are you okay?”
Minho recognized the concern in his tone. He had heard it far too much from everyone lately, though only a handful knew any truth in what happened to him – still he wasn’t like before, worrying some in school as he grew more distant and detached from friends. He was surprised anyone even talked to him still. Minho’s fallen smile was forced back, “I’m fine. Just-”
“Daydreaming?” the friend nudged Minho’s arm and smiled himself. “Who who? That smile..”
Minho cringed. The other boy’s smile grew.
“Was it Yoojin..? I bet it was her.” The boy looked off, pouting dreamily. “We don’t stand a chance with her, Minho. Besides,” he leaned closer to Minho, making Minho flinch and tense, so unlike how he used to react, “I hear she has a boyfriend now.”
“Ah..” Minho pulled back, getting his own space. He tried to look slightly disappointed like his friend, but right now, dating was the last thing on his mind or in his daydreams. Minho was too dirty to touch a girl.
He looked back to his scribbled paper, not paying attention to his friend quietly mumbled about how life was unfair. Seeing the aggressive scribbling reminded him of what he had just been dreaming about, the anger. Minho’s breath caught in his throat, affected by the things his mind had shown him doing to another human being, it quickly flashing in front of his mind’s eye.
That wasn’t him.
Wasn’t. It hadn’t been the few times before either. These daydreams only seemed to get more intense each time, more all-consuming anger seeping everywhere. Violence worse than any movie he had ever seen.
The teacher hushed them, though the other student was the one doing all the talking. Still, it put Minho on edge. The classroom was known for the louder students like himself being called out. Minho hadn’t been very loud since starting a new year of high school though.
The friend ducked away back to his books.
Minho pulled the papers from his notebook and wadded them up so no one could see.
He wished Choi Minho would come back soon, even the loud part that got punishment by the teachers.
He was scared of who or what he was becoming.
______________
Minho sat next to his mother in the waiting room. He was back to see this doctor or whatever – someone who was supposed to make him better. It hadn’t worked so far. He still felt the same.
Angry, agitated, confused, scared..
It never stopped, just a continuous cycle of emotions and conflicting thoughts.
Minho’s leg bounced. He couldn’t hold still. Fingers fiddle while his head was lowered, waiting. He didn’t want to talk about how he was feeling, how he felt that day, how his first ual experience was something like that. He wanted to forget it ever happened. How he could still taste it weeks later, still smell it – smell them like it was just minutes ago. Like everything about him was rotting away into the same horrible stench.
More talking about breathing exercises when panic came on, more underlying words to suppress any ‘homo urges’, as Minho labeled it mockingly, like they still didn’t believe him, he made it up to hide what he really was. Sick.
There were questions of if he was seeing anyone, as a healthy sixteen-year-old, like that would quench those bad, dirty urges. Minho would shrug. Simply answer no and wonder if they could see right through to the fact that for a long time he hadn’t been as interested in girls as his peers. Was it that weird his interests were elsewhere? Not in dating or girls, he rather run off to a field and kick a ball around when friends wanted to go on dates. He still wondered if it was inhuman of him. Now though, girls made him more nervous than ever. He was too filthy for pretty smiles directed at him.
“Don’t pick at your skin, it will scar. You don’t want that,” he would be told. It was that easy to stop, wasn’t it. Just don’t do it.
Minho would again open his mouth, wanting to ask why his body upset him so much some days, ever since he was young, some sort of strange disassociation, looking at himself oddly, disconnected with what hung between his legs even. Why did that happen, was it because he was something else, something like a girl, really- because some days, something just…
But Minho would never ask such a thing. Too embarrassed, Too scared. Not practical, something crazy. Rather, he would watch the clock each time, waiting for the session to be over.
He wanted to be normal again. He didn’t want to be confused or looked at like he was wrong. He knew he was, they didn’t have to say it. His identity was jumbled and confused, even an underlying issue on gender brought back to the forefront, he didn’t know what was what anymore. He was angry, violent thoughts running through his mind too often. Like right now. Maybe if he stood up and attacked someone he would be hauled off and not have to go into that office again.
