Cloudy days (shots) - Yeonjun

🥀SOS

WARNING: Contains mentions of violence and an incest relationship. If you don't feel comfortable reading this, I recommend you skip this chapter. Thank you.

I guess I was never a big fan of sneak-outs, but this was different, nobody went to the funeral anyway.

Just me, and him; the only person who could understand what I was thinking before I said anything. It was a matter of admitting a gesture on my face or outlining the edges of certain suffocating words so that he would know that it was best to leave me alone, as I was never afraid of being lonely.

Yeonjun. Totally different from me but with that air of salvation and condemnation. Son of a woman no one ever knew, not even our father. It's funny, how despite being united by so little he felt so good when he came to kiss me.

Neither of us had love from others, nor do we need it growing up. It was better to be together at home when things became strange; like when dad sniffed seats and women's perfumes, or he reneged on faults that he had to provide every third night, almost like something written in some hidden commandment in religions that no longer mattered.

It is a question of losing fear of that omnipotent one, in order to feel free; and there was nothing more omnipotent than our father, with that blood tie that confined us to the interior and our apartment in the big city. One window among hundreds of other windows showing a sideboard with urban treasures; in our case, two half-brothers smoking and touching each other.

The way others looked at us changed, and for a while we did too over the years. Things like school or stable jobs had a place in the life we ​​treasured, the one that was green. So, we spent almost five years without looking at each other, without having each other; And as always, we don't need more than a tragedy to decide to get into Grandpa's dilapidated car and drive to the outskirts, far from everything, in order to have some improvised camp that will remind us of times of turbulence.

Nostalgia is a word that I prefer not to pronounce with anyone other than him, who even with his three years advantage, shares a childhood in the corner of the face, near the closure of his lips.

None of them could believe that dad was really dead. It had happened in a street fight, and naturally he didn't go to the hospital even after having three broken ribs, rubbing himself better on the living room sofa while he watched television. We don't even know if that was exactly how it happened, but according to the police, after three days he decided to take a bath in that mint-colored tiled bedroom that ended up being the last sight of his life.

Curious death for someone like him, who always hated the smelly color of the bathroom. It was the only thing we had in common, ever since we met.

I was three years old when they told me that my father had come back for me, and I adopted it as a paradise compared to the life I had with my mother and grandmother: a tense context that spent most of my resilience on stupid fights between teenage mothers and lack of financial resources. He arrived in the red car, with a patched tire.

I still remember the strong smell of gasoline and glue from the inside of his shirt when he hugged me around the waist and took me to subtractions: well, I didn't want to separate from mom, the one who has no face. His car smelled like him too, and so did the guy sitting in the backseat.

Yeonjun wasn't surprised to see me. I remember sitting next to him and burying my face in his neck, crying for my mom; then my father reprimanded me by telling me that I should do like my brother, that even with his mother's harlot and his five half-brothers, did not know parental suffering. I hated him for that at first, for not really knowing anything about what I considered my own reality; However, when I got home and went up to his room, he showed me his dolls.