Fan Service [Yunho]

2

I had no idea where this man was taking me. He drove out of the main venue area, somehow avoiding all of the concert traffic in his efforts to get out of Queens. I shrugged off the hoodie he'd given me once I got to the car...wearing two felt too hot.

I pulled out my phone to Google info about the group but my phone was dead. I sighed and stared out the window, watching Manhattan come into view with its pretty streetlights and classily dressed crowd. I rested my head against the glass, feeling the chill against my swollen cheek. It felt nice.

"So..." the security guard spoke up with an awkward cough. "How come you didn't have any shoes on?"

I stayed quiet. Any answer that I could give would just open a larger conversation that I didn't feel like having.

"Why do you have bruises on your face?" he asked, seemingly out of genuine concern rather than being nosy.

Again, I ignored him, choosing to watch dogs in more expensive clothes than me be carted around in their strollers.

"You can tell me," he assured. "I just want to know why your face is hurt."

I took a deep breath and mumbled, "I have bruises on more than just my face."

He sucked in a sharp breath as he absorbed the information. I had on sweatpants and a hoodie so he wouldn't have known that. He glanced in the rearview mirror at me as if trying to decipher what hurt worst.

"Should I take you to a hospital?" he asked in concern right as we passed a sign indicating one was nearby.

There it was again...the random kindness from a stranger who didn't know me at all. I wondered how different my life would've been if the box office lady or this security guard had intervened when I was young enough for it to have made a difference. "No. I don't have health insurance."

"I'm sure we can figure something out," he offered quietly, trying to encourage me to take care of myself.

"It's nothing I haven't dealt with before," I replied in a whisper, so ashamed of my life that saying that out loud brought tears to my eyes.

He went quiet after that. I heard sniffs from the front seat and closed my eyes against the window again, ignoring the impact my past was having on him. I'd rather be asleep than feel anything. Sleep was my escape.

At first, it had been books, but my parents stopped getting them for me after I turned 6, and my reading level progressed too far for those to be of interest anymore. Then, I got a library card. But they'd tear those books to shreds and force me to pay the fines, so I stopped reading altogether.

Daydreaming and sleep became the only times I could imagine myself someplace else. I'd fantasize about making hot chocolate without being called spoiled and wasteful. I'd imagine the chocolate hitting my tongue, contrasting with the cold winter day.