6:14AM

--

Chanyeol’s clothes are ragged—he’s supposedly wearing his old brown long-coat that’s torn in multiple places. His eyes reflect the sun that starts to peek from the bottom of the world; he always thought it was funny how people thought that the world was flat once upon a time. But it’s funny to think that the laws of the world written by human can be changed by a single discovery—like people used to think the solar system revolves around the Earth instead of the sun.

It’d be amusing to think that perhaps they’ll make a discovery that perhaps, life was never real. It’s just a projection, like a really bad movie that’s awkward at times, jumbled with bad quality, with no good plot and no clear beginning nor end, with poor budget. Maybe this is all a dream. Maybe Chanyeol’s going to wake up soon, realising that perhaps somewhere along his life he’d fallen asleep inside his bathtub once more, just like he used to when he was a kid.

It’s a little chilly. Winter’s crept in, and despite smoking for a bit and drinking liquor just a few minutes ago, he still feels cold. Chanyeol pulls the coat around him and shivers. Sometimes he’d like to think that certain things could taste something if he were able to eat it, and right now, everything tastes bitter to his tongue.

He doesn’t really know what he’s doing. It’s definitely not the alcohol that makes him feel sleepy—perhaps it’s because it’s in the wee early hours of the morning. Waking up at 6:14AM can do a lot of things to your brain. A lot of things—Chanyeol’s out here, in his pyjamas and his socks, sans his shoes, with a coat thrown onto his shoulders. He’s still high and blind to the world, and he walks aimlessly, straight, straight towards somewhere that’ll lead him… somewhere.

Baekhyun once told him so—a path always leads somewhere. You’d only have to walk the path to find out what’s on the other side.

A prime example would be of right now, Chanyeol flying five feet into the air before his skull cracks with the hard asphalt. He doesn’t have the chance to shout to that bastard of the driver who’d hit him straight-on, or scream in pain, or say goodbye to his son, or tell… tell Baekhyun that…

That…

--

Chanyeol’s got red lines across his back.

It’s one of the days of being an eight-year-old, as a Park Chanyeol. Sometimes Chanyeol thinks about how you can only be eight years old for three-hundred-and-sixty-five days only, and anything could happen when regardless when you’re eight, when you’re nine, ten, eleven. You can change your life right this moment. You can run out of the house right now or kiss a stranger or hold a knife to your throat and—

A lot of things can happen.

But Chanyeol’s life is fixed. As in, fixed, where it’s ‘permanent’ and unchangeable. His father’s got a PhD degree for wasting his money on alcohol and his mother’s… somewhere, depending on how much meth she took today. Maybe in an alternate world where there’s an unlimited supply of . Who knows—she’s got her head lolled on the sofa arm and she’s either dead or sleeping, and there’s no telling which state she’s in.

Chanyeol’s got red (soon to be purple) lines across he’s back because he’s being lashed with a belt. Chanyeol’s father was very much sort of enthusiastic about it that he gave thirteen instead of the threatened twelve. Chanyeol’s shirt is ridden up to his shoulders and he’s being given an equivalent of a whipping in the charge of being born and existing.

His father probably collapsed in the middle of it because Chanyeol’s back stopped stinging for a while—the first time he’s being lashed, it’d been so bad that his back bled all over and he had to sleep on his stomach for a full month. But his skin’s grown thick now, and so is his mentality, and he’s mostly numb to the lashings that he’s being given.

But, if Chanyeol were to be honest, he was more terrified of his mother than anything. It was like—she just sits there, watching her own son beaten by his father. It’s the fact that she never cares at all. She just stares at Chanyeol with her little buggy dead eyes and it terrifies Chanyeol more than death could terrify him.

But she’s dead. Or asleep. Whatever. Dead people can’t have a say in anything.

