My eyes were wide and patient,
Waiting for him to wake in the early morning,
In the absence of dawn and the songs of birds -
In the absence of anything that wasn't darkness.

I sat there all night,
Trying to enter his mind and read his spirit,
Trying to hear his untold story -
To feel his pain from the outside and put it into understanding.

When his eyes finally opened,
I was looking right at him -
Unsuccessful in finding his story,
Ready for him to lead me to his story.

He knew what I was waiting for
Without hearing a single word leave my lips.

He rose from the chair,
Nodded his hooded face towards the door,
And said in a whisper -
Living halfway in a dream, a memory of the past,
Living halfway in a nightmare,
The blackness of my cottage and everything outside of it:

"Follow me."

And suddenly that something that I had seen in him before
Was shining through his skin and circling above him,
Giving him the appearance of a celestial being -
A person with so much cosmic and earthly wisdom
That it would be foolish not to follow his every command,
Risk life and limb for his every little whim.

He lead me out the door
And into the world of night times,
Heavily anticipating all that was to come,
Thankful for the perfect start
Of the series of memories
That could never be lost.

 

 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Deeper into the woods we walked.

Deeper and deeper,
Slowing our momentum as the brush became thicker and thicker.

"Where are we going?" I asked the stranger.

I still did not know his name,
Yet I did not want to ask him his name.

What if he had already forgotten what he was called?

What if forcefully, or perhaps without realizing,
He forgot who he used to be. What he used to be called.

If I asked him then,
He might remember his name
And fall to the ground, taken by the pain of reminiscence.

Or he might suddenly forget his story,
Force himself to run from it to protect his fragile mind,
His sanity so fine and delicate...
It could break if merely touched.

Asking his name would be asking for pain;
Pain for remembrance;
Remembrance for insanity;
Insanity for death.

"To show you what you want to see."

As we approached a mass of thick bushes and twisted vines,
We heard loud voices yelling, laughing, and singing,
Making music with the only instrument left by the rebels -
Making the music of their ancestors;
The music of before.

The stranger lead me to the barricade of bushes,
Not once looking anywhere but ahead,
Only thinking about putting one foot in front of the other.

Behind the wall of bushes was a group of boys -
Full of energy comparable in darkness to the rest of the earth;
Full of longing so great it transcended my own,
But so unwilling to show even a hint of the feelings, the memories,
That plagued their hearts, minds, and souls.

They were singing as they ran around a large fire -
Burning away the earth that once harbored life;
Burning away every horrible memory
And every ounce of feeling left in their bodies.

Their arms were covered in deep purple scars,
Battle wounds from their attempts at forgetting.

As I looked at them run in their utter desperation,
I saw part of their story play out before me,
Incoherent but important all the same.

I saw them light the fire for the first time
By burning everything they once held dear.

One tossed in the blanket his grandmother had made for his birth;

One sacrificed the watch that his father gave him for his last birthday;

One placed his mother's Bible atop the pile,
Ripped out page after page in burning spite for himself and for the rebels;

And one scattered his family photographs all around;

And he watched as each one curled up and turned black as the sky
As the fire grew larger in size and more brilliant in color,
Encompassing the world in a sadness so heavy it crushed their bones.

And their cries of pain and longing could be heard for miles and miles, across all generations.

They watched as each of their tangible memories burned,
But soon they realized that they were still full of the past,
Still ridden with the realness of suffering incomparable to anything but slow death.

Frantically they tried to forget -

By yelling curses against their ancestors to the ground and sky;

By forcing themselves to cry,
To shed the memories as tears, one by one;

By hitting themselves with tree branches,
Hoping the physical pain would surpass the emotional;

Hoping that one blow would be enough to end everything at once.

When they realized that they were still alive with the memories,
They turned to their last available option...
Burning so close to them they could hear it cry along with them.

Laughing louder than thunder,
The memories choking them from the inside,
They ran into the fire -

All at once;
Together.

They tried to burn the memories away -
Just as they had tried to do before.

And as I could see by looking at them then,
They had been pitifully unsuccessful.

There were only three of them,
Running like crippled horses -
Hurt yet full of inborn passion -
Around the fire burning iniquitously.

Its embers reached far into the woods,
Giving us all false hope and the illusion of sunlight.

