Notes - Yoonmin

1

Why does my heart thrum in agony and desire every time I see you? What is it about you? Your lips? Your gaze? Maybe it is the way you pronounce my name, so tenderly, so sincerely, as if it were the whisper of a secret never to be told but cherished instead. 

________

The warm light seeped softly through the cracked windows, casting a humble orange onto the wooden desks, lined thickly in dark tones by the pine grilles' shadows. The whitened blinds hung daintily from its wooden case above the windows and squeaked sharply as they were pulled up in swift but careful movements, and the classroom was slowly basked in the gentle light as the broken seesaw and the rotten benches were revealed from outside. 

And there stood Jimin, hand still on the blinds' pebbled string.

There was something about the silence of it all - one that was not thick nor thin, but rather comforting as it filled the room. Silence which was shared by only him and the beating of his heart, which never left him; never judged him. Only was the silence interrupted by this same drumming, wanting to be heard. Needing to be heard. And begging to be loved. But it was enough for him, to know he was alive, and prove the lurking monsters in his mind wrong. 

He sighed as he let it fall. He then began to pick up the torn papers over the small shelving unit, its corners rugged, and stacked them lightly on one end. As long as I live, I can get better. 

The blackboard was white at this point; too many obscene drawings littered the smooth surface, and large cusses were written. The teacher's desk was bare. The chairs in need of repair. The walls yellow with chewed gum. I can get better.

As he rubbed away at the board, the light's radiance dimming, the door opened widely.

"An' you are?"

He spun around sharply, eyes widened. A short, fat man with a massive beer belly stood holding the door's jammed handle, the unoccupied hand holding a paperback book. He must've been in his 50s, maybe 60s, he thought, as his red face and balding head and glaring eyes scrutinized the small boy's weak figure. Jimin shifted in his place. The man leered at him in hunt through the thick glasses perched on his aquiline nose and scratched at his 2 or 3 day beard with sharp nails and meaty fingers.

"Well?"

Jimin jostled.

"Jimin - Park Jimin."

"Well, Park," he sneered, "what do ya think you're doing? An' call me sir. Be respectful."

He couldn't help but wonder how did the peace and silence which reigned before have dissipated so quickly, so insignificantly. Faltering, he took a glance at the board.

"I... I'm erasing... sir." The man quirked a bushy grey eyebrow. He continued, "I... um... thought I might help out, sir. Make the classroom neater."

Anxious, he began to gnaw at his lips and the inside of his mouth, and held the eraser tightly in his petite hands. The unnamed man started to tread towards him, past rows of old square desks till he had finally reached the larger table beside the blackboard; beside Jimin.

"Look, fag, if ya think you're better than me for tryin' to keep this place presentable get the fuck outta here." He took a small box of Malboros out of his pocket, and took one out. "Ya know your parents didn't send ya here to mess 'round." Placing the book on the desk, he plucked the cigarette into his mouth and lit it with a cheap, plastic red lighter. "We gonna take that illness outta ya, no problem. But don't mess 'round with me. Ya hear me, boy?"

He gulped. "Yes, sir."

"Good." He puffed out a cloud of smoke. "Ya call me sir an' keep quiet. Call me Mr Geun if there's other mentors. Ya come to class on time, but I dun wanna see ya before that. Or after. If I catch ya with some other faggot 'round here I'll send ya to doctor Li."

Mr Geun snatched the eraser out of Jimin's hands and put it on his desk.

"Scram."

He did not think twice. The short, brown haired boy immediately ran towards his bag, slung it over his shoulders and sprinted out of the classroom through the jeering old door. He continued to flee through the narrow, dim corridors, barely seeing the fleeting damp wood of the walls and ceiling and floor, or the odd holes and graffiti decorating them. He certainly did not stop to stare out of the small, iron clad glass windows. Only did he stop when he found himself in front of a bathroom with no door. 

There he dropped the bag near the lone, dirty sink and tried to catch his breath. He shut his eyes closed, then opened them again. It was tiny and unused, it seemed, as two cubicles were mashed together against the opposite wall and grime covered the dusty white tiles. It was also dark. Only a single beam of weak light came through a window the size of a small animal, and it had metal grilles expanding up to bottom and left to right. 

Jimin breathed in deeply. Then a footstep fell through. He tensed up once again.

Cautious, he stalked towards the last cubicle, watching as a hint of sneaker-clad feet shuffled lightly and lazily. He rounded the plastic wall.

There he saw a fallen angel - an ugly saint, and a beautiful monster. The face of someone he swore never to forget since his eyes first landed on him. A true fire-fly lamp amidst the night darkness.

He was woefully beautiful.