not what you think

xviii: n-5 [6]

Warning: Use of derogatory term and physical abuse. Please read with caution.

"May I ask your son why he hasn't visited school today again? He never skips classes unless there's an extreme situation. Is he alright?"

"He just feels a bit under the weather."

"I hope he feels better. I'm eager to see him soon."

"Same here, he's at his best when he's at school," the oldest voices in a pretendedly saccharine tone, appending more to his sourness towards the youngest.

"Good day to you," The homeroom teacher says.

"Good day to you too," The oldest replies before emphasizing on the crimson receiver down, hearing the click on the other end.

His visual morphs from cordiality to poignancy in a split moment.

"As if I care if he goes to school. It's better for him to rot away than go out being a fag," He murmurs under his breath, whilst trudging for the living room, clasping the newspaper on the center table and attuning calmly in the moderately sized couch.

The lady of the house is out in a salient errand, compelled to strand the youngest with a reservoir of toxicity her husband has amassed into.

The youngest ushered his mother to the door under the consolation of being alright with his presence. He assures her from time to time about how he has been unstired of his venomous injections.

But who is he fooling? Not himself.

His mind feels like it's not his own anymore.

It's immured in deprecation, defencelessness, and dejection.

He has no one to make his way to.

The phone calls with his sibling have been abridged because of even more uncompromising surveillance of their father on his social life, even their mother's.

His travels in the last few months have been minute but going to school and coming back home.

Amidst it all, his ranking second in the annual art competition has downed his father's morales towards his passion. Something denouncing as his aptitude for painting has waned, which ebbed his vibrancy upon viewing the canisters and palette and the magic wand of brush.

It's been nearly six months ever since the malignant rhythm of cacophony has resounded in the moderate expanse of the house.

And it has taken an even worse downturn. To his father's temperament and Joonki's mental stature.

His father's seething syllables have scabbed the visceral of the younger boy.

The deprecating ness has risen its tide ever since. The abuse has reached the point of diminishing Joonki to smithereens.

Ever since Yeosang raised his tone at his father to the point of making aware the length and width of his dormitory, the verbal abuse has extended along to physical abuse.

Joonki has borne the brunt of several hits, destabilizing him to the dimensions of laying immobile on his bed. At the absenteeism of their mother.

His sibling has been cut off his monthly allowance as punishment to speak in favor of Joonki.

Their mother isn't an anomaly to being the sufferer.

For the time she put effort to defend the youngest from the oldest's wrath, it ceased to several stitches at the crown of her forehead.