Their eyes were closed and hidden by crimson bruises.

They must have burned their eyes running into the fire,
Trying to be blind to the world around them -
To forget everything by not seeing what was left of it.

But they could still see,
More sharply than ever,
The ruins that mocked them so -
That threatened to cut the threads of sanity
That were barely left intact.

They were so absorbed in their ritual of grief
That they did not notice us intrude on their celebration of heinous remembrance.

"Who are they?" I asked the stranger,
Not once taking my eyes off of the ceremony.

"Children forgotten," he answered in his whisper, still part of his earthly dream.
"Children trying to forget being forgotten."

"Who's there?" one of them shouted suddenly.

He must have heard the stranger's whispers
Or felt the weight of his dreams holding him down as he tried to run.

"Friends," the stranger answered a little louder than before.
"We are friends to you."

"We don't have friends," another responded.
The three of them came together and walked toward us.

"We don't have friends here.
All of our friends are gone and forgotten.
We only have each other."

The farther they strayed from the fire,
The better I could see them.

Without the light of the nefarious fire to shade them,
They were left exposed not only to their memories
But to mine and the stranger's as well.

"Leave this place," one of the three began malignantly,
"We are in the middle of something that will not be interrupted."

After I heard those words,
I recognized the person who had said them.

It had been years since I had seen him last,
But I could never have forgotten the strength of his words
Or the aura of manhood that he had possessed even at a young age.

"Is...
Is that you...
Jiho?"

"I am no longer Jiho;
Jiho is gone."

"Do you...
Recognize me?"

"No. I don't know you.
I don't know anyone anymore."

"What...
What happened to you?"

"I don't remember.
And I'm keeping it that way."

"How did you get here?"

"I don't remember."

"How long have you been here?"

"I don't remember."

"How long...have you had those scars?"

"I don't remember. Nor do I want to."

I turn to look at the stranger.
He is looking at the man who used to be called Jiho calmly,
Almost as if he is looking at his own brother.

As the two look at each other steadily,
Almost at a perfect understanding, an instant mutual friendship,
I wonder why I was lead here by the stranger.

I move closer to the stranger and ask in a whisper:

"Why did you lead me here?"

He smiled to no one at all and replied from his dream:

"Because he has a story to tell. They all do.
I could feel their stories from far away.

They are burning and must be told.
They are waiting for you."

"But...how will they tell their stories...
If they have forgotten everything?"

"Don't you see?
They have forgotten nothing.
They remember so well, in fact,
That they are forced to fool themselves into thinking that they have forgotten.

They have a story waiting to be told,
And whether they wish it or not,
Stories as great as theirs will be told -
One way or another."

"How can I make them tell their stories?"

"By promising them the one thing they want above all else."

"What is that?"

He turned and looked at me.
His hood had slipped to expose one of his eyes.

His eyes were sparkling despite the absence of light.
His eyes looked so friendly and gave me the feeling that in him I could trust.

They were wise in a way I could not understand,
But a way that I felt obliged to respect.

Looking at his eyes then,
I realized that he knew so much more than I ever would.

And all I wanted...
Was to share in just a shred of his knowledge.

"All they want...
Is to forget."

After hearing those words,
I looked at the three boys standing before us.

They seemed tired, above all else -
Exhausted from all the running and singing and dancing that had been in vain.

But they kept up their ritual because that was all they could think to do.

They were trapped in a vicious circle of tiredness -
The kind that seeps into the bones
And cannot be relieved.

The skin on their feet had been cut many times
And all that was left were red calluses brown gashes.

Their heels were coated in dried blood
But they did not seem to feel discomfort as they walked.

How could they
When the pain of remembrance was so great?

Their clothes had been torn everywhere
From their attempts at beating the memories away;
Running through the forest to leave them behind;
Jumping in the fire to burn them to pieces.

Their bodies were shivering in the cold of the endless night,
But their bodies had become numb to every trauma of life...

All but remembering.

As they stood there
With their eyes closed forever by their bruises,
They seemed more vulnerable than any child I had ever seen before.

Their backs seemed to arch from the unyielding nightmares
That could not be stopped;
That could not be hushed by the sound of a mother's voice.

Their arms hung uselessly at their sides
Because they did not know how to use them;
They did not have a father who could show them how to put them to use.

