He heard a slight scuffling, followed by the clinking of several rusted argent keys. He heard the key turn in the lock. He closed his eyes, pretending to be deep in slumber.

“Get up, Kim Ryeowook. You’re getting outta here today.”

As if he would forget. He’d been counting every day.

He feigned a small groan and sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. The prison guard grabbed his unnaturally thin wrist, pulled him up and escorted him out his cell door. Ryeowook laughed inwardly as he noticed how the particular guard hadn’t changed from when he first arrived at prison. The guard still walked with a stiff posture. He still kept a considerably safe distance from Ryeowook, although from the handcuffs present on Ryeowook’s wan wrists, it was pretty clear that he didn’t have the ability to harm the guard in any way possible, let alone move. As they continued to walk down the white, nondescript corridor that still stunk of sewage water, blood and the hospital, Ryeowook fidgeted with his hands, choosing to listen to the jingling of his cold cuffs rather than the hushed silence of the inmates who watched them pass by. The guard, without looking at him, asked, “So how does it feel to finally get out of prison?”

Ryeowook continued to walk with his head down. Well, how terribly nice of you to ask.

“I suppose I wouldn’t miss it very much.”

Ha. Who was he kidding? Of course he wouldn’t miss it. He wouldn’t miss it at all.

Once they arrived at a broad, steel gate, the guard released his hold on Ryeowook, who watched as an officer scribbled something down on a thin book of records. As the ridiculously large gate opened, the guard shoved Ryeowook beyond so hard he found himself almost tripping. 

“Don’t come back, Kim Ryeowook.”

He steadied himself, brushing dust off his hands.

Finally.

It was the very first thing he thought of as he stood outside the colossal steel gates.

Ryeowook looked back at the officers donned in dull brown uniforms who no longer paid him any heed. He shook his hands, relishing in the sensation of his long-awaited freedom to move his own hands without the usual handcuffs. He gladly accepted the harsh wintry air that gushed up his nostrils without prior knowledge; the cold pricks of the precariously brumal winds that stabbed his skin almost immediately, and the never-changing sky of a bland, livid grey. The crisp air was laced with a thin tang of snow and rain.

His quick, light – and dangerously careless – steps brought him to the building he had known as home.

He walked in, guided by only a few lit ceiling lights that flickered once in a while. He pushed the button numbered ‘15’ in the lift. He started to feel his own irregular pulse of a heart pound in his ears and his head thump loudly like when a fever broke out. He wiped his already clammy hands on his thin jacket and gulped. After spending five years in an emotionless cell, feeling nervous felt so… new. But it wasn’t just anxiety. He felt hope arise in him, too. What would she say? Would she cry? Would she hug him?

Ding. He snapped out of his thoughts, stepping out the elevator. Without hesitation, he turned left and walked straight up to a white wooden door. It was as if he hadn’t ever left this place. Five years hadn’t changed his impeccable memory to remember exactly which unit was his. He rummaged the shoebox for the spare key he knew she always liked to put, turning it in the lock.

Ryeowook closed the door behind him quietly. “Mother.”

He cringed when her narrow shoulders went rigid upon his greeting. The petite lady turned around, leaving the iron on the shirt she had been ironing.

“Ryeowook?”

Her response only gave him more hope. He felt assurance and relief surge in him as he took a step forward. But it seemed his mother didn’t feel the same.

“W-what are you doing here?”

Ryeowook frowned at her question. “I was released from prison today.”

“Wha- Oh my god. Ryeowook, why are you… why are you here?”

Ryeowook blinked. Why? It was his home. Of course he’d be here.

“Why’d you come back?” She said, her eyes clouded in what Ryeowook found was fear. “You know,” she continued as she fiddled with her hands, “your brother… your brother doesn’t want you back.” She bit her lips, tears pooling in her brown, once kind eyes, almost guilty. Ryeowook’s lips pressed into a thin, grim line. “Neither does your sister,” her eyes darted almost everywhere except for Ryeowook’s, “nor your father,” she grabs the iron behind her in a defensive stance, “nor I.”

Sometimes, it scared her. The way her son never really said anything. He just stood there, unalarmed. Not in the least affected, he remained stationary and sedate. Even when on thundering days with unending sleet, when she drank too much and simply forgot to make a meal, he remained silent and still like it never really bothered him that she had failed her duties as a mother.

Sometimes, it scared him. The way his mother always looked at him as if he was mentally ill; as if he wasn’t really her child. She was always cautious, and when he wanted to hold her hand on thundering days with unending sleet, she would retrieve her hand so quick like he was poison ivy. He knew that she knew of his queer idiosyncrasies; but when he was taken into custody, he never had expected her to sag her shoulders in relief. Instead of being concerned and ashamed, why was she relieved?

“Did you know? They both came back after school every day with drenched clothes and torn textbooks and sometimes even with black eyes. Every day. Every day your sister came back crying. Every day your brother wished you never were born.” She had started to raise her voice a little, rage starting to settle in after the shock had dissipated. “Every day they wondered whether you knew what your actions had cost us all that day.”

Somewhere, deep in Ryeowook’s heart, he had known this would happen. But never to this extent. He swallowed away his shock and an emotion far greater than despair, stepping away from his mother who still hadn’t put down the burning hot iron. “I… Right. Sorry. I’ll come by another time.” He said, turning his back against his mother as he headed towards the door.

“Ryeowook.”

Standing before an ajar door, he turned his head to look at his mother, who stared at not him, but the mark that was left on his right arm.