cracks on the surface

Part 2 of 3

Minho stumbles over the cobble-stones and slides past the dusty asphalt. The fumes of exhaust smoke leisurely from the vehicles speeding past the concrete roads. Minho coughs; his eyes water. A burly trucker swears at Minho as he tries to dodge the young man’s lanky frame. Minho waves in return. He walks for a long time. He witnesses the skies turn from a mild blue to a fearsome gold; from a fearsome gold to a delicate purple; and from a delicate purple to a desolate black. The stars glimmer against the blanket of night. Minho traces his way home following the omnipresent North Star. He likes the constancy of the North Star; the only steadiness he has ever known. On his way back home, he counts stars.

(He counts fifty thousand, four hundred and seventeen.)

A faint light falls on a blank paper, illuminating the unwritten words. Minho stares at the blank sheet a long time. The pencil clutched loosely in his palm falls and rolls off the table. His eyes flicker in the dim radiance. His face is pinched and a faint whiteness encircles his eyes. He wonders wherefrom he could draw more emotion, more passion and more creativity. He wonders wherefrom he could wring his soul out of his being and onto his paper. He wonders wherefrom he could produce a work of divinity. The answer is etched in his mind; he chooses to ignore it.

(The answer is Taemin.)

He plucks the pencil off the floor and begins writing. He stops. He stares. He crumples the sheet and begins all over again. All the while, the memory of a young boy nudges him; complete with his impish eyes, toothy smile and skinny arms. A few seconds later, the memory goes up in smoke.

If Minho were a painting, he would be rough of green and blue. Perhaps he would be flecked with red and orange. If he were a painting, he would be dull; a single layer. Perhaps, he would be drawn upon again. Perhaps, he would be scratched off the canvas and repainted. If he were a painting, he would be unknown; admired by only those who managed to find him. He would be a dull shade struggling to break into a shine. He would be a dark maroon struggling to reach up to a fiery crimson. Perhaps, he would also be a dash of pure golden; untarnished and unblemished. Symbols of his one brush with genius.

(Symbols of his one touch of Taemin.)

His head is bowed, his eyes are strained. In the dim light that the lamp sheds, his hand seems to glow. He sighs and lets the unbidden memories pound through his head tearing apart his rationality and sanity. He can resist them no longer.

A flash of red, a flash of yellow and a flash of shimmering gold plummets through his memories. His fingers grip the pencil tightly and he scratches hard over the blank sheet. He writes. He writes through the night. He writes through the day. He writes until he can count the days no longer, until all the days blur into oblivion of meaninglessness, until the only truth he knows grows to be Taemin. He writes about strong waves pounding the sleeping sand. He writes about swaying winds curling through the dead deserts. He writes about a free bird soaring high above the mighty mountains. He writes about love, about hope and about never giving up. He writes until he can write no more.

(He writes about Taemin.)

He doesn’t stop to think. He doesn’t stop to formulate sentences in his head, to look over a thesaurus or sift through a dictionary. His pencil flies over the sheets as the memories fly into his head.

He writes about a young flaxen-haired boy of sixteen with red hands and eager eyes. A curious clay figure sits before him. Minho watches as the boy slaps on slabs of clay with hesitant, unsure eyes. He watches as the mound of clay falls apart and comes back to life more beautiful than it had ever been. It’s a fascinating process. And Taemin is a fascination himself. Nimble fingers lend life to a block of clay. Fair laughter dribbles forth from his thin lips. His light locks drip down his forehead and he struggles to brush them away with his grubby hands. Minho laughs. He leans forward and gently sweeps them away and over his ear with the tips of his fingers. Taemin smiles at him.

(Minho doesn’t acknowledge it, but he blushes.)

Minho writes about a young man of nineteen standing proudly before his gallery. Minho walks in and stares. For all around him, he can see Taemin. He can see his imprint on every figure standing tall inside the little whitewashed room. He can see Taemin in the galloping horse waiting to leap out the window. He can see Taemin in the stooping man sifting through the pages of a book. He can see Taemin in the light bird nursing her babies in an intricately carved nest. “Do you like it?” Taemin asks him nervously. Minho hugs him tight in reply.

Minho writes about a dreadful Sunday morning. Taemin pushes the door of his unlocked gallery open and stops. His scream never leaves his throat. Before him, his gallery lies ravaged. Every piece of his art, every portion of himself lies burnt, shrivelled and wrecked on the floor. Taemin kneels down and cries.

(It’s them.)

(They are trying to break him.)

Minho writes about that intoxicating night. Taemin sniffles in his arms and cries against his shoulder. His eyes are red and his breathing is hitched. Minho brushes away his tears and whispers in his ears. Suddenly, they are kissing. Their limbs are intertwined. The dampness in the air makes way for a glorious heat. They kiss through the night. Minho’s rough clumsy hands are wound tightly around the smaller boy’s thin frame. His swollen lips deposit unsure kisses over every spare portion of Taemin. Taemin nestles his fair head against the crook of Minho’s neck. Come morning, and his shirt is soaked to the bone with Taemin’s tears. Taemin rises up unsteadily and attempts a watery smile. “Thank you,” he murmurs and stumbles outside.

(“I love you,” Minho mutters in reply.)

Minho writes about Taemin’s indomitable will bouncing back. Taemin sweeps away the wreckages from his gallery and wipes the sweat from his brow. He sits before a red mound glaring and seething, waiting to be carved into a beauty. Taemin sighs and lets out a deep breath. Minho prays silently. Taemin cups one corner of the clay piece and moulds. The world grows under the guidance of his nimble fingers. It grows under the unbeatable spirit of a young boy who can never fade away. It grows under the assurance that Taemin can never be broken.

Minho writes about terror, about destruction and devastation. A shooting pain sears through his arm as his fingers scratch down and relive a horror more terrifying than any other. Minho writes about piercing screams cutting through a still, warm summer night. Minho rushes to a small house up in flames. Red, yellow and gold sparks glow startlingly against the inky blackness of the skies. Minho thumps against a locked door with tears streaming down his face. He pummels his wrist through a window and cowers as the glass tears through his skin. Hot flames his fingers and burn his skin. He doesn’t care. In vain, he stretches his arm ahead. In vain he calls out a name more beautiful than any.

Minho writes about the cruel night fanning the flames and throwing his back. He writes about a musical voice calling out his name and telling him that it loves him. He writes about kneeling down on the dusty concrete and screaming until he can scream no more. The realization smites him in the face. Taemin is dead.

(They killed him.)

(But they couldn’t break him.)

Minho has never felt this way. Sweat runs down his forehead. He pants. He scribbles furiously against the white sheets, smudging the marks and dropping huge tears over every word. The light of a new dawn creeps in through his window and highlights a grubby page, smudged and wet. But the glimmer of the heavens creeps in through his window and highlights a beautiful page, with pieces of his soul and the toils of his blood adorning every spare inch. He has left his soul in the care of flimsy pages.

(Without his book, Minho has no soul.)

***