They were naive in a way that hurt -
A way that made me feel unmatchable sadness for them.

They had not known the love of a mother and father,
A sister and brother,
A grandmother and grandfather,
Or anyone else in between.

Their naiveté of love
Drove them to the edge of insanity and back.

Because at least if you knew love,
You had something you could hold on to
To make the pain of remembering a bit more bearable.

But these three,
Lost and alone in the forest,
Only comforted by the fire who feigned friendship and concern,
Had never known what it was to love and be loved.

So they had nothing to hold on to
To make the pain more tolerable.

They had nothing
But memories
And each others' grief.

And that is what was saddest of all.

"What are you called now?" I asked the boy I had known -
The boy I knew as Jiho.

Back then I used to think of him as a man
Because he never gave in and he never backed down.

But now that I see him like this...
He is more of a child than I ever was;

More lost than can ever hope to be found.

"Zico.
I am called Zico."

"Who are your friends, Zico?"

"They are called Kyung and P.O.
P.O. is wearing the gold chain.
Kyung has a tattoo of a woman on his shoulder."

"How long have you known each other?"

"I don't remember."

"Neither do I," the one called Kyung said.

I could not think of anything else to say.
I did not know how to make them tell their stories
Because I did not want to hurt them in the process.

They had already been hurt enough.

I was afraid that if they were hurt any more...
They might...die...
Finally unable to bear the weight of their memories any longer.

They were hurt enough,
And I didn't want to hurt them any more.

Suddenly,
The boy called P.O. broke the silence surrounding us.

He said to me:

"I will tell you."

"Excuse me?"

"My story.
I will tell you my story."

"P.O., don't," Zico warned angrily,
Trying to protect his friend from harm and heartbreak.

"It's alright, Zico," P.O. reassured him by placing his bruised hand on his shoulder.
"This is what we need to do."

Zico hung his head worriedly.

He had already endured so much...
He wasn't sure if he was ready to face his memories again.

He was so tired from running, hiding, burning, and hitting...
That he wasn't sure if he'd have the energy left to fight the memories.

P.O. wrapped his arms around him and said softly:

"This is what we need to do, Zico.
Trust me."

Zico couldn't say anything else.

He was worried to the core for his friend,
But he trusted his judgement more than he trusted his own.

So as he fought back the tears he physically could not cry,
He nodded his head,
Assuring his friend that what he had said was right
Even though it was terrifying and dangerous -
What they had been trying to escape for so long.

P.O. left his friend's side and took my hand.

He lead me away from the others deeper into the forest.

He did not stop until we reached a small pool of water surrounded by tall, bare trees.

He sat down on a root that rose from the ground and twisted in every direction.

He motioned for me to sit next to him,
And this I did.

As soon as I sat down next to him,
He removed the gold chain from his neck.

He took my hand
And placed it carefully in my palm.

He did not let go of my hand.

He turned his head in my direction
And began:

"I brought you here because...
I didn't want anyone else to hear my story.

I have never told this story to anyone,
And it has never left me.
Not even once.

Every day I run from it,
But every day it finds me.

I want to tell it to you because...
I want to forget it.

I want to forget...

So I can finally start to live."

After hearing his words,
I could feel another pair of hands take mine.

There was nobody to be seen,
But just below my feet sprouted a bed of grass
So rich and green and fragrant
That I could not help but smile.

Jaehyo was here and I could tell;
Jaehyo was here to listen too.

With the story teller and listener seated on either side,
I readied my mind to rewrite each and every memory into my own
And readied my heart to accept every detail of the story,
No matter how horrific or tragic it became.

And it was only after a gust of cold wind blew through the trees
That P.O. told his story.

And I listened to it well.

Fully prepared to remember;
Fully prepared to help him forget.

 

 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

His name was Jihoon
And he had a gift that tore his family apart.

He realized his gift when he was five years old...
And his father reacted by whipping him with his belt
After his mother left the house drenched in blood and tears.

His father was seeing another woman -
A woman Jihoon had never seen before
But who he knew entirely with hindsight
Could not have taken his mother's place.

On the night of his birthday,
Jihoon's father, mother, and older brother were together in the kitchen.

His father came home less often
Because he spent most of his nights with his newer, more exciting woman.

