Italics = spoken in Korean. Never will I use romanized words.

~

Sohee is only four when she moves from South Korea to Los Angeles, and she understands why. 

It's because Seoul is a story of wilting flowers and ripped contracts; it's the press of soju on cashmere sweatshirts and lipstick stains on married skin—it’s because that country is her mother’s destroyed fairytale, her father’s horror story. However, in America, there are only stacks of blank paper, and in a new company, flawed manuscripts could be discarded and forgotten.

Their life in South Korea could be discarded and forgotten. 

Sohee sits in the back of a pristine Lexus whose crystalline mirrors shine like a beacon of light. Her pale hands are folded over her lap with a frigid calm, and in the front two seats, two adults bicker with violent passion. Their taut jaws clench with agony. Another exchange of bitter remarks crush and crumble between them. With a wheezing chest, the toddler presses her lips in a line and waits like she’s been instructed.

She can speak in articulate sentences and can count to twenty without interruption. She can lock and twist a doorknob without aid. She’s faster, and brighter, and quieter than most, and she comprehends all that a child shouldn’t: mommies and daddies don’t yell at each other as if their lungs are breaking from the nauseous pressure. They don’t cry as if each staggered breath aches through every pore of their being. Parents do not suffer with cracking throats and poison-filled remarks which slowly dismember the ladder of affection built on years of trust.

Her head rests on the curve of the rugged seat belt, the webbing rubbing against her cheek in nervous blunder. She peers out the window, letting her eyes graze the blurry light brown haze consisting of mix-matched houses and looming trees too short to cover the phosphorescence searing into her visage. It’s a mindless wonder, and she traces the smudged outlines to alleviate the ceaseless lethargy of a toddler.

They pass by a sunset yellow building before the car slows to a halt. Without asking for permission, Sohee unbuckles her belt, and shimmies out of her booster seat with practiced reticence. When she opens the door, no one notices. Her feet plants on the shattered pavement with a soft thud, and the scent of lemongrass and the smoky smell of burnt barbecue swirls around her. Sunshine beats down on the streets with heated clubs and the air tastes of firework duds—the true summer experience, and it’s only the beginning of February. 

Breaking the intimacy that embraces the colored neighborhood, screeching voices escalate upon meeting warm air. Sohee steps back two times, and watches with bored eyes as her parents shout over the hood of the car.

“As if it’s my fault we didn’t get the house we wanted!” her mother shrieks. It’s nails dragging down the longest chalkboard. The incessant scratching of a cat’s paw against a door. Mother is scarlet, like a squashed tomato, sharp nose scrunched tight, in the rest of her features.

Her father fumes. The midnight of his coarse hair broods, shifting with unease—a prelude to another string of curses. “If you hadn’t waited last minute maybe we could’ve sealed the deal, but you were too busy at the club with your damn vodka shots, you—” He spits out a derogatory term that would’ve left grandma gasping.

Her mother’s pinched face flattens with shock, and her dark eyes light with fire. “How dare you accuse me of—”

“—it's not like it's a stretch!”

And it begins again. Like all fights, they explode. Like all fights, they are not the only victim.

A master of her practice, Sohee tunes out the argument, letting the debris fall off her shoulders. Instead, she waddles to the truck that shadowed them, large and unassuming to the family’s plight. She almost felt bad. The driver is already on the ground, so she pulls on the man’s denim pants with purpose. The driver looks stunned, fixated on the blatant animosity erupting before him, and it only came to a bigger perplexion to lower his head to meet a little girl. She does not speak, only points towards the boxes.

When he doesn't reply, she musters up all the english in herself to say, "Help." She cannot properly form the "L", but he understands.

“No, I’ll handle it,” the man says with a force tugging on his crooked teeth, coal eyes jaded with an emotion too familiar. “I’ll tell your mom and dad. Why don’t you go sit by the porch? Hey kid, your… parents… ” Confliction arrives on his lax expression, but then he shakes his graying head as if remembering that she cannot comprehend his long-winded words. “Nevermind, young lady, just… go play.” He frowns. "Um," he gesticulates vaguely, "Go. Play. No. Help."

Sohee watches as he crouches, making gestures that decidely convey how she is unnecessary and not needed. Her lip twitches, and she nods, letting go of his jeans, walking towards the house with haste. Sohee knows rejection like the back of her hand, and it is a sour taste that bites her all the same.

The house is smaller compared to the others beside them. Its classical wooden design makes it look like a carbon copy rip off of one of those rickety taverns in old cowboy films. It's a concept she remembers solely from lazy Sundays with uncle’s extensive film collection and pouches of Capri Sun. It is white, and western, and weird amongst the crisp, tiled homes. A rectangle dropped in a city of squares.

She hates it already.

With a frown carved into her round face, she sits on the dilapidated benches that reek of splinters, waiting for the boxes and furniture to be organized. A bustle of helping men arrive, and in their hands are couches and chairs and the like. They travel in a haphazard line. One that totters over the boundaries of chaos and order. Of renewal and end. Amongst it all, her parents discuss what went where with a safety on their tongue.

Like an overdue essay, Sohee is left ignored, and her gaze wanders. It traverses down the cobblestoned pathway that slices through the front yard, and they trail up further to meet a cluster of colors. Across the road, there is a male quartet—a Dooly the dinosaur doppelgänger, a screeching brunet with a long face, a two year old, and then most peculiarly, there is one with yellow hair that resembled Ben and Jerry’s banana ice cream swirl. She shouldn't be surprised by seeing blondes, especially in the west, but this boy was asian, like her. Maybe he was Korean, like her.

Dessert boy laughs uproariously pushing Dooly to the ground, and in turn, the two year old waddles over and attempts to bite his hand.

Sohee finds herself intrigued. 

The rowdy lot smashes their vivid toy trucks against wailing police cars, making boisterous noises and imitating explosions. It is bright lights. It’s cherry soda dripping down smiling chins. It is refreshing, and nothing she recognizes.

For a second, she lets herself observe the frenetic behavior, slight contempt embedded in her stare, but a strident screech beckons her. “Sohee! Get inside right now!” her mother orders.

She pushes herself off the battered bench, sparing the group one petulant glance before following her mother’s command.

Sohee is only four when she moves to Los Angeles where the air is honeyed dewdrops and rattling noise rushes through the streets like a raging waterfall. And she knew she wouldn’t like it at all, but here there is opportunity for a clean slate. A new chapter, and that makes it all worth its while.

~
But, nothing in the world that which has occurred could be fully erased. It leaves a mark on the universe; it’s essence tattooes itself to the ghost of thy movement.

~

For those select few caught unaware by what I am referencing, Dooly is Jimin, the boy with a long face is J-Hope, the two-year old is Jungkook, and the boy with yellow hair is V. For a better visual, I mirrored it after No More Dream, which is why he's the only one with a noticeable dye job. Right now, majority of the story will be told by the eyes of Sohee, and later I plan for others to join in. The reason she is the main perspective is shallow. It is because she is my one true love amongst all others within this industry, and there is no one who I'd have the pleasure of writing more.