One

Inked
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I started to play soccer because of my father.

He used to be the center of his team in the national league and was even awarded the MVP trophy a couple of times before. And he was really well-known by the country for his golden kicks! That made him a huge star in South Korea back in the 2040s. Back when he was a twenty-some year old fellow and was still strong not to break any bones.

But all that fame, all his awards, and his entire career ceaselessly came falling down the hill in his 30s, when he was already on the top of the rank, when he was the most awarded sports man of his generation.

How did it happen? You were probably wondering.

It was on the day of his next big game. Their rival on the field was a no less formidable opponent but his team was the best, so there shouldn’t have been any worries. But you know how rivals are, right? They did everything to defeat each other, even if that meant stepping on someone else’s. That happened to dad, literally. They were on the field trying to take the ball away from him when someone from the opposing team tripped him to the ground. One of his teammates were behind him and accidentally came falling down with them too, not foreseeing the commotion before him. And then another guy from the opposing team miscalculated his route, lost his balance and accidentally stepped on dad’s right leg, hard. He got his leg broken.

That lead to him being sent to the hospital, and that made the doctor tell him he could no longer play soccer the way he outstandingly did before.

That made his coach tell him he was sorry for what had happened, but he had to drop dad out of the team in order for them to continue forward without much handicap in the succeeding games.

Dad was hospitalized after that for two whole freaking months. And in those days, he was in a real slump. He had looked at the ceiling of his hospital room every morning with a blank mind. He did not know what to do. He almost gave up. Because his life depended too much on his career, his passion.

And he thought, what could he even do with a broken leg? His coach was right with ousting him from the team.

That was what he thought, but not until he met my mom. His soulmate.

They happened to be in the same place at the same time. Dad was a patient. Mom was a nurse. Fate intertwined their souls together and in one surprising meeting, at first glance at each other, their hearts fluttered and the mark was branded on their wrists in a slow, warm engraving process. It was like a tattoo on your skin. A stain that won’t go away. An inerasable mark that was unique to only you and your other half.

Theirs was similar to the shape of the sun. A star that burned with passion, that shone on my dad’s life and maybe made him rethink his life through. He was still lucky. Because even though he lost a career, he found himself a soulmate, though late in life.

And then a year later after getting married, they had me. Oh Sehun. The sole inheritor of my dad’s soccer genius DNA.

I was born loved by my parents. I was the sole child for five years, until mom conceived another child again that turned out a girl, my only sister, Oh Hayoung.

With only the four of us in the family, our parents doted on us so much. Mom mostly took care of my sister since she was just a tiny little thing when I began attending preparatory school. At that time, dad who took on teaching soccer to kids my age at the local school, took it as his responsibility to take care of me most of the time, since mom already had too much on her plate, what with feeding my baby sister and all.

Of course, dad and I became closer, especially when he started teaching me his sport, too, and he discovered I had been gifted the talent to kick some balls and score a goal and not miss. Seeing that I could be a prodigy at an early age after him, he taught me all he knew about soccer and made it his mission to get me to practice all the time.

At seven, I managed to get a good grip of the game, what soccer was all about, and was able to hone my skills. I joined the school’s soccer team that competed in interschool leagues and regional ones, too, and made myself known for my natural talent in playing the sport.

Soon, I had also been interviewed through national tv and became known as the prodigy child of one of the greatest soccer players of all time, Oh Daewoo; my daddy. People became fond of me. They loved me. Whatever I did as a kid they found it adorable. I was even casted for some commercials and shows and made an even bigger name. I was already exposed under the bright limelight at such an early age. It made me truly excited and happy to do better each day. It made me love soccer even more, though it required me to need to make sure I practice well and at the same time not fail in my studies.

Mom made sure to keep good tabs on me that I never once dared to flunk an exam. But once as an eight year old boy, I experienced getting a seventy mark for my first semester score in Math and that entitled me to a good beating on my palms from my mother. It hurt for a week and that had cost a fight between my parents, that I made sure never to get the same grade again. That was the first and last time I got beaten for a bad grade. I didn’t ever got a grade lower than eighty-five ever, after that.

Our family’s relationship became even harmonious after all the efforts it took me to make sure I wouldn’t commit unnecessary mistakes again that might lead to my parents fighting. Because if there was one thing I was most concerned of more than soccer was my family. I hated seeing my parents fight. It was such an ugly sight for a child. And it somewhat made me feel like the bond they shared might lessen if they did have misunderstandings because of their love child.

Back then I had doubts that, though people had a special connection because they were soulmates, they might still break apart because of difficulties in the relationship that might spark a great discord.