“Choi Minho?”
Minho’s head lifted, lips chewed red and peeling. No, he didn’t want to go back in there.
He wasn’t even Choi Minho anymore.
______________
Minho stood in front of the bathroom mirror, getting ready for bed. He shook a small bottle of prescribed medication in his hand.
They had put him on meds for anxiety or depression or something- terms Minho wasn’t used to hearing. Depression? That’s not a real thing, something just made up, it’s one of those excuses Minho’s grown up hearing about lazy people. He’s not lazy he’s- maybe he was lazy, maybe that could explain his lack of motivation to do anything anymore, awful grades, no drive for competition, a his father’s frustration with him. Really, he had barely been listening. Instead, Minho had been fidgeting in the small room, wanting the appointment to be over already and go home.
He was debating if he should take them tonight or not - if he could even get away with not taking it. It was likely his brother would at least stop by his room and ask if he had, if not mom. Minho wished he were a better liar.
It didn’t sit right with him, and certainly not his family either Minho was sure, being on some medication like that; adding something unnatural to his body. A health-conscious family. So why was it okay now? Because Minho was that far-gone they would bend the rules? What’s next? Maybe exercise wasn’t key to a healthy life, maybe positive thinking wasn’t actually enough?
He would only get more of those looks from his father, that he just didn’t fit into the family anymore. How did they even agree to have him take anything. Maybe it was in the fights Minho kept hearing.
Minho continued mindlessly shaking the bottle, listening to the pills rattle around inside while he stared into the mirror. It was one of those days when he really hated his own reflection. He chewed his lip, fighting the temptation to punch the mirror, hoping it would crack and he wouldn’t have to see himself anymore.
Minho stopped shaking his bottle when there was a light knock at the door and his name was called. It was his brother. “Can I come in?”
Minho thought a moment, really wanting to just yell at his brother to go away. But that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t his brother’s fault. Only his own. Minho hung his head and dropped the bottle on the counter, before unlocking the bathroom door and opening it a crack to stare out at his brother. Minseok looked tired, worried, stressed because of his sick kid brother, one who was on medication now, sunk so low on the social scale. There was the real reason not to swallow a pill. Family image. Self-image, even. He wasn’t deserving of any sort of self-honor and dignity, though, not anymore. Minho wanted to slam the door shut in his brother’s face, if only to protect his brother from himself.
Minseok smiled, gently pushing on the door. Minho decidedly let him, stepping back.
“You need something?” Minho asked, stepping back to the counter, avoiding eye contact with himself in the mirror.
Minseok sighed, looking around with a half-smile still. He spotted the meds on the counter, lifting them and shaking the bottle as he spoke cautiously, “Taken these yet?” Minho didn’t know why he took them, so he doubted Minseok did either, so why he acted like it was okay to be around someone on medication, Minho didn’t understand.
“I was about to,” Minho snatched the bottle from his brother, giving unneeded attitude. He popped the lid, shaking a pill into his hand then swallowed it dry right in front of his brother – proof that he had taken it.
Minho tossed the bottle back to he counter and forced a smile as he stepped around Minseok trying to leave the bathroom.
“Minho-ya,” Minseok grabbed his arm, stopping him. Minho turned back, wide-eyed. “I’m only trying to help you. You know that, right?”
The fight in Minho died then, sudden guilt taking over. He slouched, not trying to pull from Minseok’s hold. Minho didn’t like to acknowledge how exhausted his whole family was because of him - it was hard, it was better to pretend. Minho spoke quietly, eyes on the floor. “I know, hyung. I’ll…” he shook his head, “I’ll get better.”
The grip around his arm tightened almost painfully so, though Minho knew his brother was unaware of it. Minho didn’t have to look to know his brother was shaking with anger. Minho also knew it wasn’t directed at him either.