Chanyeol severely questions it sometimes—he’s supposed to love his mother, right? Even if he’s a failed abortion, with knock-knees and a scarred back, she’d been one to carry him for nine months and birthed him out to the world (even though Chanyeol didn’t ask to). Yet Chanyeol doesn’t regard her as his mother all—they were only significant because they shared half his DNA. There was never an ounce of time his mother would give him some sort of affection—all the affection he’d gained was from the countless nannies and babysitters.

Chanyeol swallows, and he winces as he got up, sliding his shirt down. His father’s collapsed on the floor, drunk, belt in one hand, whilst his mother’s caked in white powder on her nose.

This isn’t family.

Chanyeol looks at his torn house. He doesn’t really care about it, since he mostly sleeps on the front porch with a lithe blanket over his body because apparently his father sleepwalks and sleep-lashes him too. The ceiling leaks from even the lightest of rains and it looks like a ing massive tip to Chanyeol—it’s a wonder why the council hadn’t considered moving them out of the house. But this wasn’t his home, nor will it ever be.

Suddenly he just feels like crying, and the next thing he knows is that he’s running from himself, running down the blocks with tears in his eyes. Knock-knees he had, but his legs were powerful enough to windmill him down the street and crash into a blur of pink sweater and sweet smiles, only for the particular face he bumped into turn into severe concern and Chanyeol’s put back down to earth.

“Wah! Are you okay?” sweet-smiles said, with his cotton brown hair and missing tooth, the sweater of his sleeves bunched up at the wrists because they were too big on him. Chanyeol, with a reputation of the toughest kid in school no matter how much he’s been beat up, burst into bigger sobs, the tears rolling down his cheeks and onto the hot asphalt.

Sweet-smiles had sat next to him, patting his back despite not knowing what Chanyeol was crying for. He was whispering ‘there, there’ softly, rubbing the back of Chanyeol’s neck. And Chanyeol looks up to see the prettiest angel he’ll ever behold a sight for, and he’s cured of his crying because the boy’s gap-toothed smile was godsend.

“Feel better now? I have a cookie if you wanna,” godsend sweet-smiles said, and he produces a slightly broken cookie from his big sweater pockets. Chanyeol sniffs and politely declined, too shocked to say anything because nobody in the history of his miserable ing eight years of his life had ever, ever offered him anything but more suffering and misery. The next thing he knows is that there’s a cute little hand in front of him, and godsend sweet-smiles boy gives him a grin to imprint on his memory forever.

“I’m Byun Baekhyun.” He lisps so ing adorably, and Chanyeol couldn’t help but take his smaller hand in his scabby rough ones, and offer him a shabby, but honest-to-god smile that he hasn’t gave anyone in years.

“I’m Park Chanyeol.” He hiccups.

Fast friends indeed.

--

“Mama! Mama, look, I’ve made a friend!”

Chanyeol would never admit it—he’s traumatised of parents. But Baekhyun’s parents were so nice and kind and even treated Chanyeol like their own son even though they’d both only seen him for maybe about two seconds. They were both carrying boxes, both of them bigger versions of tiny Byun Baekhyun, and it was clear that they’re moving in as of recent because a truck was parked in front of an empty house that’s soon to be occupied.

“You’ve made a friend already?” Mrs. Byun laughs, and she leans down a little to greet them both. Baekhyun was holding Chanyeol’s grubby hands whilst the latter was still sniffing; and Chanyeol was glad of the fact that even though they stole worried glances, they didn’t ask anything about Chanyeol’s recurring hiccups that were formerly sobs.

“Yeah. Mama, this is Park Chanyeol. Chanyeol, this is my mama. And that’s papa over there. We’re moving in today! I hope we can be friends.” Baekhyun smiles warmly, and it only made Chanyeol want to sob more because of his hospitality.

--

Baekhyun was tutored by his father and mother, but he knew more of Chanyeol’s school friends more than Chanyeol did himself. He’d always wait by the school gates for Chanyeol at 2:45PM, waving for Chanyeol in his pink sweater that god knows how old it was. And Chanyeol treasured his friendship with Baekhyun—perhaps it was