His mother never suspected a thing
Because he had a gift the required him to work at night.

He had the gift of lighting the bulbs of the fireflies at night -
To brighten the sky with false stars
That gave off all the same feelings of completeness and wonderment.

He had often come home late from his night time work,
So she just assumed that more fireflies had flocked to the village,
Or perhaps her husband had slowed down after reaching the age of forty.

Never did she expect that he would leave her for another woman,
Neglecting his gift for her thin arms and shifty eyes,
Always watching for her competitor, his wife -
Always ready to fight for his father like an animal if need be.

And night after night,
The fireflies glowed darkness.

And night after night,
The wishes of children were not kept,

And the feeling of wonderment and completeness
Was never felt -

Sent back to the sky,
Far away from anyone,
Never to return again.

But that night his father was home,
Reluctant to stay with his family
But forced to do so all the same.

He knew that if he did not come back that night,
His wife would become suspicious and search for him,
And with cursed luck she would find the one neighbor who knew everything and wasn't afraid to prove it,
And she would intrude upon the two lovers,
Sitting unsuspecting and full of nothing but each other.

No, he could not risk his wife discovering the truth.

So he promised his other woman that he would return to her
After he had finished celebrating his son's birthday,
The occasion he knew he could not miss.

But the longer he sat at the table,
Listening to his wife ramble on about the birth of Jihoon...
And how he was such a friendly little baby...
With such a friendly little smile that could never be matched...
And how much she adored him and loved watching him grow...
Oh, and that reminded her of the time they all went swimming in the pond...
Remember how cold that water was...?
And poor Jihoon got sick...
But since his brother could give off warmth with his hands
Jihoon was always warm,
Which was good because she could not knit well....
And her sweaters and socks always had holes in them....
And oh, how wonderful it was they were together,
Because she loved them all so much...

The longer his wife talked,
The more he longed to see his young lover.

He wondered what she was doing at that moment
And what the two of them would be doing later on that evening.

He looked at his wife and pictured his lover in her place,
Liking the mental image he was getting more than the reality;
Piecing together excuses to leave so he could see her at last.

"Why do you want to leave, daddy?" Jihoon asked his father,
Cutting his mother off mid-sentence, mid-memory.

"Wh...what do you mean, son?" his father stuttered.
He did not know why his son had said such words,
But he was determined to keep them from affecting his wife.

"You said that you had to get out of here."

"I said no such thing, son.
I was listening to your mother's story."

"But you said that you wished she'd stop talking so you could leave."

"I never said anything like that at all!"

"But I heard you.
You said it loud enough for all of us to hear."

"I never said anything.
Especially not anything like that."

"Did he?" Jihoon's mother asked sharply.

She was glaring at her husband.
She started to realize why he had not said a word all night.

"Is that really what you heard him say, Jihoon?"

"You didn't hear it too?"

"No son, I did not.
What else did you hear your father say?"

His father's blood was bubbling in anxiety,
But his expression remained collected and unwavering
Despite the commotion his lies and secrets had caused inside of him.

"Darling," his father began calmly,
Trying to stop his son from saying anything more
And his wife from believing what was left to be said.

"I never said anything at all.
You were standing right there.
I was silent the entire time.
I was listening carefully and..."

"You may have been silent to the ear,
But a person is never silent under the skin.

Go on, Jihoon.
Tell me what else you heard your father say."

"He wants to leave so he can see someone."

"That is not true!"

"Who? Who does he want to see?"

"He never said her name.
All I know is that it is a girl."

"Darling, you can't believe him!"

"Is it true?
Are you seeing another woman?"

"He said he wanted to leave so he could see her."

"How could you believe something like that?
I have always been faithful to you and to this family."

"Don't lie to me!
It all makes sense to me now.
Why you have been coming home early each morning and never stay the night..."

"Darling, I...I already told you..."

"You lied! How long have you been lying to me?
I cannot believe...
That you would do something like this to me.

Why? Why are you doing this?"

"He said he loves her, mommy.
He said he loves her more than you."

"Darling, you know I love you!
You know it with your entire heart!
That's why I married you, isn't it?
I'm here because I love you..."

"You're here because you knew if you went to her, I would come find you.
That's it, isn't it?
You're here to fool me."

"He said he hates you, mommy."

