“See,” he said, breathing hard. “I can do it. I gotta, Yunho. So I can-”

Perhaps he turned too quickly. Maybe it was his excitement in having made it all the way up the stairs by himself. But there- at the top, the crate still in his arms-Jaejoong staggered back, losing his balance.

And then. . .

He fell.

Down each step.

The crate breaking over his head, as he hit bottom.
* * *
And then, there was silence. A breathless, hollow silence which grew and grew, its absence of sound so profound, so loud Yunho felt it rise and expand within himself, waiting for the moment when his insides, no longer capable of containing the noiseless chasm, blew open, leaving him split in two. This silence consumed him. Froze him inside and out. Moving was useless. He could not. It churned inside his head, making him want to thrash his head down onto the ground, to make the yawning gulf go away. He wanted to bang his forehead against the hard ground until he could not think anymore. Until all his thoughts were gone, broken. Like-like Jaejoong.

Yes. On the ground, his limbs twisted in a strange way, his neck bent unnaturally lay Jaejoong. Shards of broken glass and wooden shrapnel surrounded him like teeth. Like some predator’s mouth that had attacked the young boy, biting him, gnawing on him and spitting back out the mangled remains.

And yet, in the same moment, though Jaejoong looked as if he had been mauled by lions-he looked peaceful. Asleep almost. The gentle face was calm, the large eyes closed. An apparition of a dreadful dream where monsters dance about the sleeping prince, singing their ugly songs while the prince remains yet untouched by their malice, by their greed. Asleep, he knows nothing, hears nothing of the impending danger. Yet, he does not know that the danger already has taken a hold of him. He does not know that his sleep is a poison. That as his body slips into a silent drift, it is a trap and his limbs are being bent back. Unconscious, he is beaten, misshapen-torn apart. From this sleep he will not wake, but to find that he is already dead.

Yunho stood on, staring and feeling as if he was going mad. Appalled and fascinated, he could not tear his gaze away from the sight of his brother’s dilapidated form, while at the same time Yunho wanted nothing more than to tear this image from his mind’s eye forever more. But the grotesque holds an appeal, gross though it may be. And for a very long while Yunho remained held by that appeal, bound to it.

Perhaps an hour passed, maybe more. Waking as if from a dream, Yunho shook his head, finding a wet sensation on his face. Reaching up he found that he had been crying, though he had not felt the tears fall. Awake now, his body aching, his temples throbbing the young boy moved forward. Not caring for the debris broken around Jaejoong, Yunho came to him, sitting down on the ground. Much to his surprise, though he had not thought of whether his brother was dead or alive, Yunho saw that the small chest rose and fell. Not steadily, nor deeply. But Jaejoong was breathing; he was alive, if only barely. Swallowing hard, Yunho whispered Jaejoong’s name out-loud. He hoped that perhaps if Jaejoong was breathing there was some hope he might hear Yunho call him, he might wake up from this dreadful slumber, just enough that Yunho might have some hope of. . .of what? Yunho was not sure. Not sure of why he wanted Jaejoong to hear him, to see the dark eyes open again. But it would mean something, something important. It would mean that, somehow, this accident was going to be okay. It was a sign. A sign that everything would work out, that Jaejoong was not gone. And that Yunho was not alone. However, though Yunho said his name once, twice, thrice-however many times, the dark eyes did not open. There was no response. Indeed, Yunho was alone.

Part of him wanted to lift Jaejoong up on his lap and hold him, as if that might make things better in some way. But the dreadful angle at which Jaejoong’s neck was bent frightened Yunho to touch him, to attempt moving. Yet there was no way Yunho was going to leave him now. Not like this. Shattered like some lovely porcelain doll. Eventually, someone would come. But until then, Yunho would wait with Jaejoong.

A warm damp feeling seeped through his pants. Looking down, Yunho saw he sat in a pool of some sort, a liquid flowing out from someplace. He stuck his hand in the pool. It came up red. Looking, Yunho saw the gaping wound on one side of Jaejoong’s head oozing life. The warm liquid in which he sat now was a pool of his brother’s blood.

