Death Switch | KTH ✓

deux.

I had been an eighteen years old boy who attended high school and unlike other rich students, spoilt and ignorant, I had woken up before the break of dawn, my busy day had begun with my alarm clock—one annoying twit but a very important backbone of my day—going off at five in the morning when the sun had not even risen.

Haphazard destruction, I would then create as I would get ready for the day, bag flung, ragged, my worn-out shoes on, hair a dirty mess and uniform untidy, unruly, despite I cleansed it so hard—you know those persistent annoying paint marks and ink marks that would never get off; this reminds me that I perhaps need to haunt Jinsoo, my old classmate for deliberately sploshing a huge patch of ink on my perfectly white, okay, a little grubby and unscrupulous white uniform.

With my blue bicycle, I used to go to work, to Mr. Chaebin, who as habituated, would give me a pile of fresh, hot newspapers to distribute in the locality and I would do so with a huge smile on my face and once I was done by 6 AM, I would go romping around the streets; my habit of helping uncle Grouch—who was named so because of his wonted grumpy face and unstoppable raving that would begin with the morning—to open his shop and set his tables while he would yet again keep on blabbering, as he would set the counter, about what pathetic, disgustingly horrendous things occurred to him the day before and how he was unlucky to not have enough money.

I remember showing him my huge boxy, extremely handsome grin as I had replied, "uncle, if we start thinking so much then all of us are unlucky in some way or the other."

And as per his undiminished habit, he would purse his lips and mumble something to himself, screwing his face before shouting, at any random passerby for unrelated, non-accusatory stuff which would always make me smile and retreat to my desired destination that was the Parks' house.

The Parks' house was three blocks away, around the third intersecting road of the city center thoroughfare; a memorable journey with nostalgic moments that I haven't forgotten till today. Walking down the first block, towards the corner of the street, near the crossing lane or thereabouts, I would always find a blind old woman, waiting for someone to assist her in crossing the street which I hadn't known why but invariably, habitually, happened to be me though I never complained.

Locking her hand with mine, an arm draped across her shoulder securely, I would help her cross the road, exchanging a few interesting conversations and words of felicity meantime that had grown a certain ivy of attachment that despite not knowing her name, the place where she lived, except the fact that the blind old lady had amnesia because every day she would ask me my name jovially and forget it only to ask again the next day which seemingly did not annoy me, rather made me think as though every time I met her was the first time indeed—an imperturbable tranquillity would suffice my heart from the mere fact that she was a memorable part of my life though she couldn't have me in hers.

The second block consisted of a few dingy, old buildings, of which a café in which Jimin worked as a part-time barista, had been the one that would grab my attention as the soft, sweet aroma of freshly brewed coffee, infused farrago of fruity, nutty and chocolatey smell would fill my nostrils as I would pass by, feeling contended that even though I couldn't afford to buy a cup of coffee for me because of my calculated, limited money; the fresh smell with the early morning dewy scent was sufficient to pull the corner of my lips into a knowing smile.

Mr. and Mrs. Chang, the old, tired couples who lived alone in their large and mournfully quiet house that was at the third and last block or rather adjacent to the Parks' house; had been inevitably non-existent for people of the world as they did not or perhaps could not spare some time from their busy lives to at least convey a tiny smile of love so that the old souls wouldn't feel lost and alone.

Seated on a wooden chair, gnarled and chalky fingers intertwined and a large, heavy spectacle resting on the bridge of his long freckled nose, being as prominent as the wrinkles on his face, Mr. Chang would watch the obnoxiously loud and bustling humdrum of the world from the frontage of his house; a soft crooked smile used to dance on his face when I would trudge past his house, waving at him enthusiastically as he would try to reciprocate the same.

When I would arrive at the Parks' house, the middle-class family of working couples, their son Jimin was my childhood friend, one obnoxiously bratty yet amiable and affable human being with a mind so dirty and soul so pure that even God would find it extremely difficult to identify in which category did he belong, an angel or a devil? Well, an angelic devil?

His, the one and only Park Jimin's, best-loved, favored, and unutterably special penchant was to smack my head upside down or to slap my back vigorously, robustly even if it was meant in an affectionate way or with pure revenge and anger. I sometimes wondered, I still do that for a person like him, face so soft as a baby, how did he get so much strength because I yet didn't forget how his blows would get me staggering, unbalanced on my poised stance but that way his way of conveying love.

Jimin's mother, Mrs. Park was a gracious woman, cordial and sweet with her words. She had once asked me to eat breakfast at theirs, not once but always, from then and on and my gut had told me to deny the offer, to insist it wasn't necessary, but I couldn't as surviving on your own wasn't a susceptible task and so I had acquiesced. This appeared a lot helpful to me as breakfast at Parks and lunch at school, dinner was all that I had to make, spending my limited money on it, one of my expenditures, which wasn't bad.

Mr. and Mrs. Park had also insisted on adopting me, being my foster parents but I  turned down the idea as I did not want to be a burden to them. They were no rich people, just middle-class family, living on a meager budget, striving to survive and I if ever got included in their small yet cheerful family who was always satisfied with whatever they got and never complained, would never be of any useful help.

Though for others, I would shine from outside, plaster a smile of delight on my face, I couldn't deny that I was poor, a miserable wretch who had no whatsoever hope to continue this painful life, making me nothing better than those rough door-mats as though sewed up and stuffed, with head, and legs attached, and just enough of life infused to make them move and that was me, the miserable wretch, Kim Taehyung.