Hongjoong's pen broke. He threw it with a scowl. The pen's tip twirled off to the left and the rest splattered ink on its ragged path across the dining table, dancing against the varnished wood before skirting to a stop right before it rolled off the edge. Hongjoong slammed his fist on the table. His journal sat sadly before him, three lines written under the number 372. The last line ended in a splotch of black ink. The man had been writing too hard. He picked his book up and threw it down onto the ground. Its pages folded and tore as Hongjoong dug the heel of his foot into the book cover.
It was a lovely book. Bound by brown leather, it was decorated with lovely engravings. The artist had depicted a cluster of asters, traced in now-fading red ink. Hongjoong's name was written beautifully beneath the flowers of love. The golden shimmer in his name was fading just like the red ink of the asters, but the memory was as felt as the smoke right after a candle. Hongjoong could hear every word and could see every sight that was near him the day he received this book.
He picked the ruined book up and noted its ruined pages. The many torn sheets and stained parts. Missing leaves and crooked edges. Hongjoong sighed. He pushed his hair back and slowly plucked the papers from his journal. He got to work, removing the badly treated sheets from the treasured cover. He'd remake the book again. Over and over. Behind him was a shelf of unbound journals. Every page had been filled in the care of Hongjoong's precious cover. His asters and his name carried each page each time.
His fingers slid over the small name printed inside the cover. On the very bottom, to the left. His father's name. Hongjoong's heart swelled uncomfortably. He suddenly threw the book again. All the pages fluttered out in a storm as the cover flew across the room. It hit the wall and fell without grace. Hongjoong stared blankly at the wall. A dent had started to form. A few more throws and a crack might appear. Hongjoong dragged himself around the table and picked the book binding up. He rubbed a few inward marks out and set it on the table. Hongjoong's eyes fixed themselves on the deep marking of his father's name. The family name burned his eyes.
Kim.
And a royal branch, too. Whatever honour the name once held, Hongjoong felt that his father cancelled it out. Hongjoong hated bearing the name of a traitor. His vision blurred and he felt a sharp sting in his nose. He blinked and something warm hit the back of his hand. A reflective spot. A tear. Hongjoong walked away from the mess of papers and made his way toward his bedroom, slamming the door shut. He could hear kind laughter echoing through the house. That voice that he missed so dearly.
"Good job, Hong-a! You're doing so well!" Hongjoong slumped onto his bed. "I'm so proud of you, Hongjoong." Hongjoong ran his hands through his hair and shut his eyes as he recalled every tone and every sharp note of that voice. "I love you more than anything, Hongjoong. Always remember that Dad loves you, okay?" Hongjoong whimpered as his fists clenched around his black hair. He tugged at his scalp and cried out. He called it rage, but it really felt like anguish. His heart burned and he bent down to cover the feeling.
"Are you proud of me?" Hongjoong asked quietly. His hoarse voice resonated through the silent house. "Dad?"
