"Oh, and believe me, she was well aware of the circumstance in which she had placed herself in. For she knew that her hands were intertwined with the broken boy himself as they pranced, but that was her fault. A fault in which she decided to see the...
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00: Lucid Prologue
As told by Jungkook
I WAS APPRISED from a young age, as any other ordinary child, that the sky, suspended above my fragile frame as many others, veiled the Earth as a whole. However, only later did I perceive on my own account that although every biotic factor resides under the selfsame sky, we do not have the same horizon, or standing point in which we register such things.
Or conceivably, I'm the only varmint out of billions who inhabits that standing point. The remainders, are all in the same boat, departing not only myself physically, but my mindset that involves my reasoning.
Though all of those years later, I could've sworn that the sky I had scrutinized for that mere second, draped high up, was clothed in no other color I had ever distinguished in my short years in which I had lived.
Was it a forewarning, of what was to come hours later? Or because of what occurred that morning, I just so happen to recall the fine details that all together collectively draw the reoccurring nightmare in which I never seem to vacate from?
"What do you mean, Jungkook? It appears as of yesterday, and the day before, as of tomorrow, and the succeeding day," my mother, positioned beside me, clutched my small and slender fingers with her milk-white skin of her own. She chuckled at my observation, her response jarring enough that it made not only her frame quiver, but mine as well due to our skinship.
The warmth of her hand diffused through my own, escorting back the deranged thoughts that had been formed in the back of my hand back to shore. Perhaps I was irrational, or maybe I was the only one strolling down the sidewalk of mainstreet that early Sunday morning who had taken notice of the sky that wrapped around us like a blanket for comfort.
For every Sunday morning, I located myself in the position in which I intertwined my hands with my mother; my small hands in which accommodates capability and decisiveness into her soft, larger ones. Out of the seven days of the week, Sunday was vital for my mother and I. It was the only day out of the seven, in which my mother did not have her long, brown hair wrapped up in a bun, an apron swathed around her waist or freshly brewed coffee dancing on the particles of air.
When my mother worked, I was perched on the counter of the Corner Café, attempting to complete my math homework, only to have my mother herself, wack me in the head with a pencil, in which she uses to take down orders. She perpetually used the form of disciplining me while no one was scrutinizing us when I made a silly mistake.
On Sundays, my mother and I seized the very little bonding time that had existed between us, by going to the local arcade a block away from main street. Although we were frugal individuals, my mother was selfless enough to give up a percentage of the tips she received from working tables so that I can come home with crappy stuffed animals or tiny rubber balls for the sake of my happiness.
But that day, I returned with no multicolored dolphin or a weirdly-shaped snake with sequins as usual. Instead, I brought back the the remnants of my broken heart, resting peacefully in my shaking hands. The shards had impaled my skin, and blood was oozing down to the tips of my fingers, mixing in with the tears that fell from the crevices of my eyes.