"You better shut up before I make you sorry, boy!"

"Don't you talk to my son like that!"

"He's our son."

"Not anymore."

"You can't tell me what is and isn't mine!
You don't have the right."

"I am your wife! I gave birth to that child!
And I have the right to raise and protect him."

"You sure aren't my wife anymore!
I'm leaving you for her, dammit!
I hate coming home and looking at your face!
I'm leaving you and I'm not ever coming back!"

"Don't bother, bastard.
Because I'm taking my children and we're leaving together!"

"You aren't taking my boys away.
Not now,
Not ever."

"Is that right?
Watch me."

His mother grabbed the arm of Jihoon's brother
And pulled him close to her side.

But as she tried to jump for Jihoon,
His father smacked her so hard in the face
That she was knocked off of her feet and fell onto the floor.

Her head had opened up in the back,
And droplets of deep red blood were dripping onto the wooden floor.

Despite her injury,
She sprung to her feet
And lunged at his father,
Willing to fight until she could no longer stand,
All for the sake of keeping her son safe.

She clawed at his father's face,
But he was much faster and stronger than his mother had expected.

He hit her face mercilessly,
Watching unaffectedly as blood surged from her nose and coated her lips.

His mother kept fighting the lost battle
Because she was determined to keep her son.

She cried through the pain,
And as her tears and blood became one entity,
She could no longer stand on her own and was starting to go blind.

His father flung her to the ground,
Deeply satisfied that he had shown her who was truly in charge
And who truly had the rights in the household.

"Get out," his father shouted at her.
He kicked her sides and ignored her cries.

Jihoon and his brother could only watch
As his parents tried to kill each other -
Spiritually and,
With luck,
Physically as well.

Finally his mother could take no more.

She dragged herself towards the door,
Reaching out to her eldest son helplessly,
Sobbing because she had not been able to rescue her youngest.

"Please," his mother begged with deep sincerity.

Blood was dripping from as she spoke
And the numbness of her jaw made speaking almost painful.

"Please, let me have my son.
Let me have my Jihoon.

I love him more than anything!
I need him to live.

Please. Please, I'm begging you!
Let me have my son."

To his mother's selfless request,
His father responded by kicking her five more times in the side -

Five times because it was his fifth birthday;

Five times to mark the end of the five years she had spent with her youngest son;

Five times to remind her that those five years would be the only years she would ever have with him ever again.

"Get out," his father hissed.

He spit on her bloody face and open the door.

His mother looked at her youngest son longingly,
Tears running down her face,
Trying to reach out to her son and bring him back to her.

"Jihoon, please....
Come with me," she begged with the last bit of energy she had left.

Jihoon walked over to his mother,
Because he wanted to go with her
After seeing how cruel his father was.

He could feel nothing but living, breathing, pulsating love coming from his mother on the floor,
And he felt nothing but emptiness and heat coming from his father standing at the door.

As Jihoon reached to take his mother's hand and leave with her,
His father rushed from the door and grabbed his son.

He held his face tightly in his hands,
Shouting at his wife all the while -
Telling her to leave before he broke her neck or worse.

Jihoon's older brother lifted his mother to her feet
And lead her to the open door,
Not wanting to see his mother hurt any more.

His mother stretched out her hand,
Wishing to touch her son's had just once
Before she was to never see him again.

Jihoon stretched out his hand too,
Wanting to hold on to his mother's hand
And never to let go.

Never to leave her -
Especially not like that;
Not like he was being forced to.

As his mother was lead out the door,
The only thing Jihoon could hear was the sound of a loud voice shouting
No! No, no, no, no, no!
Jihoon! My Jihoon!

But he was the only one to hear the voice
Because he was the only one who could.

 

 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"You're gonna get it," his father yelled as he flung Jihoon on his bed.

Jihoon was crying hard -
Crying out for his mother
And crying out for something, anything,
To stop his father from hurting him.

His father unbuckled his belt and pulled it out of his pants in haste.

He grabbed Jihoon by the neck
And shook him until he was gasping for air.

"How did you hear me?" he shouted into his son's face.

"I don't know! I just did!" Jihoon sobbed,
Fully aware of his hopeless position.

"You just did?
Well then,
I'm just gonna have to beat the truth out of you!"

