My body stung and parts of my skin were purple-red. There were no days that I did not have these wounds displayed on my physique, which beaten day and night. As soon as the demon saw me lingering outside my room or caught me in the corner of a dark space, I was luckier if I was dead.

I once belonged to a family that every person was dreaming of. My father was a salaryman and my mother was a plain housewife. It might be a simple living but we were happy and peaceful. Until one day, my father was fired from his job due to a false accusation provided to him. His confidence and trust in himself were gone and he lost his will to find another job after what happened. There was no man that wouldn't understand what he had been through. Instead, Mom took his place and worked for the sake of our family. Dad, he was home and stuck in the living room drinking a liquid that I didn't know it's called  'Alcohol' at that time. Whenever I saw him sitting on the couch, swaying the sinful bottle in his hand, it felt like ― little by little ― the father I know was disappearing.

And, he became something worse.

I was forced to wake up one morning when I heard a loud bang behind the wall of my room. I hurriedly went out of there and found my mother crying, holding her face. That was when I noticed one side of her cheek was red — a hand printed on it. Across her was that person, whom I did not know if I could still call 'father' again. He looked more like a monster in my view, with his pair of dark glaring eyes. He pointed at my direction that as if I did something wrong but Mom blocked his way to me.

“Don't include him here!” Mom shouted. She pushed me into my room, closed the door, and after that, I didn't have any sight of what happened next, but I knew that chaotic morning did not end there. I heard shouting, cry and slamming objects to the other side of my wall. I was horrified, hiding under my study table.

That was just the first and one of the times my father fed us his terror.

In order not to have the same issue as before, Mom informed the schedule of her work to our small family. With Dad's overly suspicion of her loyalty, words as sharp as knives were coming out from his mouth, whenever she missed hitting the right time of coming home. Although she was late with only a minute, Dad accused her of wavering and to the point, he tell-tales Mom was sleeping with another man. His hallucination was devouring his whole being.

Verbal abuse was not enough to punish my innocent mother, he even beat her to a pulp, who as if not the partner he chose for his married life.

Each time I came out in our little apartment for school, I always caught the occupants next door were also outside, but they quickly vanished in the scene as soon as they noticed me. There were some who opened their doors a little to peek at me. There were some I heard whispers and the topic of their conversation was no other than our family.

I heard them said, “Poor boy.” And, I heard others would say, “We should not get ourselves involved.”

In my young age of 10, life was getting difficult for me. I needed to face the shame Dad provided to our family. I did not have anyone to ask for help with my mother's situation and mine, because all of the people around me were scared. Mom was too fragile but her flesh and bones kept on breaking to protect me. Her radiant smile could no longer be seen on her face — she — the perfect model for a battered wife.

For two years of uncountable violence, my mother could not bear life anymore. Sobbing seemed to be my daily routine every night and one of those times, I was curled at the corner of my bed, Mom approached me. She said, “Be brave for me.” and “I'm sorry.” She kissed me on top of my head, kept me in a warm and tight embrace, and stayed with me through the night.

I woke up as the sun rose; found no mother by my side. She was out in the middle of the living room, feet floating in the air. She hanged herself, cold and lifeless.

It was all — his — fault my mom bit the dust. I would never forgive him. His polluted brain that caused by his past job would not sell to me anymore. Mom kept on asking for my understanding but he was really too much. Now that we were the only ones left, I didn't know what was next for me. I couldn't bear to stay with him. It would be either of killing him or killing my own self.

How could this twelve-year-old boy stand his situation? Losing Mom meant losing my sense of life.

Everything was fast after my mother's death. I did not have the chance to see her as she was sent to her grave. It was dawn when my father harshly pulled me from my bed and carried me to his shoulder like I was just a doll. I wanted to punish him with my own hands, but my size wouldn't stand a chance to grant that. So instead of anger and hatred swallowed my entire being, I was reminded by my own self that he was still the monster who terrorized our home, fear dominated more.

He spun us around my room, and then took us in front of my dresser. I could only view his inverted back, did not try to move because I was sensing his move. I heard him open my drawer and it was like he was rummaging my clothes and he slumped it somewhere. I was not really sure.