I was just glad that my parents were a strong pair. They defied my theory about soulmates back then when I was still eight and naïve.

 

-


When Hayoung turned four, and I, nine, we found a stray cat on our way home from playing outside. It was inside a box with a placard stuck outside saying:

‘Hoping That Someone Will Give These Cats A Nice Home’

I had imagined the cat being inside the box, previously, with many of her brothers and sisters, but probably some were already taken by the neighbors and given a warm place to stay in. It was the only one left in the box though; a cat that was the color of deep black. It was so black that maybe the neighbors rather picked the ones that had a lighter shade. Because they said, black was the color of bad luck.

Back then, I didn’t believe the old superstitions and instead picked up the last kitten left from the box and gave it a new home, with the insistence of my cute little sister, Hayoung.

She was so happy having the kitten around the house. It followed her little self everywhere even if she played tag with it and sometimes the kitten would trip on its feet. I was happy just by simply watching her have fun on her own. It gave me joy to see my sister happy. That as a nine year old what only added to the list of things I valued after my family and soccer was her.

Nothing more, nothing less.

My future soulmate didn’t even make it to the cut. I was not thinking about her at my age then, though, I was already hearing my friends talking about theirs in such an age. We were all nine and childish. We all had innocent minds, but I guess even at that age, talking about your soulmate to others was normal. Having a destined soulmate of your own was, after all, a constant. It would not change.

They said that once we were born, someone out there was already predetermined to be our future other half. You only need time to wait until you finally meet. And when you do, they said, you would easily know if they were the right one because you would feel your heart flutter if they were near and you’d both feel this burning sensation on your wrists as your permanent mark was being inked by fate.

Ninety-nine percent of the population meet their soulmates on a daily basis, so it was not a scare that you might not get your partner for life. You might pass by them on the streets and immediately know that they were the one. There might be instances when you’d unfortunately miss your soulmate at one fateful chance, but you won’t have to worry about not meeting again because destiny would work its way for you to meet again, in the end. That was what they said. That was what they taught us in school too and at home, of course. I heard them mostly from dad. He was a huge follower of this norm we had in our world. He believed in it so much that the gods had sent him his soulmate at the rightest time, mom.

“I have already heard a lot about this ninety-nine percent of the society meeting their soulmate. But what about this 1% left, dad? What happens to them? Why were they excluded in the count?” I asked dad one morning as he was telling me more about this constant about soulmates.

At the mention of my odd question dad placed his tea cup on the coaster mom prepared for him on the table. I watched carefully as his face changed from a happy state to a solemn one. I had wondered why he had been quiet for some time then as he glanced at the view of the sunrise through the opened kitchen window and I asked myself if I said something wrong that might have upset him.

But then he disproved of my worry, yet said in a serious tone, “Most of us meet our destined other half in one lifetime. But there’s this unfortunate 1% that doesn’t even get to meet their soulmates, at all.”

I was relieved that he was not sad because I said something upsetting. He was sad because of the idea my words had implied. And somewhere between our conversation, I also, probably felt this tiny pang like dad had for this one percent of the population who didn’t even get the chance to meet their soulmates, at all.

“Why can’t they meet their soulmates, dad?” I had asked curiously, having this huge lump rising in my throat that was threatening to cut through me.

Dad turned his head to me and with a considerate smile he tried to explain it to me with the simplest words he could tell—trying not to give me the wrong idea, since I knew he must have found it difficult to explain to a child what this unfortunate one-percent had to go through.

“The only reason why they don’t get to meet the soulmate that was fated to them was if this other half unexpectedly died.”

I was just a child, then, naïve, but not stupid to not understand the concept of death. That at the mention of my father about this one percent not meeting their soulmate because that other person might have died without you even at least seeing them, I felt tears spring forth from my eyes. I cried so hard that day for these people who never got to meet their soulmates. I haven’t met mine yet at that age, but I already felt like I knew how it was like to lose the one you love that I cried and cried, till mom came home and saw me in a heap of tears on the floor and with a restless father hopelessly trying to coax me.

Mom had nagged on dad for telling me about that one detail at the wrong time. She said I was just a kid and the mention of death might have really overwhelmed me that I felt really bad, which was true. I couldn’t agree any less that mom was right. That since then I started worrying for myself.

What if I was one of that portion of those unlucky one percent of the population?

I became afraid that there was that one percent possibility that I might never meet my soulmate. That even though I was previously not very interested about it, I started to listen to what my friends were talking about. They said that most of the kids would start meeting their soulmates at the age of twelve; the average age, though, was fourteen, if you were lucky.

