Chapter Two
Broken GlassChapteR Two
Sometimes there live someone behind us.
That was the struggle. That was the pain. The little girl felt being neglected. Time was unfair—everybody was unfair. How could they let the little girl engulfed with such pain? The pressure that was rising from her felt like a bullet shot right straight to her whole senses. The whole spotted area seared in pain, leaving a scar. The scar will always meant to be there—to give something to remember.
She had always beaten when he seemed it was not right—or was it right to beat a child who was not her fault at all? She was hated. Hated by her father. “Father, please- I am begging you…” The poor little girl winced helplessly, yet the switch of his felt like hell at each batter, he continued beating so. She curled lying against the floor on one corner of her room—defenseless. Her eyes were welling with tears, and face washed with endurance and confusion.
Wished she could die from that—to get away, to break free, to feel what every kid should feel like. No one could help, even from a mother’s lending hand did not appear in every scene. Her father was in rage, perhaps the reason why her mother could not do anything. Every helpless scream he would hear, provoking himself to do the beating more. Every endless pain he will feel from the child, giving him the satisfaction. But something—someone kept her alive.
It formed an intense anger, and despise he had from the mother’s child, which diverted through the poor little she. Does he not felt pity? Even just once? Is he that angry toward her that he did that? The agony went on. He looked insatiable at every of his batter in that way. And the child—was vulnerable as a dead beggar. “You are not my child anyway!” Bam! Another painful beat. Merciless. She could not utter a thing anymore. With a harsh grip, he lifted her whole jaw and tirade like a monster she used to visualize in her dreams. “You are not supposed to be here, you little scum! You are supposed to be with your father! People like you, and him should be thrown anywhere else and will never be seen again!”
A four year-old girl will never understood a thing, all she knew was that her so-called father had beaten her so badly, and was mere unhappy. He shoved the girl’s face away with much force, and stormed out of the room. Her cries could be heard, until her heart could only hear it alone. The vibration of such impotent cry was then slowing down, it turned to be rather invisible; filled with puzzlement.
Bruises, scars—showed unworthy. Is the girl really worth to feel this way? She was just a kid. She got up from where she laid…trembling, weeping, and frightened. The blood petrified her more, they were not dripping, yet they were running like every snail does along her pale skin. How long would this girl going to suffer from this? When will her father going to lay a hurting hand on her again? From the deepest of her mind, she thought.
She looked onto the mirror standing before her, oval shaped and an unfamiliar figure reflected. She got scared again. Who do you think this girl I just saw in front of me? She was sure she was not her—she debated. Yet the little girl created another weeping sound, she have had witnessed who the unrecognized face was. “Father, why?” That was the turning point of her unanswered question began to take shape.
All her life she was hidden with her own shadows, to inflict the pain and to elude from reality. But the reality seemed playing with her, pulling her out to taste the bitterness of the pain it brought. She lived worst. She died worst. And yet it was not the end of her existence, until pain became her best friend since then.
I stumbled and rolled down to the floor upon recalling my past, which I knew dead for too long ago. But it was the only—not ordinary death I had ever caught. It was rather unending, which the mere role of it is to keep those episodes flashing back inside my head. As I grew up, it was easy for me to understand everything, and it kills me more inside. It hurts. A hand clutched over my chest, threatening my tears to burst out at the sting that I already felt. I fought back, while giving a hit, hits in repeat on my chest. I would rather hurt myself than anyone hurt me, I thought.
With an attempt to stand up as I made the bed as my assistant, a sudden strike of another pain smashed my head. I fell back on my previous position, and struggled upon whimpering. If you would ask which of the two was the painful of all? Still, it was the pain that I received from everybody. Body shifted, facing the floor and curled my legs up to my diaphragm, as if like a turtle hiding to his shelter and arms blocking the holes in each side of my face. And there—I cried so much in deep pain. I admit, it was intolerable in which I used to bang my head a few times against the skin of the floor. I could smell its scent. Its vintage scent. The smell of the 1991st’s was running through my nostrils, and it gave me a lighter feeling. But to at each strike of the pain, there I continued banging again with all my might.
Somehow, I am already immuned with the indescribable pain, yet depending to when I feel already fed up. It was head cracking that I could almost see my cracked head looked like. It was surging in my head so hard that I could sense nausea. It was not good. But, this is the usual me—like almost every day. No one knows—except me, and the other me. In that position, I remained unshakeable, until I have fallen to sleep.
