𝒐𝒐𝒐. "I didn't write this to forget who I am as a person nor did I write it for money out of desperation. I wrote this because I know, one day, someone will find this story in the corner of a library, squeezed between forgotten stories with a dus...
Jung Wooyoung. March 15th, 1982. | Monday, 6:31 AM. WARNING: Character death.
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There lay his mother in the porcelain tub, water dripping from the sides and staining the tiled floors with her crimson blood. Her neck was slit open, the gaping wound still spilling out blood as the knife she had used was dipped in the piled of water by the legs of the tub. Wooyoung didn't react to the gruesome scene of the dead woman in the tub, he knew it was bound to happen any time soon.
He should feel hurt — devastated that his mother is dead, but truthfully, he wasn't because that isn't his mother— whether she was biological or not, she never raised him. She never loved him. She never cared. So, why should he? The only woman he'll ever call his mother is the scribbled lady... What was her name again? He couldn't remember, the years of drug use fucked up his memory, and he feels sick to his stomach knowing that he will have to live the rest of his life remembering the dead woman in the tub's name and not the woman who truly loved him.
He shuts the door behind him, seeing his little brother making his way towards him with his book-bag in his hand, ready to head off to his first day of school. "Don't come back home," Wooyoung says, halting the young teenager in his tracks. His grip tightens on the doorknob. "Ah, uh, just... Stay over with your friends, I know she'll understand."
"Somethin' happened, right?" He asks, his voice coming out in a near whisper. Wooyoung knew it would be hard for Youngjae as the dead woman is his real mother, so seeing the look on his younger brother's face only made him frown. "Okay. Call me when to come back. I'll... I'll see you later." He didn't put up a fuss, having an idea what could have happened before continuing his way downstairs.
Wooyoung didn't bother to head to school, telling his father what had happened and having no choice but to call the ambulance about her body. It was stressful, hiding the illegal substances belonging to his father in places the officers wouldn't bother to look in, and from answering their questions with fake tears. His father fronted a professional act of a "good father" and a "loving husband" when it was obvious he was the main reason for this woman's suicide. However, Wooyoung doesn't say a word about it, glancing at his father with a scowl and mumbles, "Don't bother giving her a funeral. No one would bother to show."
The doctor wheels out her deceased body, officers not bothering to do a further investigation and noting it as suicide. His father slyly smiles, placing a cigarette in between his lips the moment authorities left. "I never thought of doing it, to begin with, my son."
Wooyoung scoffs, rolling his eyes from his father's words before storming off, ignoring the loud laughter coming from the elder man. Of course, the sight of the woman traumatized him — furrowing his brows in hopes he could forget her face. He doesn't know how his father could be so cold-hearted, but then again, it's his father. The man couldn't give a damn about anyone but himself. He steps outside of the house, raising his gaze from the ground when he hears bickering of two particular boys, causing his furrowed brows to relax with a small smile forming on his lips.
