Wu Yi Fan drove tens of miles away from the busy city of Seoul to a peaceful place he would always visit after long, stressful days of studying and work. The columbarium was built underground, rich in frescoes, decorations and precious mosaics. Each niche was covered with marbled plaque, shinning and glimering its beauty even underground where sunlight couldn't permit. It was an admirable yet melancholy place. Wu Fan's silent steps echoed as he reached a cinerary urn shaped like a book, he knelt infront of it and placed a bouquet of fresh flowers.

          "Lu Han-ah.. Hyung came."

          The young photographer's voice was soft, his eyes were moist and about to cry. He was very much unlike The Photographer Who Doesn't Smile, selfish, arrogant and mean.

          "Lu Han.. Are you well? I'm sorry I couldn't visit you often."

 

 

 

         "I heard you had a photoshoot. I thought you wouldn't come. But, it seems like you did not forget his anniversary."

         When Wu Fan turned, his father was standing infront of him. On his left and right were three, huge men dressed in black suits with matching dark shades, and there was his Vice-President / Uncle, the person his father trusts the most and would always be together with, 24/7. There had been times, he thought of how exciting it would be to exchange positions with his Uncle. Not to be a powerful Vice President to a huge Advertising company, but to be his Father's bestfriend, a person he could trust, a person he would spend hours talking with, a person he would always be with.

          "You still have the face to come here, Wu Fan?"

         "I'll take my leave."

          The young photographer didn't even looked at his father as he stood, and took a few steps away.

          His Father caught his arm, "Stop being stubborn! Forget about photography, and start learning Management!"

          "That cannot happen." Wu Fan took his father's hands away.

          For a moment, he caught a glance of his Father. He still has the same slender arms, he would wrapped around him when he taught the 7 year old Wu Fan how to play basketball, his flabby stomach was still prominent, he remembered his funny sneer whenever Lu Han and him tease about his flabby stomach. Those creases and folds on his forehead and shades of white on his dark as lacquer hair were signs of him aging. Those gray-brown eyes, the color Wu Fan had inherited, were staring at him full of upset and regret.

          "You are my only son. Or do you want me to break the father and son relationship?" he spoke in fluent Mandarin.

          "Isn't already broken?"

          "If you don't follow my orders, you won't get anything."

          "Even if you give the company and all your wealth to me, I wouldn't want it."

          Wu Fan bowed deeply and walked away with large steps, purposefully wanting to quickly escape from his always demanding Father.

          As he drove going back to Seoul, his mind felt like a broken Humpty Dumpty. Part of him wouldn't ever be put again together.. wouldn't ever be fixed. Once a shell was broken, it would lose some of its insides and the small little pieces of broken shell can be so minute to even see, let alone pick up and try to glue together. Fixing him through this irrepairable damage was impossible.

          Even here in Seoul, where he lived in almost his entire twenty years of life, Wu Fan felt lost.

 

 

The crescent Moon shines brightly, blinding the young photographer, and he thought him and the Moon shared something the same. He was like the Moon, part of him was always hidden. There were parts of his life, he would pay riches for them to be buried deep, for him to feel like those parts of his life never happened to him, for the world to be smooth and run well in favor of him. If seonnyeos [fairies] were real and flew around the Moon, he would wish that his younger brother didn't die, because if he didn't, Wu Fan wouldn't be alone and unhappy at being alone. 

          Wu Fan's heart was full of hate. He stepped on the rear and his car accelerated, going fast.

         "I've just been avoiding everything." he realized.

          The young photographer had been battling this deppression for a long time. He wanted to escape from everything and from everyone. He thought, "I haven't really lived."  He thought of how mind blowing-ly awesome would it be if he has his own reset switch. Like on the video games, it would let him start again and see if he could go a different way. 

          There were things he had always wanted to tell his father, but they die on his lips.

          Words die on his throat, and die on his mind, somewhere he'll never hear them.

          And then, he thought, "Does my father love me?" "Does my mother want to see me?" "Why did my little brother die?" "What if dreams are reality and reality are just dreams and when I die I wake up?"

"I want to die."

          His car accelerated faster. He held the steering wheel tight, his eyes were wet and blurry, all he could see were mixes of red, yellow and green lights, so bright that they were blinding him. The tires of the car made screeching, loud, screaming sounds, like they will be broken anytime.

         He was going faster.

         His destination was no where, but it was to escape.

         He drove faster. Dangerously faster.

        And faster.

 

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