Despicable! • JUNHAO

PART FIVE.

「ｊｕｎ」

I wake up. Though my eyes snapped open before I could even think, they struggle to merely stay open.

I'm on the ground, solid and cold. I check my surroundings, hopefully I'm alone— and I am.
The second thing I notice is the strange, faint smell that lingers upon this location. The room looks to be a traditional Chinese room, wallpaper and small center table evident, and yet the room is dark and dank, the energy stressing me to sit up.

My head pounds when I do so, the throbbing compelling me to lower my head while I raise the rest of my body. I stumble just for a moment, but I can't falter. This is a crucial moment. I don't know where I am or what the motive of bringing me here is.

Slowly, I pull the door out, to reveal a long sum hallway. Almost as soon as I do this, I hear it.

The small weeps from the room across me.

I step forward once.

It must be Minghao who hit me.

Another step.

He's crying and I don't know why.

Final step.

He knocked me out and I don't know why.

I'm at the door.

I don't know why, but I don't want Minghao to be sad.

I reach my hand out.

So don't cry anymore, Minghao.

With the slide of a door, I see him. Knees to his face, in a ball upright on a futon in a corner. Papers are spread out in front of him. A phone on the wall, one of those new landlines.

He jerks his head up at the sound of my approach. Yet his face doesn't change. He still cries.

"Hey, Minghao.."

He hiccups.
"You were right. You, you go to school with me. I didn't know who you were and I don't know what to do now. I'm not smart. I can't protect myself. You hold the worst of the fates I can bring, I- I'm so sorry!"

He barely got through this without breaking down, and though he was clear I don't understand.

I've been attacked. Kidnapped. But my heart doesn't beat for fear, but for the adrenaline of facing the boy here, confusion pleasing my head. How good it feels,
to not know.

To feast on reacting just how I shouldn't, how good it feels.

"It's okay, Minghao. I didn't mean it."

I walk closer, kneel in front of him, knee on the futon.

"I'm not going to the administration. It's okay. You were scared."

I feel my actions are fake, yet it's so natural. Is doing this manipulating him or am I being manipulated?

Though I can't figure it out, I reach to hold the still boy in my arms.

"It's okay, you don't have to do anything at all about this. Now, tell me why you did what you did, hmm?"
.
.
.
"Because I'm burning
alive."

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