He has lost her. He lost white. And since then, black was all he could see. He navigated in darkness, without a hint of light, until he began to believe that there were no other shades. He walked on the pitch-black path, which wasn't to his liking...
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After much thought, I have come to the conclusion that life resembles a Rubik's Cube. You would spend an infinite amount of time lining up the colors, and if you don't have the talent, it could take forever, if not never, for the pieces to fit together.
Unfortunately, I didn't possess that kind of talent. So, whenever I inspected the cube to see if I'd finally made the last piece, I'd find that there was a sore, bright orange stuck between the blue, the green, or the damn white.
Or Jeon fucking Jungkook in the middle of the Mins' mess.
He didn't fit anywhere in the puzzle. He had no place in the picture, or maybe I was just too narrow-sighted to care about where his place was. Even now, with his file on my poker table, read and reviewed multiple times, I still failed to find where he could fit into the overall picture.
I downed my single malt in one go and poured myself another glass while I played with the deck of cards in front of me. I sucked at Rubik's cubes, but I was more than good at cards. In fact, I was so good at cards, no matter the game, that I found myself at an age that wouldn't possibly allow you to enter a casino, forced by men who were not endowed with the same talent to play and win games that were not allowed by law in a town that did not tolerate gambling. I didn't gain much from these games—just enough to buy myself some ramen and give the rest to the landlord.
I was just a kid when I started playing with my third foster father. Barely ten. He was a single man in his late forties. A society outcast who had found a loophole in the system to turn a profit. The bet was simple and affordable for both of us. Whoever won would do no housework for a week. I really hated doing the housework. The apartment was the kind of dirty that you didn't notice the garbage around, but you sure smelled it. Mr. Song cleaned just enough to convince the system that he could fulfill his duties as a foster parent and provide a decent transitional place for the kids. But if the system was truly concerned about the welfare of the children they placed in his care, they would have seen the cockroaches that infested the place. If they had looked a little closer, they would have seen the amount of trash he had hidden in the cupboard under the sink. If the children had really been more important than a signature on a piece of paper used to cross another child off the list, they would have seen the torn cigarettes whose tobacco had been used to roll a blunt.
Too bad they didn't care. Too bad I no longer cared which hands I was entrusted into, either.
After too many losses, the place became sparkly. A few more losses and I became Cinderella in Mr. Song's house— minus the prince and her plethora of fucked-up relatives, because simply put, I had no relative to run home about. I hated it despite the positive outcome it brought, namely the disgusting smell that no longer lingered around the apartment and the cockroaches that went in search of somewhere else that could provide the right thriving atmosphere. I hated it because a ten-year-old kid should fucking play soccer or whatever it is kids play. I sure didn't know what games were trendy because I never played anything until I played cards, that is. So I practiced. Very seriously. The goal in my mind was pretty clear: I wanted to see Mr. Song do the chores for once — at least once in my life. I promised if I won, I would watch TV while he cleaned, just to spite him.