Terror seized him. He felt his insides lurch as the stench of blood numbed his senses. A mist passed over his eyes, making him reel. Everything inside of him churned and burned. He threw up. And Yunho began to cry again. This time he felt the tears stream hot and fast down his cheeks, scorching them almost. Choking for air, the inside of his mouth tasting sour and stale, he began to heave dry retches, gasping to breath all the while.

“Oh God. I’m afraid. Please. Please help me. I-I don’t know what to do. No one’s here. Daddy left to go to the store. I’m alone. Please! I’m afraid. Look! Look at Jaejoong. He’s hurt bad. Really bad. I don’t know what to do. Please! Help me.”

And, through the tears, through his coughing-Yunho bent down his head and reached for the out-stretched hand of his brother. Taking the small hand in his own, Yunho held it tight.

“Our Father, Who art in Heaven. Hallowed be Thy Name. . . . . “
* * *
Yunho never knew really how long he remained like that, holding the limp hand of Jaejoong, repeating the prayer over and over until the words became part of his inhale, his exhale. What was, in fact, three hours passed him like an age; he felt sure time stopped and he was doomed to be frozen like this for all days. But it was then, as he lost all awareness that Yunho heard a sound. Back inside the store he heard the sound of his father unlocking the door, the key that always needed to be jammed in. From the back alley, Yunho heard his father push open the door and call out for his two boys. So Yunho, with a cry that sounded more like a howl, called out at the top of his lungs. The words strained his throat, dry from the retches, from his coughing and it hurt to yell. But still he called, over and over, desperate to be heard. For now time seemed of the essence. It had stopped before, pausing in this wretched day. But not now. Now Yunho felt an over-whelming need to hurry. To hurry before it was too late.

“Help me!!” He cried. “Daddy! Come quick! Please! It’s-” his voice cracked. “It’s Jaejoong.”

The sound of crashing and stumbling came and in a moment, Yunho’s father appeared in the threshold of the door. What he saw then, his two boys, one a twisted form on the ground-the other haggard, bearing the face of fear-was a sight long to haunt his dreams. A sight to age the man beyond his years. Upon coming outside, Mr. Jung froze, his face draining of all color assuming an ashen hue.

“Wh-what happened?”

Yunho looked away. “He fell.”

“How-how long, Yunho? How long have you been sitting here?”

“I don’t know.”

With a sob, Mr. Jung rushed over to Yunho, clasping him up in his arms, as if to pull him away from the danger that had already taken one of his boys-a danger he would not let take the other. And clutching Yunho to him, who stood stiffly in the embrace, the father struggled for words. What came though were broken sounds. Sounds that escaped his heart as it broke beyond repair. Promises of hope made of groans as his insides died.

An ambulance was called. Flashing lights and the wailing siren flooded the alley as a stretcher was pulled out and men who moved very quickly lifted the broken Jaejoong onto it, strapping him in. An oxygen mask was placed over his mouth and an IV drip inserted into his arm as they hoisted the stretcher into the vehicle. All of this in matter of seconds. Yunho watched. Yet as the men urged Yunho to climb up front with his father and the driver for the trip to the emergency room, he pulled back, declaring that he wanted to ride in the back. He wanted to be with his brother. The words came hot from him, his eyes wild and what the men saw was the tattered figure of a child, a young boy nearing his adolescence faced with what few adults could stand. They did not hinder him and Yunho was quickly pulled into the back of the vehicle and strapped into a seat on the side as the ambulance made its way to the hospital.

However it would be the last time for several hours that Yunho was allowed to see Jaejoong. For when they got to the hospital, everything else took over. At a time when family should be allowed to stay with one another, at a time when those who are bound by ties deeper than blood, ties that will find them again in eternity-an all-knowing staff apprehends them. Shoos them away into waiting rooms, telling them to sit tight. Telling them they have done all they can as mere family, and now the all-mighty hospital will take over. So, when the ambulance pulled into the hospital, before Yunho had time to think or react in any way, he was grabbed by harsh hands and trundled off into a strange smelling room, whose walls were stark of color and whose space did not provide the comfort of any sound.

