October 2008

            “Don’t you ever work?” I asked Jong In one particular night. He was over at my apartment, cooking up his famous pasta to fill my empty stomach. I had just returned from work, and here Jong In was, whizzing up a fantastic dinner for two.

            “No,” he answered, “I find work to be rather boring and dull.” He sprinkled pepper and garlic salt into the pasta before stirring in the ingredients with a pair of wooden chopsticks.

            I closed my eyes, inhaling in the magical scent wafting towards me. Jong In was a magician in the kitchen, I swear. “If only I had a life like yours,” I mumbled.

            “Yeah, well,” Jong In said, “I don’t think you would want my life.”

            “Your life would be much better than mine.” Memories deluged my brain; screams screeching in my ear. I winced at the thought of the past. My right hand automatically went to my chest, clawing at my heart.

            “I wanted to be a dancer,” Jong In set down the plate of pasta in front of me before setting one down for himself. He pulled up a wooden stool next to me before sitting down. “But after my attempt of suicide, I couldn’t dance anymore. I dropped out of college because life didn’t seem to agree with me. One misfortunate occurred  after another.”

            “Then where do you get the mo –“ I stopped myself midsentence, realizing how arrogant I sounded. Jong In merely shook his head, dismissing my statement.

            “I just do,” he said, “things happen, and it makes who I am. As much as we want the past to completely vanish, it’s impossible. The past is a part of who we are. It’s an unwanted tattoo.”

            “An unwanted tattoo,” I repeated, “that sounds about right.” Screaming and more screaming echo within the caves of my brain. No, I mustn’t, I reminded myself. I swallowed down the forming lump in my throat with much difficulty. I smiled warily.

            “And the present acts much like our pieces of clothing. It easily covers the tattoo,” Jong In added.

            “My past is my tattoo,” I muttered. “It may fade away, but it’s still there.”

* * * *

December 2008

            “I clearly didn’t want to be saved, yet you still saved me,” the male said. We were seated in his private VIP room, and I could clearly differentiate the details between his room and my room. It was much more serine as opposed to mine. The view was much nicer too – it overlooked the garden outside. From where I slept, I only saw the trash chutes.  

            “And for all the right reasons,” I corrected, “If it’s something you want to –“

            “I. DIDN’T. WANT. TO. BE. SAVED,” the man emphasized.

            “And you probably had a reason too,” I said, “but if you need help, you need to just ask for it.”

            “I wanted to die! You said you were once in my position, but you seem mighty fine to me!”

            “I found a reason to live,” I answered with a calm expression plastered on my face, “Now it’s up to you to find a reason to live.”

            His angry expressions soon softened up as realization dawned on him. “I’m not worth living,” he admitted in a soft whisper, “I’m a waste of space. I’ve done so many inappropriate and unacceptable things.”

            “And that’s in the past,” I replied, “the past is like an unwanted tattoo. The present acts like our t-shirt. It easily covers the past. But when the shirt comes off, it reveals the tattoo. The ink – or in this case – the details of your past may fade away, but it’s still very much there. You just have to learn to adjust to your past, ugly or not.” I suddenly smiled, recalling my conversation with Jong In on a fateful October night.

            “The past is my tattoo,” the male slowly reiterated.

            “Everyone has their tattoo. It’s just up to them whether to reveal it or not.”

* * * *

October 2013

            “Wu Yi Fan has filed a lawsuit against you,” Danny, the head of Golden Flame’s attorneys hands Sehun a file containing all the details regarding the lawsuit. “I suggest you do not step into court, because on