Minseok opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something, but his voice never came out. A hand, almost shaking, ran through his hair as he released his hold on Minho.
Minho kept his head down, waiting to leave, or just something to happen. When it did, his head shot up and hands reached for Minseok’s as his brother pulled his loose shirt up to his chest about. “Hyung!”
Minseok quickly let go, but he had already seen fresh scrubbing Minho tried to hide. Minho wrapped his arms around his body, curling into himself slightly. Minho’s eyes narrowed, gaze back to the floor.
“You’re still hurting yourself,” Minseok spoke almost emotionlessly.
Minho quickly defended himself, though he didn’t really have much of a case. “I’m not.” He backed into the wall behind him, slouching further. He didn’t see it as hurting himself, he just wanted to be comfortable in his on body again, he just- “I just..” Minho’s voice fell quieter as he continued, “I.. want to be me again.” Not feel dirty to the touch, not feel as if fluids were leaking and dripping down his inner thighs, or vomit covering his face, or the stench of so many things mixed at once, or.. or..
Minseok sighed loudly, hands running over his tired face. “How do I fix this?” Minseok’s voice faltered, showing weakness Minho couldn’t stand, “I’ll fix-”
Minho practically jumped forward, cutting his brother off as he wrapped his arms around him, wanting him to stop. “Hyung. Just be you. That’s.. that’s what you can do for me right now.”
Being treated differently only made Minho that much more aware of the problem. That he wasn’t right anymore. Just please stop, everyone.
There was silence, Minho unsure what he had just done. When a hand landed on his head, ruffling his messy hair, he pulled back to find his brother grinning. Minseok being Minseok.
Minho’s big brother.
Minseok arm landed around Minho’s shoulders when Minho pushed back. He pulled Minho forward out of the bathroom, turning the light off and keeping Minho close while rambling about his weekend.
Minho smiled. In this tiny moment, he could feel Choi Minho again. Especially when he bumped his hip against Minseok, teasing his brother ask he spoke and the two left for the stairs to their bedrooms for the night.
______________
“Won’t you eat something else?” Mother asked with a concerned look, sitting down at the small table beside her son.
Minho slurped up more noodles, mouth swiped with the back of his hand as he chewed. He looked at his mother like she was insane, like he wasn’t actually only living off of instant ramen and water for weeks, only downing some dinner at the family table when he could or possibly a bit of the lunch he took with him to school.
“But I like ramen,” Minho gave a pathetic grin, one his mother could see through.
Minho had loved ramen growing up, such a simple and easy food that could have lots done with it. Now though, it barely had any taste, like most food. Everything was so bland. He was forcing himself to eat, trying for his body’s sake. Never in his life had he thought food would be a source of dismay. He loved food, always had enjoyed a good meal, but now it was as dull as anything else.
The longer his mother watched him eat the more nauseous Minho felt. Swallowing became hard. He was surprised he finished the cup of noodles, but once he did he excused himself from the kitchen with a small smile, one that was actually real, because as pathetic as he felt it was, he earned a little pride in finishing another meal.
______________
When Minho took his medication like he was supposed to, his violent daydreams left him at least; intense anger spells soothed. Still, he wasn’t sure why he should continue taking it. So he didn’t. Not everyday. He didn’t want to need them. Every time he put a pill in his mouth it was like a whole new confirmation he was sick – couldn’t even help himself.
Weakness.
No.
However, Minho wasn’t impressed by side effects of the medication, possibly from being off and on it. An even bigger loss of appetite, tremors, nausea, more restless sleeping, worse anxiety, confusion in everything. It was exhausting. He didn’t remember a time he’d thrown up so frequently in his life – having to even excuse himself from class now, making a scene for the whole room each time. Minho wasn’t sure how often now it was him avoiding friends or friends avoiding him. It all became the same thing.
