BLOSSOMED | SEOKSOO FF

PART 35

By the time Seokmin entered his second year in prison, the stark monotony of his new life had settled into his bones. Therapy continued to be a lifeline, but the prison walls closed in tighter each day. He was no stranger to isolation, but now he wasn’t just alone—he was a target.

The other inmates had their own twisted sense of justice. A murderer who confessed and showed remorse? To them, Seokmin was either a coward or someone trying to gain sympathy he didn’t deserve.

It started small—taunts in the cafeteria, snide remarks as he walked the yard. “Killer with a conscience,” one inmate sneered. “Bet he cries himself to sleep every night.”

Seokmin ignored them. He knew he deserved their scorn. But as weeks passed, the insults escalated. Trays of food were knocked from his hands. His belongings were stolen or destroyed. Once, someone shoved him hard enough in the corridor to send him sprawling, his sketchbook skidding across the floor.

When Seokmin scrambled to retrieve it, another prisoner stepped on it, grinding the pages under his boot. “What’s this? Drawing your victims now?” the man sneered, tearing a page and holding it up for others to see.

Seokmin’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, retrieving the tattered book and retreating to his cell.

One evening, Seokmin returned to his cell to find his mattress slashed open, his art supplies scattered and destroyed. Fury and despair bubbled up inside him, and for a moment, he wanted to lash out—to become the monster they thought he was.

But then he thought of Dr. Wonwoo, of his words echoing in his mind: “You can’t control what others do to you, but you can control how you respond.”

He sat on the edge of his ruined bed, clutching the one remaining page of his sketchbook—a drawing of Dandelion. Tears burned in his eyes, but he didn’t let them fall. Instead, he began to sketch on the back of the page, using a pencil stub he had tucked in his pocket.

The next day, during therapy, he handed the drawing to Dr. Wonwoo. It depicted a man standing in the middle of a storm, battered but unbroken.

“I can’t stop the storm,” he said quietly. “But I can survive it.”

Wonwoo encouraged Seokmin to find ways to reclaim his power without resorting to violence. He suggested he join a prison work program or a group activity. It wasn’t easy—most inmates didn’t want to work with him, and the guards rarely intervened in the bullying.

But Seokmin persisted. He joined a woodworking class, pouring his emotions into crafting small items—a birdhouse, a figurine, a simple wooden box. The work was therapeutic, and the instructor noticed his dedication.

“You’ve got talent,” the instructor said one day, holding up a small carved figure of a cat. “Why don’t you make something for the library? It might give the others something to appreciate.”

Seokmin hesitated but eventually agreed, carving a small, intricate sculpture of a tree with branches reaching skyward. When it was placed in the library, it became a quiet statement of his resilience.

One afternoon, while sitting alone in the yard, a group of inmates approached him. Their leader, a towering man with scars crisscrossing his face, loomed over Seokmin.

“Heard you’re the artist,” the man said, his voice dripping with mockery. “Think you’re better than us, huh? Too good to fight back?”

Seokmin met his gaze, fear coiling in his stomach. “I’m not here to fight anyone,” he said evenly. “I’m just trying to get through my time, same as you.”

The man smirked, but before he could respond, another inmate—an older man Seokmin had seen in the woodworking class—stepped between them.

“Leave him alone, Greg,” the man said, his tone firm. “Kid’s just trying to make something of himself. Maybe you should try it sometime.”

Greg glared but eventually backed off, muttering curses under his breath.

Afterward, the older man turned to Seokmin. “Name’s Hyun,” he said. “You’re not gonna survive here if you don’t learn to stand up for yourself. But you’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

Hyun’s intervention marked a subtle shift. While the bullying didn’t stop entirely, Seokmin found small pockets of support among the inmates who respected his quiet determination.

One day, a guard handed Seokmin a package containing a new sketchbook and pencils. There was no note, but Seokmin had a feeling it was from Jisoo. The thought brought tears to his eyes.

He wrote another letter that night, pouring his gratitude and sorrow onto the page:

“I don’t know if you sent the sketchbook, but if you did... thank you. It’s the first time in a long time I’ve felt like someone still believes in me. I’ll keep trying, Jisoo. For you. For the people I hurt. And for the person I want to be.”

By the end of his second year, Seokmin had learned to navigate the complexities of prison life. He still faced hostility, but he also found moments of quiet where he could focus on his therapy and art.

Wonwoo noted his progress during one session. “You’re finding ways to cope,” he said. “That’s not just survival, Seokmin. That’s growth.”

Seokmin nodded, his gaze steady. “I’m not the person I was,” he said. “But I’m not who I want to be yet, either... for Jisoo.”

“And that’s okay,” Dr. Yoon replied. “Healing isn’t a straight path. It’s a journey.”

As Seokmin returned to his cell that night, he looked at the latest drawing in his sketchbook—a tree, much like the one he had carved, but this one was surrounded by blooming flowers. It was a symbol of hope, fragile but unyielding.

For the first time, Seokmin allowed himself to believe that he could survive not just prison, but the person he had been. And maybe, just maybe, he could find redemption.