Back story to Disenchanted. Nice and depressing, as requested by my good friend @EnteIsla.

 

“No! Please, stop!”

 

The little boy covered his ears and curled into a ball, hoping to block out the screams from the other side of the room. He could hear his mother’s sobbing and her pleas for help. He could hear the slap of his father’s hand contacting her once beautiful face. He could hear his own cries for his mother echoing throughout the room.

 

“Umma!” he screamed. The only response he got were more screams of terror. He looked up cautiously, just in time to see his father take a knife and slash it through his mother’s shirt. He screamed again and hid his face in his hands.

 

The only noises in the room for the next few minutes were his quiet cries, his father's grunts, and his mother's shouts. When Kyungsoo finally stopped trembling, an hour had passed. His father had left. His mother was watching him and he crawled over to her. They lay together for a little while with the little boy curled up against her body. Eventually, Kyungsoo fell asleep.

 

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

 

On the other side of town, a slim, well-muscled young man turned off his speakers. He quickly gathered his things before gazing at his reflection in the wall-length mirror and turning off the lights. “Goodnight,” he whispered to the studio. He smiled softly and began the walk home.

 

His walk was the same as usual. He admired the city lights and the huge homes. He inhaled the scent of beef wafting from the little restaurant down the street. He ran his hand through the hair of the young homeless girl, righted the sign reading “NEED MONEY FOR EDUCATION”, and dropped a few bills into the hat her mother held.

 

Life was good, but life was boring. It was the same old story every day. Every morning, the barista at his local cafe would flirt with him instead of preparing his drink. Every morning, he told her he was gay. Every morning, he walked to his studio. He danced and danced until he couldn’t any more, only taking breaks for lunch and water. Then, before dinner, he would walk back home and eat the meal Luhan had prepared for him. He would get undressed and brush his teeth and go to sleep. He would wake up in the morning feeling exactly the same, yet older than his looks, and start the cycle again.

 

Today, however, was different. Today, his walk was interrupted by something, something dangerous. It was the glare of the headlights and the honk of the horn and the screech of the tires and the pain that shot through his entire body. It was the night sky spinning above him and the black spots at the corners of his vision and the thud of his head against the ground and the warm liquid pooling beneath him. Today, Kim Kai, the dancer, was dead. Long live Kim Jongin, the broken man.

 

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

 

“Kyungsoo. Wake up, baby.”

 

The boy in question rubbed his eyes sleepily and looked up at his mother’s fearful face.

 

“Baby, pack your things. We’re leaving.”

 

Kyungsoo looked at her quizzically. “Why?”

 

She shook her head and her eyes flicked towards the door. “We can’t stay.”

 

Her confused son got up slowly but did as she had said.

 

“Come on,” she whispered, scooping him up in her arms and slinging their bag across her shoulder.

 

Then they walked out of the house that had brought them horror for six years. They walked until their feet got tired. They walked away, far away, and left behind the terror that was their lives.

 

They stopped when they arrived in an alley littered with boxes and garbage cans. His mother squatted down and met his eye. “Kyungsoo, I need you to listen to me carefully. Take off your shirt and pants,” she said softly.

 

Kyungsoo obeyed. She gasped when she saw the amount of bruises and scars her husband had left on her poor baby. She ran her hand over his skin tenderly, recoiling when he whimpered in pain. “Baby, where else has he touched you?” she asked.

 

Kyungsoo looked nervous. “Uh, here,” he whispered. He pointed to the area below his waist.

 

His mother stood up suddenly. “That bastard!” she cried. She ran towards the street.

 

“Umma,” Kyungsoo whimpered. “Don’t leave me.”

 

She turned back to him. “Oh no, baby, I could never leave you. C’mere.”

 

She embraced him, careful not to put too much pressure on his wounds. Neither of them noticed the shadow of a man behind them.

 

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

 

“Kai, you can’t keep doing this."

 

"What?"

 

"Moping. Pardon my French but you're ing depressed."

 

Kai sighed and turned away from Luhan. "I'm serious!" the butler snapped. "You're not going to get better if you don't try!"

 

"I don't wanna get better," Kai mumbled. "My life is over."

 

"Look, just because you can't dance anymore doesn't mean you can't carry on with life," Luhan growled.

 

Kai turned back to him and glared. "I'm paralyzed from the waist down."

 

"Temporarily."

 

"Still," Kai pouted, sounding a lot like a whiny kid.

 

Luhan sighed. "At least try."

 

Kai contemplated this for a moment. "Fine," he replied. "Just don't call me Kai. My name is Jongin."

 

Luhan grinned. "Good, because I've already signed you up for physical therapy."

 

"You what?"

 

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

 

Kyungsoo's eyes widened when he saw the silhouette of a tall man hovering over his umma. His heart-shaped lips formed a scream. "Umma!"

 

Her head jerked up and she pushed Kyungsoo away from her. "Kyungsoo, what's wrong?"

 

"There's- he's behind-" he whispered, hand shaking as he pointed behind her. She slowly turned around and gasped when she saw what was waiting for her.

 

"Kyungsoo. Run."

 

Kyungsoo ran, as fast as he could on his six-year-old feet. He didn't look back until he reached the end of the alley. When he did, his memory was branded with the image of his mother, back arched and blood everywhere and knife handle protruding from her stomach and his father's cackle.

 

He screamed.

