What if...? || Markhyuck

-59-

[march 2021]

[minhyung]

"Why do you think relationship with your mom is like this?" Mrs. Beckett asked in a calm manner, watching me carefully. At first I wanted to say that I don't know. I grew up in such family climate for as long as I can remember. It has never been otherwise - normally, happily.

"Hate for hate," I said finally, thinking back to the past. I hated doing this and usually didn't. This woman, however, more and more often forced me to reach for old memories - painful, empty, unwanted. She called it way to hug myself as the wronged child that is still inside me. I haven't yet had an opinion on this.

"You think your mother hates you?" she asked calmly again, without judgment or surprise. It was shocking in a way. After all, it seems that such open hatred is not the norm of family life. It should baffle at least.

"Once I tried to kill myself," I whispered after a long silence, avoiding gaze of psychologist. I stared at hands and ran thumb tightly over the fingerprint lines. "I'm still alive because curtain rail broke," smirk of awkwardness appeared under my breath. "I was 14..." I muttered reluctantly and took a deep breath, leaning back in chair. I closed eyes, squeezing lids shut tightly. I sincerely hated this memory, despised it. "Mother heard a bang, came from downstairs, saw that I was lying on the ground. She bent over the curtain rail and looked at me..." I frowned, remembering her expression. It defined most of my childhood - this is how I felt when watched myself and how I thought others were perceiving me. Disgust. "She slapped me" I laughed in disbelief under breath. My leg started to twitch nervously, so I squeezed eyes shut even tighter to get away from it and calm thoughts. "She said I can't even kill myself properly," I whispered bitterly, wondering what it would be like if I really hanged myself then. What would that change in my parents' lives? Would they get back together? Relieved their problems had solved themselves? "She advised me to find next time a way that wouldn't hurt them more than funeral costs. It must be hate," I finally concluded, opening eyes. "I thought so and called it that way," added in a whisper at the end.

"Did you try to kill yourself later?" she asked and I shrugged in response, staring at the disgusting white ceiling that reminded me of a closed psychiatric ward.

"I live, breathe, function. How is this different from slowly dying?"

"One more" I muttered to the bartender pointing at empty glass.

I was sitting in the dark, lowly bar, pouring drink after drink into myself. I knew that this wouldn't solve my problems in any way or ease pain in heart that I had been constantly feeling for several days. Dyspnoea in lungs, so heavy as if absorbing the space necessary to take a full breath.

My mother pissed me off.

Father and brother hated.

Grandma was dead.

Boyfriend lied constantly.

More and more often I regretted that at the age of 14 I hadn't simply succeeded at suffocating, breaking all the vertebrae necessary for the cessation of life functions.

I was trying to get myself together, really. But every time I started to shyly enjoy life and make plans for the future, there were some cracks that brought me back to the starting position in this tiring run towards normality and stability.