Hatred - 2Min/Minmin

34

"Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him," shouted Minho. He paced around the room, kicked things, broke stuff and punched walls. "He's just being fucking melodramatic. I'm sure nothing is going to happen to him."

"I called the hospital, dude," said Hyunjin. "He's under treatment."

"So?"

"He's not going to live for more than a couple of years."

"A couple of years is a long time," said Minho, pointing a finger right at Hyunjin, as if convincing himself and not Hyunjin. "And that bastard said he was dying. He wasn't dying, he might die in a couple of years. There's a big fucking difference between the two. Why all the drama now? Couldn't he just have called me in two years when he was actually dying!" Minho picked an old beer bottle lolling in the floor and smashed it against the wall. "What, what would have happened? Suddenly it has dawned upon him the wrongs he has done and he wants to make it up for it! Well, screw him. I'm not going to go to him, sit by his side, listen to his side of the story and cry, forgive his imperfections and hold his hands in dying days. It fucking wont happen. This isn't a damn movie."

"Well not yet."

"Why not yet?"

"Its not a movie yet but it could be if I decide to write about it. It could be a big hit, you know?" remarked Hyunjin.

Minho smacked Hyunjin's head. "What are you talking about? My father is dying and you think its a joke?"

"Me? No. You think its a joke," said Hyunjin, turning serious. "So what if he slept with hookers? So what if he didn't fight for your mother? So what if you always hated your father? Why shouldn't he get a last shot at loving you? You can spend the rest of your life hating him. He's not going to stop you from doing that, will he? So just go. I'm sure he needs you right now, Minho. Stop thinking about yourself for once."

". . . ."

"I'm trying to make you feel guilty if you haven't noticed."

". . . ."

"Well its already working , Minho. No matter how badass you are , right now youre thing what if he doesn't see you for the next two years and dies taking your name over and over again. What is he spends every waking second of whatever is left staring at the door, waiting for you? What if he spends every shred of his life crying? And when all he needed was once chance to apologize."

Minho breathed deeply. "Youre manipulating me. I cant fucking believe you."

"Neither can I. Your father is dying and youre here talking to me."

Minho slumped on the bed, face down, wanting to cry but the tears had dried out years before and said, "I'm not going."

Yet six hours later, he was running through the corridors of Eight Hills Hospital looking for room no.325. When he reached the door , he calmed down, pushed the door open and entered the room. His father lay on uncomfortable bed reading magazine. There lay of a set of machines by his side, not yet plugged in.

"Dad," Minho said. He sat on the seat meant for distraught relatives-crying brothers and wailing sons, daughters and wives. Dad looked just fine. "You don't look sick."

"Its something with my liver. Too much drinking they said. And I told them if I had been drinking I wouldn't be here." Dad laughed and Minho failed to see the joke in it.

The words dried up and quite some time passed by before Dad said, "I'm sorry." Minho had already started to regret his decisions to be there. He felt angry if anything at all.

"You kind if should be. For all this shit that you have done and made us all go through. I just came here because my friends told me I should give you a chance to apologize. And quite frankly, it doesn't feel any different. Seeing you trapped in this bed doesn't make me cry. If anything it makes me fucking happy."