Catcher Private

Final //

His young Taemin observes the world only at its beginnings and ends, but to Minho he was certain that it passes with the slow in-betweens and long lines. A lone hour consists of multitude of colors; thousands and millions of spectrum, while a day is simply the transition to another hour of starvation and spears. Months and weeks sometimes get interchanged while he was awake but he did not care in any way – time is irrelevant if you run after it.

So when the dust came into his view behind the light, the tall boy accepted another shade. This time, it seems to be made out of murky violets and waxy blues, probably the second one in like for this year. He forgot what day it was when the light outside started to creep along the cracks of his closed blinds. Minho tried to remember when he shut it but nothing came up in his memory. His recollection deranged from the usual as he watched the sand outside swimming in the wind like a living beast. He never really saw the beauty of the sandstorm that others claim it has. It was breathing, alive. And it's bound to eat all of them without mercy someday, but probably not today, he wished.

“Hyung,” Taemin grumbled sleepily.

For almost half an hour, he kept staring at the bedpost next to his. This is certainly the perfect time that his young one will wake up but remembering that today is Friday, the day after the weekly youth militia training, he did not expect anymore. The dark blue covers are forming a small hill on the other bed, seemingly frozen. From Minho’s view while still not moving from his bed, he saw the blankets slowly rise and fall. Inhale. Exhale. Gain and loss.

He closed his eyes and tried to will away the chills but decided to just get up and walk away from their room. Closing the door heavily, he shakily sighed. He felt like a man wearing paper, every sound he made while walking towards the bathroom seems to resound throughout their flat. Minho adjusted his red trainer pants and white shirt that somehow went to the wrong positions while he was asleep as he neared the sensors. Before the door automatically opened, he already expected the strong smell that followed.

He remembered cleaning the bathroom yesterday and soaked the bathtub with bleach. He went his way in and the switch near the mirror, checking if everything is as it was before. The white marble sink was ridden of any traces of grime, the towels neatly lined up and the ventilation humming quietly. The room is in a perfect white with the black linings of the towels adorning it.

Minho opened the closet on the side and took out the yellow towel that his brother specifically wants to use. It was always the same thing back then “Hyung!” his brother will call him, “What?!” he shouts back at the closed bathroom door, “My towel!” the younger shouts back and “No.” Minho replies. But nothing matters when he walks in the bathroom and sees a smiling head out from the shower stall. He always gets a thank you anyways. So this time and the days before, he planned to go ahead and hung the contrasting towel on the rack.

He then the bathtub and sat at the edge, setting the temperature at low. Minho never got why Taemin always wanted to bathe in cold water – winter storms nor sandy ones doesn’t seem to affect the boy. He remembers the time when he saw his brother sitting at the living room’s windowsill, hands spread out in the glass. Crying seemed to be the easiest. But when he saw the younger’s eyes full of awe and admiration with the sandstorm outside, trading his life was easier.

He pitied the poor boy. Taemin never got to go outside and know what clouds are, what the sun feels like in his toes, what the grass smells like. He never got to get wet in the rain, never got his skin less pale than it was. But he can’t forget his brother trail of vision, looking at the sand beast that flies around the town. “It’s beautiful,” he can almost hear from his brother’s mind.

The water already got his feet before he noticed the tub was overflowing.

The steam was already gone from the plate as Minho kept staring at it. He already knew without putting it in his mouth that the bacon was far from crispy and the scrambled eggs were nearing the room temperature. The glass of milk was still exactly on the same place he put it. Even if no one can see the sun, he can tell that it’s three hours yester noon. By this time, his brother should have been awake simply from the smell of his favourite breakfast cooking but then Minho remembered what day it was yesterday.

He just stood up and covered the cold food with clean plates. Walking sluggishly, he clicked the button for the machine to clean the dishes in the sink. Usually, he cleans the dirty dishes with his bare hands but this day is one of the darkest he has ever seen and felt. “Alright,” he said after the machine beeped.

Feeling lousier than any other day because of the strong storm, he neared the closet hall with his feet almost scraping the wood underneath the carpet. As the door automatically slid and lights flicked on, he went in and faced Taemin’s side of closet. He took out his brother’s school uniform, pleated and sharp as it was the last time he ironed it. Minho loved ironing. No one that he knows ever uses the Old Age appliance but he took it with peace. Ironing made him calm. He can perfectly do all of Taemin’s uniform in a constant record of two minutes and thirty seconds. It was always perfect just like the one he has in his hands.

He hung the uniform where Taemin can easily see it and closed the closet door. His brother is too lazy to look for things that are not in his sight. It always end up with the calling of Minho’s name so he thought it might be better to do it before his brother starts shouting later. “Scarf,” he commanded. The whirring inside the cabinet ended as soon as it started followed by an unmistakable flash of the green light on the side signalled that the racks are ready.

When the doors slid, his brother’s collection of scarves hung neatly, all arrange in colors. Minho cannot exactly read the younger one’s preference of colors because all of his scarves and clothes are in dark monotone hues but with the other special ones, like the bright yellow towel and the red slippers, makes him think again.  The older brother ran his hands along the scarves that varied in length while asking the program, “Temperature?”

“You don’t have to do this every day, Sir.”

“Temperature,” Minho asked again sternly.

“438 K, Sir,” the machine answered back.

“Sir?”

But even without checking the state outside, he already had the pale brown scarf in his tug, draping it carefully over the dark green uniform that hung on the side. He took two steps back and admired the colors he made with his choice, smiling at the inanimate object.

“Day?”

“Friday, 24^th of October in the year of 4690, Sir.”

“Day count?”

“456 days, Sir.” “465 days,” the computer and Minho said at the same time.

He opened the door and found no one. 

Minho heard a knock, he was sure of it. Everyone uses the bell except for one. No one knocks except for Taemin.

Such a grief tore up his throat and eyes felt ashamed for everything his younger brother could have had; almost crawled to the large window in the living room that ran from his feet up to the ceiling; remained standing and looked out -- looked out upon the medieval monster of his world where dust and death lingered and the last carriage was rattling away, while the location of the moon that muttered hush-hush cannot be traced, the pale brown hound swimming and looming like sinister kids against a wild sky with murky stars, save where an evil old Sun prowled about in a corner or where a murderous creature whirled, whistling and whining, smelling now of the sea and now of the summer orchards and wafting unbearably at the window.

The frail and tall boy continued sobbing so bitterly at the window; the tears streaming down his cheeks and the shard in his chest and one hand pressed to his mouth -- while from the door of the apartment that still remained ajar is an empty hallway, mighty clackety-clack of the boots halfway in reality.