It’s fuzzy, like some a dream more than reality, the memory of sneaking into his mother’s things, smudging her makeup on his pale face and puffy eyes, because maybe he would like what he saw in the mirror then, face in lipstick and some sort of powder. Maybe he would fit into his situation somehow. Maybe he was then what he was always supposed to be. A feminine face had stared back at him and he still didn’t feel anything. Makeup was washed away until his face burned red.
Not feeling anything. He did a lot of that lately, which was possible the medication’s doing. For weeks he waned to feel nothing, but now that he did, he wasn’t sure he liked it at all.
Minho’s concentration was horribly limited too. Mind racing. Grades kept slipping. He couldn’t call Jinki though. In a sense, he’s in this situation now because of Jinki. Though Jinki was trying to help, he told something private. Something Minho could barely tell Jinki in the first place. He betrayed his trust.
He didn’t want to see Jinki.
He was better off without Jinki- Jinki was better off without him. At least this way, he wasn’t dragging Jinki any further down with him.
Jinki was still pushed from Minho’s conscious mind, even weeks later. Medication, appointments, fighting, school – those were now Minho’s focus. I stressful, tiring focus. A family fractured even further with some sort of mood swings out of Minho off and on. He couldn’t stop himself. And as long as he was on medication he wasn’t socially acceptable. He didn’t have to tell people to know that’s just how it was - he would be looked at no matter what. Mentally ill in their eyes no matter an explanation.
As more time slipped by, the more insecure and crazy Minho felt. He was fairly sure he stopped at Jinki’s home one day while he was on his meds. He felt the deep need to apologize; didn’t want to really break off his friendship with Jinki, he couldn’t really blame him even though he tried, he still trusted Jinki in more ways than one. He needed Jinki in his life so much, it was like a dull ache told him so. Or maybe it was the racing thoughts and awkward sweats. Agitation.
Then he was off them again, He slowly shut down until one rainy day he mindlessly ended up on Jinki’s doorstep.
He had no control over his life anymore, he slowly realized, because he didn’t want to acknowledge such a thing in himself. He was actually out of control.
‘Why am I here?’
Minho couldn’t even say, as he sat numbingly cold, soaked after wondering aimlessly in pouring rain.
______________
Minho’s immortality was still cracked, still surreal, and some days it lead him to believe he could do anything, really. Nothing was real anymore, right? Nothing could hurt him.
So Minho played more dangerous than ever, intrusive thoughts and patterns settling in. He balanced himself along the edge of high, stone staircases on his way home from school, too many feet from the hard ground, sometimes teetering long limbs in a dark joke as if he was about to fall. He could literally fall and nothing would happen. Nothing would matter.
It was a false sense of euphoria, something that came and went, leaving him high-strung then crashing again.
Other days he ran past traffic that got him honked at while he smiled and laughed about it, often behind his small, half-mask, nodding in the angry person’s direction with a smug thumbs up, as if asking for a beating for being so disrespectful.
If what happened hadn’t killed him, how could he possibly die now?
How?
He would really like to know.
Minho would like to know so badly, it left him holding back numb tears.
______________
Minho had wondered why his brother was excluded from the sudden family trip to the rural countryside to visit relatives for a weekend. School was soon to finish up for a summer break, so it seemed odd they didn’t wait until then, either. Minho’s grades were still slipping though, test scores coming in lower nearly each time, so being away from studies was something fresh. That drive to do better, be the best, it just didn’t exist anymore. A numbing mediocre was all Minho managed day to day. Apathetic was Minho’s new favorite mood.
The trip finally became clear when Minho saw the expressions on everyone’s face and the extra suitcase pulled from the car – more of his things packed without him knowing. There would be no more studies, there would be no finishing school before break. Minho pulled off his headphones, music still blasting from the small player in his pocket but not actually reaching his mind, while he took a long stare at the old, traditional home surrounded by dirt and greens. It didn’t feel as welcoming as he remembered.
Minho was going to be left there, alone. More people, family, knew how disgusting he was now.