Repeatedly his father whipped him with the belt,
First with the leather
Then with the buckle.

Jihoon could do nothing but cry from the burning pain,
Because he really did not know how to answer his father's question.

"How did you know?"

"I don't know! I just did!"

"Tell me, boy!
You better tell me before I take all your skin off!"

"I really don't know!
Believe me,
Please!"

"Begging won't get you anywhere, boy.
I want an answer,
And I'm not stopping until I get it!"

After what seemed like hours,
His beating had come to an end.

After his father had finished,
He left Jihoon alone in the bed to see his woman.

Not wasting a single second,
Jihoon forced his weak body -
Raw from the beating and begging for rest -
Out the door.

He called his mother's name as he walked through the woods,
But he never got a reply.

He called her name all night long,
But still he never got a reply.

He was alone;
He was completely alone.

He was only five years old
And he was left all alone.

 

 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"I still have the bruises," Jihoon said after he finished telling his story.

He lifted up the fragments of his shirt,
And on his skin were dark purple bruises,
Covering the middle of his back and stomach
And circling all around to his sides.

They were bruises that Jihoon had to look at for thirteen years -
Bruises that prevented him from forgetting.

Looking at the bruises then,
I understood why he had been willing to kill himself -
Something I had thought about doing but feared so much -
To finally forget his past,
Even if it meant he had no future.

"I didn't know why I could hear what he thought then.
But after I ran off into the woods and found Zico five years later,
I realized why I could.

Zico and I were sitting by a fire,
Talking about everything we wished we could forget.

Zico's life wasn't easy;
It made mine look like nothing at all.

So when he spoke and I was able to fill in the rest of his story,
He knew why I had filled in my father's secret story five years earlier.

'Dude, you just read my heart,' he had said.

'I did...what?'

'You read my heart.

At first I thought you were reading my mind,
But then I realized that I was never thinking about it at all.

I've shut that thought out of my mind for so long...
That I couldn't have been thinking about it.

But you can't shut anything out of your heart, man.
It's always there and it never leaves,
No matter how much you want it to.

And since you knew exactly what my heart knows...
You had to have read it.

You had to have felt it yourself.'

And after he said that...
Everything made sense.

I read my father's heart thirteen years ago;
That's how I knew he wanted to leave my mother so badly
And why he wanted to be with his other woman.

That's why only I could hear what he was saying so clearly
And nobody else could.

And that's why I heard my mother saying no, no, no, no, no when she left me.

Because I was reading her heart,
And all she wanted was for me to stay in it."

After he said those words,
I felt so much sympathy for him -
A boy who had lost everything at the age of five
And could not forget that fact for a single second.

As I searched for the right words to say to him,
He placed his hand on my shoulder.

I turned to look at him,
And what I saw was a smile on his face -

A smile of understanding;
A friendly smile,
A remnant of the old Jihoon -
The one his mother called friendly
And fought to the point of exhaustion and back to keep by her side.

That Jihoon, the old Jihoon,
Was the Jihoon looking at me then,
And it was that Jihoon who said to me after a few moments of silence:

"Thank you.
Thank you for caring,
And thank you for listening."

And those were the last few words
I registered in my memory
Along with the story of Jihoon and his beautiful gift
And the image of his face,

Smiling friendly and bright with the hope of forgetting -

The hope of a brighter future.

 

 

 

 

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Sorry it took me so long to update this! I was trying to make this update a good one, but I'm not sure if I made it all that I wanted it to be. ): Please forgive me if the update is not to your liking or is terribly lacking.

One thing about me is that I like to write down people's stories. Whenever I hear a story that is personal or inspirational, I always write it down so it will never be forgotten. That is why B-Bomb works so hard to hear these stories - he doesn't want them to be forgotten. And he wants to keep his promise to Jaehyo that the stories never will be forgotten.

Poor P.O. D: His story is so sad. But so are the stories of Kyung and Zico.
I know that this is supposed to be a U-Bomb story, and I promise that the U-Bomb action will get here soon! It's just that...I have become connected to these characters in such a way that I can feel their presence in my room as I write. And right now, Kyung and Zico's stories are more real to me than anything else. And I just feel like they need to be told before I can go any further with the story.

Comments/opinions/criticisms/suggestions are always loved and appreciated! <3