Every door we passed on by was close and a little relieved that there were no judging eyes to watch us leave. The small gentleness he provided me was abruptly gone when he threw me at the backseat of his car, as well as a huge black backpack which was tossed directly to my face. The panic was activated and thought — I was his next victim. We travelled then to our new house where we lived together, prolonged for five years.

In that new building, it was smaller than before — seemed abandoned — seemed there were no people living there except us. The brown which looked to be rose coloured wallpaper before in the corridors were ripping apart as we walked by, then we ended to an old wooden door. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and once he was able to put the correct one in the hole, a dusty room welcomed us. And as I expected, it was tinier than what we had.

He cruelly took the huge bag hanging from my shoulder, kicked the door on the side and pushed me in there. He dropped the bag on that floor of the room where he put me before he closed the door.

I panicked and about to knock on the door that was dividing us, but I heard him speak. “Chanyeol.” I froze. That voice who spoke was my warm Dad that I used to know so I listened to him. “From now on, you will not go to school and never go out of this house. This is for your own good, my son.”

That very moment, I wanted to pass through the window and jump down the lower ground. I wanted myself to die. Since obviously, I would lose if I fight, I surrendered to my fear, repeating in my mind, 'I'm next! I'm next!'

The door of my room was always locked; no sharp objects could be found there, no escape or no chance for suicide. I was not sure if the rusty windows were locked by my father or they were naturally stuck like that. My fingers would break if I tried more to open them.

More than a prisoner, I was not supplied with any food and water for the two days I stayed there. I was thinking if he kept me in that room so I would die from starvation. He would kill me after all. But, he opened the door one morning and found me asleep sitting on the floor, my back resting on the wall. He gave me a piece of bread, just a plain bun, and a glass of water. Would that suffice my hunger?

He said. “Eat quick.” I could not do what he was commanding me because I lost all my strength and agility. When I had taken almost half of the bread into my stomach, he pulled me up by the collar of my shirt and we travelled out to the shower.

The water was cold and rapidly hit my skin. Even I was freezing, I stayed silent as much as I could and instead, I quietly stared at my pale body, which had become thinner for two years of hell. I was able to endure it as I was occupied of following the water running down to me. That was the only time I noticed that my father was idle behind me. I slowly turned my head to him, seeing a man intently looking at me. I wondered but it was answered when he wrapped his arms around me. The shivers doubled.

“I'm sorry.” He said in a hurt tone. I was reluctant to face him fully but I still did. He, on the other hand, gradually held my cheek, looking at me directly in my eyes with his same glinting one. I was not sure if I could trust him but maybe after all — he had regretted all his wrong deeds. I gulped and waited for what he would say next, yet he hugged me tightly. All this while, I could not smell the alcohol from him.

Then, the awaited continuation of his words finally came out.

“Sally.” Sally? “I'm really sorry. I know you're a good person, Sally. You're not going to leave me again, right, Sally?”

It is like my world was spinning in an instance when I heard that name. She was my dead mother. I did not look like her, and I did not look like him. People had noticed that but it was not a big deal. He called me Chanyeol before we got here. Why was he calling me with his wife's name who just died recently? If he was seeing her in me, that basically confirmed my status in this tragic life.

But, the events were confusing.

Hand in hand, he took me with him heading to his room. I simply looked down and followed the trails of the excess water dripping down from me to the wooden floor. If I step my feet harder on the ground, I imagined it would create an infinite hole down below.

Once we had reached his room, he pulled a clean towel out from the closet and dried me with it. He was careful with his wipes while he was smiling; clothes were wet from my bath. A little hope was forming within me that the Dad I had known would return and we would live normal again. After two days of locking me down, with no food and water, then fed me with half of the bread, pulled me into a cold shower, and now, he was changed completely to a kind father. I was asking myself if I could trust him. Keeping silent, I watched him pick a shirt from the closet. It was a white long-sleeve that he used to wear at his work. He faced me again and still had that curve on his lips as he put the shirt on me.

I recently gained a long slumber before he brought me there. Pulling me gently down the bed, he invited me to sleep again. I feel discomfort with his tight embrace but it did not stop in going to my dreamland.

I thought for that moment his treatment would change for a lifetime. But, I was wrong.

Now that no mother would protect me and the one who received his hand of steel, he was free to do all the abused to me as much as he wanted to. There was no way to break out even I tried hiding in the deepest darker corner of that shabby house. He always had a way to capture me and mentally, physically, ually damaged every part of my humanity.