She had always beaten when he seemed it was not right—or was it right to beat a child who was not her fault at all? She was hated. Hated by her father. “Father, please- I am begging you…” The poor little girl winced helplessly, yet the switch of his felt like hell at each batter, he continued beating so. She curled lying against the floor on one corner of her room—defenseless. Her eyes were welling with tears, and face washed with endurance and confusion.
Wished she could die from that—to get away, to break free, to feel what every kid should feel like. No one could help, even from a mother’s lending hand did not appear in every scene. Her father was in rage, perhaps the reason why her mother could not do anything. Every helpless scream he would hear, provoking himself to do the beating more. Every endless pain he will feel from the child, giving him the satisfaction. But something—someone kept her alive.
It formed an intense anger, and despise he had from the mother’s child, which diverted through the poor little she. Does he not felt pity? Even just once? Is he that angry toward her that he did that? The agony went on. He looked insatiable at every of his batter in that way. And the child—was vulnerable as a dead beggar. “You are not my child anyway!” Bam! Another painful beat. Merciless. She could not utter a thing anymore. With a harsh grip, he lifted her whole jaw and tirade like a monster she used to visualize in her dreams. “You are not supposed to be here, you little scum! You are supposed to be with your father! People like you, and him should be thrown anywhere else and will never be seen again!”
A four year-old girl will never understood a thing, all she knew was that her so-called father had beaten her so badly, and was mere unhappy. He shoved the girl’s face away with much force, and stormed out of the room. Her cries could be heard, until her heart could only hear it alone. The vibration of such impotent cry was then slowing down, it turned to be rather invisible; filled with puzzlement.
Bruises, scars—showed unworthy. Is the girl really worth to feel this way? She was just a kid. She got up from where she laid…trembling, weeping, and frightened. The blood petrified her more, they were not dripping, yet they were running like every snail does along her pale skin. How long would this girl going to suffer from this? When will her father going to lay a hurting hand on her again? From the deepest of her mind, she thought.
She looked onto the mirror standing before her, oval shaped and an unfamiliar figure reflected. She got scared again. Who do you think this girl I just saw in front of me? She was sure she was not her—she debated. Yet the little girl created another weeping sound, she have had witnessed who the unrecognized face was. “Father, why?” That was the turning point of her unanswered question began to take shape.
All her life she was hidden with her own shadows, to inflict the pain and to elude from reality. But the reality seemed playing with her, pulling her out to taste the bitterness of the pain it brought. She lived worst. She died worst. And yet it was not the end of her existence, until pain became her best friend since then.
I stumbled and rolled down to the floor upon recalling my past, which I knew dead for too long ago. But it was the only—not ordinary death I had ever caught. It was rather unending, which the mere role of it is to keep those episodes flashing back inside my head. As I grew up, it was easy for me to understand everything, and it kills me more inside. It hurts. A hand clutched over my chest, threatening my tears to burst out at the sting that I already felt. I fought back, while giving a hit, hits in repeat on my chest. I would rather hurt myself than anyone hurt me, I thought.
With an attempt to stand up as I made the bed as my assistant, a sudden strike of another pain smashed my head. I fell back on my previous position, and struggled upon whimpering. If you would ask which of the two was the painful of all? Still, it was the pain that I received from everybody. Body shifted, facing the floor and curled my legs up to my diaphragm, as if like a turtle hiding to his shelter and arms blocking the holes in each side of my face. And there—I cried so much in deep pain. I admit, it was intolerable in which I used to bang my head a few times against the skin of the floor. I could smell its scent. Its vintage scent. The smell of the 1991st’s was running through my nostrils, and it gave me a lighter feeling. But to at each strike of the pain, there I continued banging again with all my might.
Somehow, I am already immuned with the indescribable pain, yet depending to when I feel already fed up. It was head cracking that I could almost see my cracked head looked like. It was surging in my head so hard that I could sense nausea. It was not good. But, this is the usual me—like almost every day. No one knows—except me, and the other me. In that position, I remained unshakeable, until I have fallen to sleep.
yemakim here
hi, everybody! yemakim here and is updating the second chapter of the story. omooooo it feels so excruciating and heartbreaking to know how Joohyun's so called 'not' father had been actually hurting her entirely. TT___TT
PS: please do comment still .... /throws love to everyone/
PS: please do comment still .... /throws love to everyone/
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