Alone again. His last image of Jaejoong wrapped in what seemed to him to be a winding cloth, with tubes and electronic beeps coming from him. Not even caring to move to a chair, Yunho crumbled down to the ground. And he did not feel the touch of his father’s hand, nor the frail words of comfort. In the young boy’s mind there was only one touch, one sound. The feel of Jaejoong’s limp cold hand in his; the sound of his body breaking on every step. Nothing else. For nothing else mattered.

Pity that Yunho faced this as an adolescent and not a child. For a child hopes. A child is gifted with a well-spring of hope that looks ever out, believing all to be well. It is solid, as firm as Heaven itself. But then we grow older. Wiser. And the hope to once comfort us dims in the light of adulthood. Wiser, we give way to worry and to despair. Older, we no longer believe that all will be well. Yes, as adults we forget how to trust and sink into the “reality” of life.

To this squalor of the years Yunho tumbled, knowing no comfort.

At last the doctor came, his face made of “bedside manner” so shallow, one risked more uncertainty than before. His speech, made to Mr. Jung, twisted and turned with words and double phrases that defied understanding, or truth.

“I want you to know,” the doctor said to Yunho’s father, “That we are doing everything we can right now. Your son is in the best of care. But it’s a waiting game at the moment. I suggest you two go home and wait.”

“Wait for what,” Yunho interrupted. “He’s my brother. I don’t want to wait. What’s happened? How is he?”

The doctor looked down to the strained face, the alarming glare in the glance of this boy and stumbled over his words. “Well, like I said. We’re just waiting it out. I can’t tell you much yet, my boy. Like I said, we gotta wait it out.”

“How is he?!” Yunho cried, the whip of his voice filling the room.

“He’s unconscious,” the doctor answered suddenly, taken aback by the ferocity in Yunho’s young voice. “Your brother has a very severe concussion. We think there may be some internal bleeding. But he’s so unsteady right now, we can’t be sure.”

“When will you be sure,” Yunho demanded.

“When he wakes up. But-”

Yunho’s eyes started from the sockets and he grasped the doctor’s arm, shaking off his father’s attempt to restrain him. “But what?”

Taking a long breath, the doctor sighed. “We’re not sure if he will wake up. At all. Your brother may remain in this state the rest of his life. Never waking. A vegetable, if you will. And if that should happen, we’ll have some options for you.”

“Options?”

“Yes. That may not be the kind of life he wanted to live. The kind of life you wanted him to have. We can arrange that he be let go. Just slip off.”

“You mean-die.” Yunho recoiled at the sound of the words. “You mean-let him die. Because he won’t wake up?! Let my brother die because he won’t wake up? KILL MY BROTHER?!”

“It’s not killing. It’s a simple procedure-”

“GET OUT! That’s my brother! Don’t you get it? He’s my brother for all time. I love him. Don’t you see? I love him! Would you kill me if I didn’t wake up? Would you?! No! Never. You’d have to kill me before him. No. I won’t let you! Get out! Jaejoong is my brother!”

Yunho stumbled back, his father catching him. And Mr. Jung, collecting the shivering body of his son in his arms, turned to the doctor and said-

“Get out. Get out and go tell the whoever you need to tell that I want my son Jaejoong to have a different doctor. Not you.”

“Your insurance may not cover-”

“I don’t care. Get out.”

And as Mr. Jung demanded, a new doctor was called in. Hours passed.

However, it would be longer than hours that Yunho waited, for indeed Jaejoong did not wake. And the days passed. Weeks went by. A month. Still, Jaejoong remained far from the world.

Six months passed before Yunho was called into Dr. Meade’s office one day. A day, like every other, when Yunho went to spend with his brother.

“I have news for you, Yunho. Jaejoong is showing signs of returning to consciousness. But-maybe you should sit down for this, my boy.”