I wasn’t always like this, and I didn’t want to blame my parents’ fighting, but the timing was too perfect for my sudden change in attitude to have been caused by anything else; because it felt like my fault, like all my parents ever argued over was me. I was the ideal son, but I could always do more, I believed I could.

 

So, I tried better, harder: dedicated fully to my studies, never went out, didn’t make friends.

 

I closed in on myself, but I felt it was alright, as long as I was a good son, someone my parents could be proud of instead of fight over... but then my parents got a divorce.

 

I fell into a depression no one ever knew of, it hadn’t been that serious, I didn’t harm himself or have thoughts of suicide, but I wasn’t exactly thrilled about living when I was the cause of my parents’ unhappiness or so I thought.

 

I was always the quiet one, it’s in my nature, but after the divorce it got worse. Adults would pity me, but other teens would pick on me, tease me. They didn’t know why I was like that but neither did they care, I was just the quiet kid, the easy target.

 

Then the teasing and harmless name calling that I honestly couldn’t care less for, turned into more serious bullying, the insulting words that I never responded to, turned into shoves against the walls, my bag in the trash can, peeing over my shoes in the stalls, chalk dust in my hair…

 

It was harsh, but none of it left any bruises, so I pulled through it, took it all in stride, just two more years of high school, I would tell myself.

 

But then it was Halloween, and the cool kids had a party. I wasn’t going, wasn’t invited, nor was I planning to. But then the party was moved, or more like, the after party.

 

I was the after party.

 

My dad had a Halloween costume party to attend with his co-workers.

 

The quiet kid is home alone. Let’s trash his house!

 

If only it had been so simple. If only they had come to mess it up with toilet paper, break some windows, put dog in my doorstep. Maybe even break in and make a mess of everything.

 

The did break in… to make a mess of me.

 

To pull at my hair, rip my clothes, punch me, kick me. They could have done worse, there was five of them, they could have done so much worse.

 

But the police came in.

 

The next-door neighbor, the one I had never talked to because I don’t talk to people, heard the commotion and called the police.

 

He rode in the ambulance with me. The officers called my parents, I saw them at the hospital. They were so worried; I was sad I made them worry. The perfect son I strived to be would never cause his parents any concern, yet I pulled my dad out of his party, my mom out of church and into a hospital room, crying.

 

I felt like crying too. I felt like ripping open the stitches, sticking my fingers in the cuts and let myself bleed to death.

 

But he wouldn’t let me. My neighbor, the neighbor I didn’t know the name of. He would hug me, comfort me, whisper that those s would get their due punishment, that it was alright, that it would never happen again.

 

He said I was a good kid who didn’t deserve to be hurt like that.

 

The next thing I know, this tall brunette with big ears and the creepy grin is coming to my house every day.

 

Your father works all day, I don’t want you to be alone anymore, who knows what could happen?

 

That’s what he would say.

 

My mother works singing in a bar from Thursday to Sunday, 6 to 10, is a respectable establishment and singing is something she was always passionate about, so even though the pay isn’t much, is enough for her to support herself, as I live with my father.

 

With a schedule like that she could spend the daytime with me, when father is working and I’m alone at home, if she wanted that is, but she doesn’t. She could have been there with me during my recovery, my dad told her to watch me, but she refused, and they fought, again… because of me.

 

So, my neighbor was all I had to rely on, the very tall guy with the big ears and the creepy but endearing smile. His name is Park Chanyeol and he’s 25, working as the school counselor in my high school yet I had never seen him, but I realize I walk with my head low all the time, and he’s too tall for his face to be in my range of vision.

 

I assumed his concern had everything to do with his chosen professional field. As a psychologist you do expect him to care over the mental wellbeing of others he may not even know and as the damaged child I can admit to being, I was an interesting experiment for him, is what I always told myself.

 

But the more time spent in his company, the less believable those words became; from the way he’d treat me, smile at me, talk to me, the less I felt like an experiment to him and more like a friend… or more.

 

He was such a constant support in my life even after the incident was but a meaningless memory. I’d go to his office during my breaks, he’d come over to my house after school, he’d help me with homework, we’d play, we’d talk, I cooked for him, vented my everything onto him.

 

I made kimchi spaghetti one day, a whole year had past and some more, but I was no longer counting down the days for high school - for my life - to be over, I was enjoying myself, even though I still didn’t make friends but I also didn’t need them, I had Chanyeol.

 

“You’re such an amazing cook, Kyung, you would have made the loveliest wife” he said and there were many things wrong with that statement that I wanted to complain about: Why is a wife’s worth measured by her cooking skills as if that’s all she’s good for? And why a lovely wife? Why can’t I be a lovely stay at home husband?

