GIRLS ON TRACK || Ryeji

Chapter 75: Diaries and Withered Rose Petals Pt. 1

Ryujin's P.O.V

Glaring at the bowl of porridge and kimchi on the food tray like nemeses, I listened to mom's footsteps as she descended the stairs. Then, I furiously banged my fist on my study table, inducing a loud thud from the wood and a stinging pain on the side of my fist. How could she be only interested in how much I know about her past? Was she even paying attention to my outburst of all the indignation that I had suppressed inside of me? Even if she did, she would never sympathize me because she's stubborn and she never admits her wrongdoings.

A few minutes later, I heard her car tires screeching away from the garage and onto the road until the roar of the engine faded out, signifying her departure. Soon, I was filled with dread and trepidation of never meeting my girl again, and I knew that she would be feeling the same way. For this reason, I have to do something to stop her from overthinking and worrying too much. Supporting my weight by pressing two palms on the table, I got up shakily, my knees buckling underneath me as they threatened to give out. As soon as I was able to stand up, I dipped forward and fell on the table, with my elbows propped on it. Next, the intense growl of my stomach echoed inside my room, thus getting on my nerves. Refraining from acknowledging my hunger, I gritted my teeth in sheer determination and successfully stumbled out of the room.

The next thing I knew, I was teetering toward mom's bedroom in big heavy but weak steps while resisting the urge to faint from extreme lethargy. Immediately after I swung the door open, I staggered inside, dropping limply to my knees on the floor as my nails dug into the wooden tiles in frustration. Like I shot, I mustered all the strength in me and sprung up to my feet, advancing to mom's worktable in search of my dear phone, my hands fumbling for it as I opened drawer after drawer to no avail. She only kept her files and paper work inside the drawers. Then, I turned on my heels to stomp toward her wardrobe and rummaged through piles of neatly folded clothes and racks of carefully hung coats in a frenzy manner, nonchalantly leaving her attires in disarray. Not much later, my hands came in contact with a box, so I lugged it out of the wardrobe and put it down on the floor with a loud thud, letting myself topple over in the process.

The box is coated with layers and layers of dust, indicating that it has been abandoned and untouched for quite a number of months, or maybe years— well, only god knows how long. I brushed the dust off with my palms, watching the particles fly away as they reflected the daylight that penetrated through the windows. Nervously, I removed the lid from the box and eyed the contents inside it in scrutiny: stacks of old, dusty books, vintage cassettes, photo albums and a jar of withered rose petals. My hands tentatively reached over for one of the books, and I flipped its pages inquisitively.

January 6, 2000

Dear Diary,

Guess what? I won the first prize in my high school's singing competition, but I don't feel happy because I can't boast about that to anyone in my family, except my mom. She cooked my favorites dishes for my victory. What's more touching was that she couldn't stop staring at my gold medal, with a significant proud smile tugged at her lips. However, she had to hide the medal inside her apron the moment my father and his son, my scumbag of a brother, entered the kitchen with vexatious laughters, seemingly engaged in a conversation.

I furrowed my eyebrows and skipped a few pages.

February 11, 2000

Dear Diary,

I got slapped by my own father for the first time on my 18th birthday for standing up for myself. How ironic! I just entered adulthood and what I got in return was his sinister insults and a slap. What's wrong with me choosing my own career? Why does he have to belittle music as if it's a piece of filthy trash? "Music's not real work." That's what he said. God. He doesn't even understand the real value of music because he's nothing but a grumpy bald man, who's fed up with everyone around him.