Precious Things || Jensoo

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Sometimes I can't breathe.

It comes over me all of a sudden, and there doesn't appear to be a rhyme or reason for when it hits. Then I'm wheezing and doubled over, tears starting to leak from the corners of my eyes uncontrollably as I desperately try to catch my breath.

The intense pain deep in my chest is enough to make knives seem like a peaceful and enjoyable alternative and I grip whatever I can find to hold on to, just to wait until it passes.

It will pass. It always does.

The only time I can't stop, grab on to something for dear life and wait it out, is when he's around. He doesn't know that I have these attacks and quite frankly, he probably wouldn't stand for them.

There are many things he won't stand for.

Sloppy work, dress that isn't quite neat, tardiness, speaking back, speaking up, insolence, disrespect: they're just a few of the things that get him angry. I avoid all of them. He'd see my attacks as self pity, a wallowing in something he doesn't understand.

I could never tell him how many things there are that he doesn't understand. I think that would come under the triple threat categories of insolence, speaking back and disrespect. Trust me when I say you don't want to go there.

He's not here right now though, so I'm okay. I can just stand here gripping the edge of my desk and staring out the window until the pain subsides.

Somehow, I know that it's nothing medical. You know that feeling you get sometimes when the things in your head get so messed up, so hard to deal with, that they translate into physical pain? That's what it is, I know it.

The rain is coming down outside pretty damn hard. I concentrate on the drops becoming rivulets and flowing to the bottom of the pane as my knuckles go white with my grip. The pain is easing now and I'm just about beginning to catch my breath.

A glance at my watch tells me that I should pack up my books.

There are many things in life that aren't fair. I know I shouldn't complain because I have clothes on my back, a roof over my head and food in my stomach three times a day, good food at that. But, in a way, I can't help but look at those around me and wonder what I did to deserve my life, or why it is that things seem so unfair.

Things like the fact that it's the end of summer and it's raining; like the fact that it's the end of summer and I'm doing school work; like the fact that I have to pack up my books now and go downstairs to go for a walk in the rain.

It doesn't actually matter that it's raining. It's five in the afternoon and that means that we have to go for a walk. Not appearing downstairs would be unthinkable, as would be the concept of not going for a walk.

Sighing deeply but quietly, I make my way downstairs.

He's in his study reading. Clearly, the New York Times has him fascinated enough that he hasn't noticed the time. Now is my time to shine.

"It's nearly five, sir," I say, making sure that my tone is laden with implicit respect.

The corner of the paper flicks aside. "Oh, so it is. My, how the time flies!" He pushes his thin silver-rimmed glasses up his nose and folds the newspaper just so. It's carefully placed on the table next to him at a perfect angle.

Together, we put on our raincoats and galoshes. It's been raining all day and that doesn't bode well for the state of the roads around here. Everything will be mud.

I hate walking in the rain. It always gets on my socks and down into my shoes, no matter how hard I try. It's a hazard, walking in skirts, but he won't let me wear anything else.

We stroll in the rain for an hour exactly. There are four routes we take, and of course it's never my decision. During our walks, he quizzes me on my homework. I'm not sure if it's to make sure I've done it or just that he feels he's educating me. I mean, I know he has a ton of knowledge stored away in his head, so in some ways it's a good thing. It doesn't help me shake the feeling, however, that I'm being both examined and judged all in one go.

I get that feeling a lot.

We're home at six on the dot. I don't know how we always manage it, but we do. Then again, given how strictly regimented our life is, I guess I should just stop wondering. It won't get me anywhere.

Because it's Sunday, it's lamb roast night. I hate lamb, but obviously that makes little-to-no difference. Lamb roast with roast potatoes and vegetables and a gravy so weak you'd get more sauce from plain water: that's how he likes it. I don't think I've ever had a say in anything and I'm fairly sure that protesting would land me with no dinner and another charge of insolence.

The wages of insolence are not fun in this house.

After dinner, it's the same routine, always the same routine.

At nine-thirty, I have the blessed half-hour of peace. This is my half an hour to unwind and do what I wish with. Inevitably, I end up reading in bed. Books are – and have always been – my solace.

In that half-hour, I can be somewhere else. In that half-hour, I can be anyone I choose to be and do anything I want.

No-one's going to punish me for talking back in that half-hour. Thank God.

And it's always over too soon. There's always that knock at the door.

"Ten o'clock, Jisoo. Lights out."

"Yes, sir. Goodnight, sir."

It's the same two sentences every fucking night of my life. Oh great, cursing! It's a good thing the words are in my head because I think that's punishable by... well, it's almost worse than insolence.

I know he doesn't know what goes on in my head. He'd be shocked.

They'd all be shocked. Those people at school, those people down the street. I think even she'd be surprised if she knew, if she ever looked at me and saw what was in my head. If she ever looked at me at all.

What would they all say? What would they think, what would they do?

If they knew I wanted to die.

What would they say about that?

Probably nothing.

Figures.

* *©clomle44* *