Minseok wouldn’t have let this go so easily. He was just cut out of the picture instead, not given a choice in the matter.
Minho tried to smile, pretend he didn’t feel so dirty he was being thrown away.
That night adults reminisced around a traditional bbq meal. Auntie and uncle had only one child who had moved away for school a couple years ago, an older cousin who used to play with Minho and Minseok when they visited. Minho was glad he wasn’t there. Even grandma living down the dirt path joined them that evening, now alone since grandpa passed nearly two years ago, and she cooed that she wanted to see her grandson.
Minho didn’t join them; he sat alone in the bathroom, scrubbing skin bloody speckles. He hadn’t even realized he cried real tears again for the first time in a long while. He never should have gone to Jinki’s that day. He shouldn’t have done what he did. He was disgusting. Minho kicked the small bathroom stool across the slippery floor, hands slapping repeatedly at his soaking head in a sting as he squeezed his eyes closed. It only relieved the tinniest bit of pint up emotions. It was hard to breathe now.
He was dirty enough to be thrown away. His parents were right. He didn’t even want to be around himself.
Minho tossed and turned most that night, sleepless. He didn’t bother taking his medication that night either, stomach only full of a little white rice he managed to get down just to make his mother fret less.
Come morning he really would be left alone there.
Just get rid of the family’s shame. Send him away.
The next day, sitting by himself outside in warm weather and scratching his skin absently, Minho used a rough cell signal to text Jinki, then his brother – messages sounding perkier than he actually felt. And when his phone rang, he silenced it without checking the caller ID. Shortly later, Minho’s cellphone was taken and pocketed by his father – explanation ‘he wouldn’t need it for a while’.
An hour later, mom hugged Minho tightly, whispering she’d see him again soon. Dad just smiled tensely, nodded his head, saying goodbye. No hug, not even a firm touch and squeeze of his shoulder.
Minho watched them leave, emotionally numb, but body feeling from continuous scratching and scrubbing.
He really wasn’t sure if he’d see them again. Part of Minho said he didn’t care. That was only survival instinct kicking in at that point. He cared more than he could ever say.
______________
The first night alone at his relatives, Minho woke screaming and had no idea where he was though he had visited the same home since he was a small child. The thought of not knowing where he was terrified him and he quickly fell out of bed and backed into a corner, afraid somehow those men found him and took him and he hadn’t even been aware of it. He’s been in such a mind fog for weeks, it wouldn’t surprise him at all.
Minho flailed, lost in a panic attack, the first he had in a while, causing him to choke and feel nearly weightless while horribly heavy at the say time. A man approached him in the dark, yelling something he couldn’t understand, and soon grabbing hold of him tightly in a stronger grip than his own. He tried to fight him off – his life depended on it. The man finally let go, leaving as a much gentler voice called to him. It reminded Minho of his mother, soothing panic away.
His aunt shushed him and held onto him tighter, like a sweet mother’s touch, as he stared wide eyes beyond her and shook, still unable to find enough air as he took in short, choking breaths. Minho had finally realized where he was, who was holding him, and who had tried to help him moments before. He found breathe deeply again.
Minho didn’t sleep after he was helped back to bed. He was exhausted, but he couldn’t sleep. Hot tears burned at his eyes, feeling so embarrassed by his actions. He was crazy. He was sick.
In those waking nights, taken aggressively by night terrors, his uncle never came again, and Minho’s aunt only did a few more thrashing nightmares after before she stopped coming too. He would wake in a cold sweat and rapid heartbeat, but he would much faster realize where he was and calm down. He would lay in bed, sheets kicked off in the hot summer weather as he stared into nothingness, sometimes mindlessly scratching, trying his hardest not to recall his dreams.
Nightmares.