Some late bloomers like dad, was probably still lucky during his thirties to meet mom. Because from what I also heard from the gossiping elderlies, there was this Mr. Park in our neighborhood, who was a baker, who always sat on his rocking chair, still waiting for a soulmate. And as I heard, back then, he was already fifty-five and still had no luck with finding his fated one. There was also Ms. Moon, seventy-eight, who ended up a widow after her husband’s death—he died of heart attack, I heard. She never met another man that might have made her happy again after that.

And then there was this famous tale about Mr. Song, the sixty-two year old grouchy old man, that kids kept on pestering every morning due to what he ended up being: alone. From what I heard, his story was famous due to his very unfortunate fate. What they said was that he had known his soulmate died in a plane crash after seeing his mark being tattooed on his wrist by the gods of fate with a black ink, that cold sensation running through his entire body, and seeing this unclear vision of what might have happened to his other half.

I didn’t know if it was all true, but seeing the quiet old man everyday made me think that probably the rumors were right. Maybe they were right about saying that was what had happened to him. And for some reason, because of my fear that I might not meet my soulmate one day, too, just like the other neighbors were doing, I avoided coming across or even looking at the old man’s eyes. I was afraid that he would bring bad luck to me just like what the rest of town was thinking, though I knew it was not right.

Back then, I knew it was selfish of me to look at the old man with prejudice, but I tried to avoid bad luck as much as I could after hearing his tale that I never dared to get any near him or his creepy-looking home.

A month after, though, Mr. Song died.

I heard he had a . Many in the neighborhood was relieved that he was finally gone, because that meant one less bad luck in town. They said we were going to be even more blessed now that there was one less of the unfortunate one percent who died and was taken to purgatory to cleanse himself and be reborn as a new person in his next life—hoping that this time he would finally meet his soulmate and be like the happy ninety-nine percent of the population.

However, instead of his death bringing good luck to our town, it brought us a lot of bad luck. His death was like opening pandora’s box and releasing a plague to the entire town. It brought fort an epidemic flu to the kids. Many of the elderly also caught the stomach flu. We also heard, one day, how our science teacher died in a car crash with a wife and a daughter probably about my age. The entire school mourned for him. He was a really good man, with an unfortunate end.

I had been even more scared since witnessing all these things happening to us. Mr. Song clearly left behind a curse for how we all treated him, how we all made fun of him.

And the best part of that curse? I got struck by the same fate, when one day, as I was trying to save Hayoung’s kitten from falling off a tree, I lost balance and fell to the ground with a broken arm.

At that very moment, I felt really cold as I cried in pain on the ground. The feeling was too numbing until I felt this prickling sensation on my wrist, like I was being pricked by tiny needles until they were finally gone. I lost consciousness after that, that I didn’t know what happened next and how I was transported to the hospital.

But the next thing I knew, when I woke up, mom was crying and dad had a solemn expression on his face as he held onto my good arm, his thumb drawing circles on my wrist. I had wondered whether they were crying out of joy because I was finally awake after undergoing an emergency surgery, but after hearing my mother’s soft, quivering mumbles, I also found tears on my eyes.

“Sorry son…”

Right there on the wrist dad was drawing circles on—as if he was trying to erase the memory of it, as if hoping it would be wiped away if he touched me with his warm hands—was a mark left by fate on my skin, in pure black ink.


-


While I was at the hospital to recuperate from the fracture to my arm that the fall from the tree had caused, I had cried in silence at every morning I woke up, spoke less at every chance they tried to tell me everything was alright and that there might have been some mistake to the fate that had been inked on my skin, and stared at nothing in particular whenever I was alone.

All I was thinking was that my soulmate had died and I didn’t even know how.

But at least I should have been given a vision as to how she left me, just like what happened to Mr. Song, right? I should have felt how she felt on her last breath, how she suffered, what she went through. I should have known what happened to her! But why didn’t I get any vision? Was our connection not strong enough because we were but children and it was not fully developed? Or was the story about Mr. Song actually just all but lies?

I was confused. I was mad at the universe. I was so unhappy about my life. I was starting to think that fate was nothing but a string of bull because it took away from me my soulmate at the mere age of nine. How did it think I would feel? That because I was young and naïve, I wouldn’t mind losing her? Was fate expecting me to think that I would probably still be fine and would hope that one day she’ll have her replacement? But, no. That was not how I thought, though.

I knew what was going on. I knew how important this girl was to me even though I was not able to meet he

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hana-kim #1
So excited for this fic! Thank you author-nim! ♡