I was so disgusted with him.

I was disgusted with my own self.

I had been praying to die in every pounding he had done or given me a chance to take my own life away. But five years had passed, the broken me was still alive.

Every night, every time the monster exhausted his own son's remaining strength to plead for mercy, I stared at the wounds he marked me that as if it would stay on my skin forever. If light from the bright sun and the moon which were shifting schedule in appearing on my window was the hope that I would pass through this inferno, I was not sure if there was an ending for me. Happy or tragedy, I had no clue.

The only way to flee from this nightmare like reality was the dream I always had whenever I became unconscious. I opened my eyes and a vast view of the flower fields was in front of me. My mother called my name, waving her hand as she was at the center of the blossom bed, wearing a white dress and smiling at me. Her black hair danced with the cool wind, glossy with the warm sunshine. I ran, embraced her and sniffed her. She smelled like cinnamon and a mixture of other fragrant scents. I glanced up at her face, focusing at her dark brown orbs.

I hugged her tightly and cried. “Mom!”

“Hush, child.” She petted my head. “Endure it.”

There were different situations that happened in every dream I had. Sometimes we talked; sometimes we keep our silence and just felt the warmth of each other, sometimes we strolled around the field with clasped hands. The only thing the same was the place. I must say it was such a lovely dream. If reality could simply be as wonderful as that…

But, the dreams had stopped for the reason of this new habit that made me wide awake till dawn. Waiting at my window, watching the colour of the sky from dark blue to a lighter shade, I waited for him to show up — down the pavement. He would be there standing without fail.

I possibly first saw him a year ago when I could not sleep from the pain I was feeling in my body. He was standing in great posture, the black long coat he was wearing swayed with the calm passing wind. He must be in all black but he looked so cool and chic to me and his bright-blond-push-back was outstanding. His face could be identical to the manikins I was seeing when I was a kid, his skin was very pale but his whiteness was a beauty beyond compare, red lips were luscious like strawberry. I was not even sure if he was a human anymore because he was a definition of perfection. Although I could not see what was under his usual black sunglasses, I knew a pretty pair of eyes was underneath it.

I wanted to see my own reflection but I assumed that my physical features had no match to that person. Also, I knew a lot of changes had happened to me and those were not made myself any better than before. From the view of my limbs where bones were protruding in my skin, scar conquered nearly my entire body, my nails about to peel off my fingers, I had ignored the fact that my reddish brown hair grew so long. I might have an unhealthy condition but my skeletal structure developed, which let me get so tall. I might have the advantage to fight my father now with my height but my energy was lacking to do so.

I heard some crackles outside my room that I did not have to think twice in diving to my bed and cover myself with my dusty blanket. I was unsure if the sound was made by my father but what I knew right now was to hide under the cover. I was always shuddering even simply thinking about the possible approaching monster.

When I could not hear any noise outside, I lifted myself from the bed and rushes coming over again near the window. The man is no longer down the sidewalk. At that time, I wondered if I could see him again.

My fascination with that person became a habit of staying near the window and anticipating him to show up. Although he was a devotee of black clothing, he was a fairy in my eyes, a crow that freely flew in the sky. I wondered if I would be able to have a chance to meet him personally. I wanted to draw him or write anything about him just to describe his flawlessness, so every time my father was ready to wreck me, the pain he gave would ease.

In one of the days of my seventeen years of age, he was standing at dawn even there was pouring rain. He would simply shrug the drops off his black-crispy-ironed coat. That plain gesture drove me to the excitement and made me want to squeal. It was as if he senses my emotion that he glanced up to my direction, straightly looking at my eyes. My heart jumped at a sudden moment and I hastily go down to hide away from the window. After a few minutes, crawling up the wall, I cautiously glimpsed to see if he was still there. I found no one standing on the pavement. He might have creeped out when he detected me staring at him. Since then, I no longer saw the man that helps me survive the day.

From his disappearance, I tried sleeping like I always did before he entered my desolate life. However, each night was a dreamless slumber. I could not visualize my mother like I usually have in my dreams. I wondered if it had to do with him. Without him, without the dreams, the only way I could be happy again was by joining my mother in the afterlife. I could not wait to see her when I die.

***