______________
Days past, Minho still visiting his relatives – sent way, that’s how Minho saw it some days – days when he didn’t take his meds, which he hadn’t for sometime now. Nauseous, anxious. Minho felt bitter, guilty. His father couldn’t stand having him around them now that he knew, right? Minho wasn’t ‘getting better’, why keep him around. Thoughts like that continued replaying in his mind - a mind cleared when off the meds, a mind closer to what he felt was his own. He wasn’t drugged.
Minho sat outside peeling potatoes for a meal when he dropped one to the dirty ground, having slight tremors while staring at the small knife in his grip instead. It was a moment before he gently touched the blade to the skin of his inner wrist and pulled it up, only poking and tickling his flesh.
He knew he was too afraid to actually do it – kill himself. To the back of his mind was the forgotten moment he already had tried, but it was a flimsy, failed attempt on a handful of pills, that didn’t count did it. No.
He thought of his family, friends, Jinki. Minho didn’t really want to leave them all behind, or he didn’t think so. He couldn’t be sure. Maybe that was most unsettling of all - he wasn’t sure if he cared or not.
Still…
Minho continued running the blade over his skin, leaving red scratches as his hand shook. Bleeding more would purify him, right?
The thought was temping. Very temping. He was exhausted. Everything was just too hard now, or he was left with out real emotions to feel much of anything – maybe if he just… His vision blurred and he hadn’t even realized the tip of the blade pierced his skin, red barely running from the small cut.
Minho was snapped back to his senses when his aunt roughly jerked the knife from his hand. She shouted at him and painfully smacked the back of his head a few times in a disciplining manner, asking if he really was that pathetic to hurt himself- take his own life. Selfish. What it would do his family.
“How could you do that to them?!” she shouted.
Minho lowered his head, nothing to say for himself. Grandma soon showed up, looking curiously at the scene.
Auntie left with the knife and grandma came to sit beside Minho, silent, helping with vegetables. It’s not long before she spoke up.
“I still miss him. What I wouldn’t give for one more day to be with him.”
Minho glanced at her, smile small. She was subtle as always.
“It’s lonely without him?”
“So much,” grandma nodded.
Minho looked away from the expression, one that was so telling of what the death of a loved one could do to someone. He muttered, “I miss him too.”
Minho soon urged his grandmother to stop helping, only for her sake, not wanting her to have to work. But as soon as she quit, Minho was pulled away from his work to tend to a cut still leaking a bit of red, grandmother humming an old song he remembered grandpa used to sing when they visited.
No.. Minho couldn’t possibly kill himself, or so he repeated to himself, and surely believed it. But still, the thought of death was welcoming in these times – time even before then. Times when it was hard to tell if he was alive or already dead. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, not really; he was a good boy, raised as one. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, yet he would get so angry now, or just feel nothing to the point he couldn’t care if he would hurt someone or not.
He didn’t want to hurt others, especially those he loved.
Minho wasn’t allowed near any thing sharp for a good while after that during daily chores. Maybe it was for the better. He would stare at his arm, the small cut, wanting to watch that trickle of red slide over his skin again, jolt of adrenaline to everything numb, as he thought of drifting away to a peaceful nothings. Surely such a place existed. Or he once believed so, when things were simpler.
If he ever succeeded, would it really hurt his family that much, though? All he did was bring them shame.
______________
It was late, and Minho was sneaking around the house while his relatives slept. He was vibrating with set determination. He needed to talk to his friend. He needed to hear from Jinki again, an ache in his being telling him, so he used the phone to make a call he wasn’t supposed to.
In the end, it was worth the risk. Just hearing Jinki, even for a short time, made Minho feel like there was hope in something still. His friend had a calming voice he had only realized recently. Deep but smooth, soothing and sweet. Even firm when Minho needed it most. It could make Minho smile when he wanted to but couldn’t without some help.
It was relieving, telling Jinki he didn’t really blame him – to know Jinki was still his friend even now.
It might have been the first time Minho had really smiled since he left home.
Right now, in the moment, he was happy he was there, though he did miss people.
He needed to be away.
