Personal Sunrise

Location

Key's POV

Location, location, location.

Isn't that what real estate agents always say? The location makes a big difference. It makes all the difference in the world. A great house in a bad neighborhood doesn't sell, and a bad house in an upstanding neighborhood is nothing more than an eyesore.

But what about people? What happens when you put a good person in a bad neighborhood, or a vicious, broken person in the best of places? Do they change? Do their surroundings change? Or is it both?

Each and every day I fervently wish that location would help me. A change of scenery, a change of pace. Is it possible for such trivial things to improve my life? I can only hope so.

For the past five years, I've dealt with the same surroundings. The neighbors who stare when I walk out the door, even though I've managed to hide my bruises well. The tree in the backyard that served as my safe haven more times than I could count. The teachers at school who used to always pull me aside and ask if I was all right. The teachers who don't bother anymore.

It wasn't always this way. More than anything, I want people to know that. I want to climb to the roof of the tallest building in Seoul and scream that my life used to be normal. I want my neighbors to know that my parents used to love me. I want my teachers to know that there was a time when my arms were smooth and free of any injury. And, above all, I want to remind myself. I remember when things were all right. I remember happiness and love in overwhelming proportions. But each day, those memories fade a little bit more... And I don't want to lose them.

I sighed and ran my hands through my hair. My parents really expected me to fit my entire wardrobe into five suitcases? I scoffed. Yeah, right. I tried yet again to zip the cases shut, but it was no use. With an irritated sigh, I removed three pairs of shoes from each one and transferred them to my backpack. I smiled with satisfaction as the suitcases closed (with a bit of difficulty) and I placed them on the floor.

The sharp sound of breaking glass brought me back to my more pressing troubles. I could imagine the scene downstairs: the brilliant shards of the wine glass spread across the tile like tears, my father's fingers wrapped around my mother's neck, pressing her to the kitchen wall in a fit of drunken rage. My mother, just as drunk, using her fists to fight back as much as she possibly could, though she rarely won. It was a scene I saw often. The aftermath, too, was familiar. I braced myself.

I flinched reflexively when I heard the sound of my father's heavy boots on the staircase. I quickly turned so my back was facing the door and continued packing my items into cardboard boxes. The door flew open, slamming against the wall in that telltale way that always alerted our neighbors to what was going on. I kept my head bent over my boxes of possessions.

My father's hand clamped onto my shoulder with enough force to make my knees buckle. The familiar stench of alcohol permeated the room. I ignored him and carefully placed my English and Chinese grammar books in neat piles.

"You better look at me, boy," he growled, digging his fingernails into my skin. I sighed softly and turned around to face him. His lank hair hung in his eyes, and I could tell that he hadn't changed his shirt in at least three days.

"Finish packing up your sissy clothes in the next hour, or we're leaving you here," he hissed. "Hell, we oughta leave you here anyway. You're worthless, boy. A good-for-nothing sissy. You don't deserve to have parents as good as we are. Parents who spoil you and give you everything you want, you disgusting piece of-"

I couldn't restrain the bitter laugh that escaped from between my lips. My father narrowed his eyes at the sound.

"Everything I want?" I said incredulously, raising an eyebrow. "You think this is everything I want? Sure, dad. Sure. I've always wanted to be insulted and beaten until my teachers start questioning me about my home life. I've always wanted to spend my nights curled up in the backyard tree, crying until the neighbors tell me to be quiet. And more than anything, I've always wanted a drunken, lazy, worthless for a father."

White-hot lightning seared across my cheek as he slapped me as hard as he could. My dark hair fell into my eyes as I turned back to look at him. His hands were curled into fists at his sides and his teeth were clenched in anger. I shook my head and turned away, closing the top of a cardboard box and taping it securely shut. I picked the box up and headed calmly downstairs. As I placed it next to the front door, I caught a glimpse of my mother sitting at the kitchen table. She wore a necklace of black bruises and sipped distractedly from a glass of vodka. She glanced up at me with bloodshot eyes.

"What're you starin' at, boy?" She slurred, lowering her eyebrows in hate. "Get outta here! I'm tired of lookin' at you. You've never done anythin' for me... Not ever. Not once! You're nothin'... Just a worthless waste of air..."

I let her ramble as I headed back upstairs. My father had passed out in the middle of the hallway, and I lightly stepped over his prone figure and continued packing my things.

So there you go! Don't forget to vote!