𝗨𝗡𝗦𝗣𝗢𝗞𝗘𝗡 | p.sunghoon

𝟎𝟓.

𓏵

SARIM stood outside the door of her apartment, her hand hovering over the knob. She had been standing there for what felt like an eternity, knowing what awaited her on the other side. The dull, familiar sound of a television blaring through the thin walls mixed with the unmistakable clinking of glass bottles, a sound that made her stomach twist.

The hallway was dimly lit, the flickering bulb casting long shadows on the walls, and for a brief moment, Sarim imagined herself turning around, walking away from this place, disappearing somewhere far away. But she knew better. There was nowhere to go. No one to run to.

With a deep breath, she pushed the door open.

The smell hit her first—stale alcohol and cigarette smoke, the kind that clung to your clothes and hair no matter how hard you tried to escape it. Her father was sitting in the living room, slouched in his usual spot on the green couch, an empty bottle of soju resting by his feet, and another half-full one in his hand. The table in front of him was littered with crumpled cigarette packs and broken glass, remnants of a previous night's anger.

Sarim tried to move quietly, her steps light as she slipped off her shoes and headed toward her room, praying for her dad not to notice her.

But he did.

"Where the fuck have you been Sarim?" His angry voice slurred as he struggled to sit up straight, his bloodshot red eyes locking onto her. "Think you can just come home whenever you feel like it?"

Sarim froze. She couldn't answer. She knew what would happen if she did. Any response would only make things worse. Instead, she lowered her gaze and continued toward her room, her fingers trembling as they reached for the door handle.

But before she could enter her room, she heard the crash. His bottle of soju hit the floor, rolling across the room as her father staggered to his feet. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she turned just in time to see him grabbing another bottle from the table. This one still full.

"Answer me!" he shouted, stumbling forward. "You think you're too good for this family? Too good for me, huh? You're the reason your mother died, you're useless!" He angrily shouted.

The last word hit her like a punch to the gut, bringing back memories she'd tried so hard to bury.

Her mother.

She hadn't heard that word in so long, not from him. He'd stopped talking about her after she died.

eight years ago

Sarim walked home from school, the usual exhaustion weighing her down. As she turned the corner to her street, her breath caught. An ambulance, lights flashing, was parked right in front of her house. Her heart pounded in her ears as she dropped her bag and ran.

Her dad stood next to a stretcher, his face red and wet, crying out pain. "Jiyeong, no! Please, no!" His voice was hoarse, breaking with each word.

Sarim's eyes darted to her mother. Jiyeong lay on a stretcher, completely still, her face pale, her chest not moving. The doctors were trying their best do to something, but all Sarim could hear was her dad's desperate screams.

Sarims heart froze. Her legs felt weak, her throat dry. She couldn't move. Couldn't speak. She just stared, feeling the world crash down around her.

present time

He was in front of her now, his face twisted with anger, his breath reeking of alcohol. A tear rolled down sarims pale cheek. She stepped back, but the wall was behind her. There was nowhere to go.

"I said, answer me!" he shouted again, his hand gripping the neck of the bottle.

"I—I was at school," she whispered, her voice barely audible. She knew it wouldn't matter what she said.

It never did. He wouldn't even listen.

Her father let out a bitter laugh, one that sent chills down her spine. "School," he sneered. "You think that matters? You think you're going anywhere, girl?"

Before she could react, the bottle came down hard. It struck her jaw first, the impact sending her crashing into the wall. Pain shot through her chin and she bit her lip to keep from crying out.
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them back. She wouldn't cry. She couldn't cry. Not in front of him.

He raised the bottle again, this time swinging it toward her head. Sarim ducked, but the glass still grazed her temple, the sharp edge cutting into her skin. She felt the warm trickle of blood slide down the side of her face, mixing with the sweat and fear.

Her father wasn't done. He grabbed her by the collar of her shirt, lifting her slightly before slamming her back into the wall again. The breath was knocked out of her, and her vision blurred for a moment. She tasted blood in her mouth, but she didn't fight back. She never did.

"You're useless," he spat, his voice filled with anger.

Sarim's chest heaved as she struggled to breathe, the pain radiating through her body, but she kept her face blank, emotionless. She had learned long ago that showing any kind of reaction only fueled his rage.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally let her go, shoving her to the ground. The bottle rolled out of his hand and shattered against the floor, sending shards of glass scattering around them. Sarim curled into herself, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs, waiting for the next blow.

But it didn't come.

Instead, her father stumbled back to the green couch, collapsing into it with a heavy thud. He reached for another cigarette, lighting it with shaking hands, as if nothing had happened.

Sarim stayed on the floor, her body trembling, the throbbing pain in her head and shoulder almost unbearable. The blood from the cut on her temple had slowed, but she could still feel it drying against her skin, sticky and warm.

She wanted to scream, to cry, to ask why this was her life, but instead, she stayed silent. It was the only thing she had left—her silence. It was the only part of her that was still hers, that hadn't been beaten out of her.

After what felt like hours, Sarim slowly stood up, her legs weak beneath her. She moved like a ghost, slipping past her father and into her room, closing the door quietly behind her. Once inside, she sank to the floor, her back pressed against the door, as if that thin piece of wood could protect her from the world outside.

Her hands shook as she touched the cut on her jaw, wincing at the pain. She would need to clean it before it got infected, but right now, all she could do was sit there, feeling the weight of everything crashing down on her.

The sound of the television and her father's muttering faded into the background as she stared at the cracks in the ceiling, wondering if this was all life would ever be for her.

Just broken pieces, scattered everywhere.

And no one to put them back together.

Or maybe, just maybe, someone would?