______________
Minho sat on the stool in the bathroom, hands setting down the emptied plastic tub after splashing more water over himself. He scrubbed again at scabby skin, washcloth soon becoming speckles of red. Minho was sure he was almost clean now, just a little more, right? He hissed scrubbing harder.
Bathing somehow always made him feel dirty, though he would already be washed from top to bottom with soap multiple times. Seeing healing scabs only reminded him of what happened. Maybe if he could get rid of those dark marks he could forget - be better. He would only make new bloody scabs in their place instead.
Minho threw the washcloth at the wall as hard as he could, empty plastic tub quickly following it. He hadn’t realized he had made a sound with his voice until there was a knock asking if he was okay. He breathed, scooping back long, wet hair clinging to his face and stifling a shiver to his thin body, before forcing the smile he was good at now, though they couldn’t even see. He told them everything was fine through the closed door.
Cold water ran painfully over raw skin.
Minho made sure to rinse the bathroom clean, not leave a trace of his speckled blood.
Before leaving the room, he suffered inwardly in thought over if he should take medication he didn’t want. This night, he did swallow a pill, and quickly left for bed.
______________
Minho woke, breathing heavily and wet from sweat, long limbs tangled in loose sheets.
Another nightmare.
This one was with Jinki though.
Minho wasn’t afraid in this dream, begging the person moving inside him to stop. It was Jinki, and for some reason that was okay. It was okay. Jinki was making him feel good, in a way he had never before imagined humanly possible, not until– But it was safe when Jinki touched him like that.
Warm, caring.
Fingers would intertwine, hands held like they used to as children, just how it used to make Minho smile as a little kid when he felt down and confused about his purpose in life but didn’t know how to express it in words, yet Jinki was there at his side.
They kissed, they kissed a lot, and Minho liked it, he actually liked it, like while unconscious being told he craved it in his waking hours.
It didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t right, and Minho was only dragging Jinki down with him.
He hated it. Kissing. It was gross.
He already had pulled a friend too deep. He had made Jinki touch his mouth before. He was selfish, trying to find himself again, using a dear friend in such a careless manner. Some days, a flash, shiver even, ran through him, remembering that night he had been off medication again, for a countless time, him having Jinki thick and hot in his mouth. He didn’t like to think how far he would have gone if Jinki hadn’t proved some point to him Minho couldn’t even remember now – if he hadn’t scared Minho.
Minho often pretended that was just a dream. At the time, he felt like that’s all he was doing – stuck moving around in some lucid, numb dream.
Wasn’t real. Just a nightmare, like all the others. Like this.
All nightmares, all the time.
Disgusting… was all Minho heard in his mind while he curled up in bed trying to forget again.
Please, please forget.
They ruined him.
Such dirty thoughts.
Sick.
______________
Minho sat curled up in a corner of the kitchen, having a permissioned phone call with his brother. He smiled, finally getting to hear his voice again. Minho picked at his bare feet, mostly listening to Minseok talk. He sounded less exhausted now, making Minho feel some relief.
Then, Minho bounced back from another relapse within himself from the past several days. No pills, picking at food, doing nothing.
That night, Minho promised his brother he would be better about taking his medication – to take better care of himself. While out in the county it didn’t weigh on him, the fact he had to take medication that would make others look down on him. It was okay.
Minho tried his hardest to keep such a promise to Minseok.
Everyone he knew deserved that much from him.
It’s what Choi Minho would have done.
Fight.
______________
Minho grew into a routine, chores, busy most the day helping out around the old house or outside. It was a great distraction. He was in a new, fresh place still – he could see that now. He could even forget some days.
Though, it was harder to forget when family visited, or even Jinki. He was happy and excited, relieved even, to see everyone less stressed, but still he felt pulled back to an uncomfortable place seeing them again.
He didn’t want to go back to memories. Not yet.
Minho wanted to stay fresh and clean right here.
So Minho fought to stay.
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