 

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

 

"Good. Just two more steps, Jongin."

 

Jongin gritted his teeth and gripped the bars harder. He shakily lifted one leg and moved it in front of the other. Then again. He collapsed in relief when he finally reached the end.

 

"Good job," Tao nodded. "I think that's enough for today."

 

Jongin groaned. Finally, he could get away from the stupid physical therapist. Now he just had to face the shrink for an hour and he could rest. Luhan carefully wheeled him across the rehab facility and into the shrink's office.

 

"Good afternoon, Jongin," Minseok greeted politely. Jongin shrugged in response.

 

"How have you been relieving your emotions since I last saw you?"

 

Jongin shrugged again. "Mostly punching walls. Or Luhan. He doesn't mind."

 

"Still?" Minseok sighed. "What did I say about expressing your feelings through art and not violence.

 

"I used to do that through dance," Jongin said flatly. He snuck a peek at Minseok's notepad. Still bitter, it read.

 

“Why do you insist on hating everything?”

 

“I’ve lived longer than you, Minseok, even though it may not look like it. I’ve seen the horrors history and this world have to offer. I have every reason to hate.”

 

Minseok was silent for a moment. “Have you tried writing?”

 

Jongin’s head shot up. “I’m an awful writer.”

 

“So what?” The therapist shrugged. “Doesn’t mean you can’t write. Try this,” he said, handing Jongin a piece of bright blue paper.

 

Jongin’s eyes skimmed over the text.

 

Venting Through Writing:
 

Write about how you feel but do NOT mention the name of your emotion. For example:

She was sad.

becomes

She felt tears b in the corners of her eyes. Her lips formed a pout and and she broke down, falling to the floor like the pathetic being she was.

 

“That’s dark,” Jongin muttered.

 

“Just try it.”

 

Jongin snatched a pencil from the table and began scribbling on the paper.

 

I don’t want to live. I don’t want this life. I can feel the hatred of a hundred lifetimes brewing behind my eyes. I can’t take it anym-

 

His pencil snapped. That’s what he got for writing so hard. Strangely enough, though, he felt the tiniest ray of sunshine peek through the dark clouds in his heart.

 

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

 

“Please, help me. I have no home, no family.”

 

Strangers passed him by, not even stopping to drop a coin in the little boy’s hat. “Please!” he screamed. “I don’t have food. How am I supposed to survive?”

 

He burst into tears and crawled farther back into his box. It had been a few months since his mother’s death and Kyungsoo had barely been surviving on the meager scraps some kind ahjumma would leave for him. His clothes, the same ones he had been wearing since he left home, were torn and tattered, far too small for him. His shelter was a refrigerator box, offering no protection from whatever Mother Nature threw at him.

 

Today, it was winter. Snowflakes floated from the heavens and the ground was cold and wet. The wind blew everywhere, knocking over everything in its path. A particularly strong gale swept away one of the cardboard flaps on Kyungsoo’s box. He yelped and cowered under the top. His eyes widened in fear when the roof of the box slowly began to tear. He shrieked when it came off entirely.

 

A few minutes later, seven-year-old Do Kyungsoo was sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, sobbing his little heart out and wishing for the love and hot chocolate and his mother.

 

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

 

"Luhan!" Jongin called.

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"I'm heading out. The manuscript is on my desk; please send it to the publisher."

 

"May I ask where you're going?" Luhan asked.

 

"For a walk. I want to take full advantage of my recovery."

 

Luhan nodded. "Good to see you're no longer angry about the whole no dancing thing."

 

"Yup," Jongin replied. He quickly opened the door and stepped out. "And Luhan? One more thing."

 

"Anything, sir."

 

Jongin smiled softly at his butler, his best friend. "Thank you."

 

Jongin, having finally escaped the confines of his mansion, shut the door so as not to let any snow in. He pulled up the hood of his coat and began walking at a brisk pace.

 

He walked to his studio and smiled at it fondly. He walked down the streets he used to take to go home. He relished the scent of beef again. He admired the lights again. He dropped another bill into the homeless mother's hat, and petting the hair of her daughter, now wearing a school uniform.

 

He walked past the old cafe and smiled pleasantly at the new barista. (The old one had been fired for "indecent behavior towards customers.") He walked right by the remnants of his past, stopping only to feel their warmth one last time.

 

Jongin was done with his old life. He was ready to start anew. He could make a career out of writing after finding out that he actually was quite good at it. He could forget the heartbreak that came with too many years of living. He could leave the bitterness behind.

 

Jongin began his trek through the snowy streets of the city, unfamiliar streets that eventually led him to the poorer part of town.

The sound of sobbing alerted him to the presence of a kid sitting on the sidewalk. No words were spoken at first, at least until Jongin took his hand and the kid blurted, "You're a ballerina."

 

“I used to be. I’m an author now. My name is Kim Jongin,” he replied.

 

The boy looked at him thoughtfully. His big doe eyes widened. “Can I call you Appa instead?”

 

Jongin was startled. Never in his entire life had anyone ever called him Appa, including his own children. “Of course you can.”

 

The child beamed and happily skipped ahead of Jongin. He's so happy. It makes me wonder how I ever gave up on finding love.

 

“Hey kid!” Jongin yelled after him. “I don’t even know your name!”

 

“It’s Do Kyungsoo!”

 

Jongin smiled to himself. Definitely. I can definitely do this.