 

But that’s not what I said, what I said was: “I still can be” with a little smile and a nervous flutter of my lashes.

 

“You’re missing a thing or two to qualify for that spot” he joked, and I laughed before leaning in closer, nervous but resolute.

 

“I don’t need to be a woman to be your wife, do I?” was the subtle way in which I asked I’m gay, are you? and he understood, laughter dying down, wide eyes staring at me in confusion. I turned to the side, not wanting to meet his judging gaze. I heard the chair as he stood up and two short steps coming closer, shutting my eyes because we’re alone in his house and he could harm me any way he wishes, what if he’s a homophobe, will he punch me?

 

But he kissed me.

 

And that was the start of something I like to call the best time of my life. And it was a very intense experience that escalated very quickly into a direction I never expected it to go, but I was fine with it, I loved it and it made me feel loved, too.

 

Like I had never felt loved before, because my mother went to an abortion clinic, resolute on aborting the non-sentient fetus that was once me, the little cell that would grow to ruin her artistic career when it was only then starting.

 

My father, he did love me, or not. He loved the idea of me, he wanted a baby, any baby, and to form a family with my mother. But what they had wasn’t really a family, and I didn’t stay a baby forever.

 

She resented my mere existence, resented my father for forcing the responsibility of me onto her when she didn’t want it. She hated me, or not. She hated the idea of me, she didn’t want a baby, any baby.

 

I don’t want to keep the baby.

 

The baby is half mine; you can’t do as you please.

 

We’re not ready for a baby, yet.

 

You can’t just kill the baby!

 

The baby, the baby, the baby.

 

I was never Kyungsoo to them, a person with feeling and dreams and hopes and needs for affection.

 

Just the baby.

 

And when the baby stopped being a baby, it didn’t matter anymore.

---

But remember he’s a psychologist and I’m his experiment. Yes, I know, I forgot too, I convinced myself I never had been… but that is all I ever was.

 

I found his thesis.

 

Or well, whatever formal name it receives, that thingy you write when you apply for your master’s degree.

 

“The causation of paternal related childhood traumas and its ual outlets” was its title and how the phrase very graphically illustrated, it was a study of how your ed-up childhood makes you , based off the Freudian theory of psychoanalysis.

 

It was clever, well researched, expertly cross referenced and applied. Applied as in “a study was conducted in a subject with a conflictive family situation and a distant borderline absent paternal figure, which showed as a result an inclination in the subjects ual preferences in an attempt to replace that figure ...” which really, minus the pretty words, means : “I ed my neighbor who has divorced parents and he called my daddy”.

 

Then there was that other part, the part that was - if even possible - worse than being an experiment: Being one of several.

 

“A study was conducted in a subject with a violent family situation and a physically abusive paternal figure, the subject in question in later years showed a preference for consented aggressive, non-life-threatening displays of “affection” from male ual partners” which was also science talk for “I ed a guy who used to be hit by his dad and he liked it when I spanked him”.

 

And it went into detail, dissecting the deeper meaning of every word I said, all that had bottled up inside of me that I shared with only him, on paper for everyone to see. Anonymously, yes, but that felt no more reassuring to be referred to as a numbered subject.

 

The subject shows an inclination…

 

The subject appears, through an early analysis…

 

The subject displays a tendency to...

 

The subject, the subject, the subject.

 

I was never Kyungsoo to him, a person with feeling and dreams and hopes and needs for affection.

 

Just the subject.

 

And when the researcher stopped needing a subject, it didn’t matter anymore.

 

I didn’t matter anymore, to anyone. I never did.

 

His application was approved, he was moving to Seoul. He was leaving me behind, like my mother left. Like everyone always leaves.

 

Well no, I’m lying. There was never anyone there to begin with.

 

Well no, that’s a lie. There were the bullies. The only ones I don’t seem to be invisible in the eyes of. The bullies always notice me when I walk past them, even come looking for me when I don’t. Left a party to come all the way to my house on a night when even my father didn’t think twice to leave me alone, to hurt me, yes, but they came.

 

They were there.

 

They cared... or not.

 

Because I was suspiciously close the school counselor, a figure of authority. Without warning they just left me alone, and when Park was no longer there, they still didn’t come back.

 

They moved on.

 

I was never Kyungsoo to them, just the one easiest to tease and harm without repercussion.

 

When that changed, I no longer mattered.

 

To literally no one.

 

Not even me.

 

Especially me.