Reflection of my Seoul

INTRO: A void in time

INTRODUCTION

"DON'T TALK TO YOUR MOM LIKE THAT," her voice screeched. 

It was only Monday and a fight had already broken off. I was tired. This was not something new; there were frequent fights since we shifted from Manhattan. 

When things became unbearable, I reminisced the thrill of the wind  while cruising on my skate board holding on to trucks and cars trying to get away from the cops my friends and I teased. When we would run out of money, we would get together at Central Park and busk for a few bucks. We were horrible, but outrageously confident. People would give away a dollar or two in exchange for a hearty laugh. We didn't feel the need to go somewhere or do something to be entertained: life in the city in itself was enthralling. I would go out to sketch people in Central Park. There were all sorts of tourists, musicians, artists, drag queens and men wearing nothing but neon swimsuits that resembled an elastic outstretched thong suspended from the shoulders. We were entertained by the madness of the city: the vibrancy of all the colors. 

 But a year ago, when my parents divorced, we no longer could afford to stay in New York. So Mom and I shifted back to Korea, leaving dad behind.

"I am only trying to get a point across!" I shouted back.

She huffed, "What point? Going out and getting wasted is not a valid point for missing school."

"I told you, I don't learn anything at here. Why did we have to move?"

"Then what would we have done? Lived in Manhattan? And lived in debt?"

"You never even asked me if I wanted to move."

She was getting redder by the second; she seemed like a red overblown balloon about to ...

"WHAT ELSE WOULD YOU HAVE DONE? Lived with the 'dad' who had disowned you?"

"No," I sternly replied.

"He didn't disown me. Don't ever say that shit again," as I finished my sentence, a glass cup was aggressively thrown against the wall behind me. CLANK! A sharp shrilling pitch drowned Mom's voice; it was a high-pitched shrill of running chalk on the chalkboard at a misplaced angle. I was losing balance. I had to focus. FOCUS! My brain fogged up, and slowly my sight was blurring.

I stepped forward.

"HEIZE STOPPPPPPPP!!"

I looked down to find a pool of blood under my feet.

I stepped on a hundred broken pieces of glass with my bare foot. It was weird, I didn't feel anything. Slowly, I felt my feet soaked with the fluid. I screeched out of fear, not pain.

Why couldn't I feel?

Everything around me was too bright, as if I were being examined by a dentist under blinding white lights. All shapes and forms seemed to be swallowed by this all-consuming brightness. Mom slowly diminished to the outline of her body, to slowly chunks of color, to white. My head ached as it slowly grew lighter.

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The texture of the blanket, the pillow, the bed sheet were unfamiliar. The smell of disinfectant was in the air. It was extremely bright, I had to flinch even with my eyes shut.

Where am I? Was that a dream?

My consciousness flickered like an old bulb in a warehouse. I could have dreamt what had happened. 

I was scared. I didn't want to try.

To open my eyes.

What if it was white? What if I was blind?

What if  glass had pierced my eyes?

I thought that life couldn't get any worse when I shifted here. My heart was pulsing faster than it should. I felt stuck in what seemed like an endless void of time. The only way out seemed to be going back to Manhattan. 

"Heize? It's time for you medicines," the nurse called out sternly.

I knew I couldn't just stay in bed dreading to open my eyes. If there truly was something wrong, I would have to get myself checked. I tried opening my eyes as slowly as I could. All I could see was white through the slit, but gradually as I opened my eyes, I could make out blots of colors before me. A middle-aged woman with a white apron was standing before me. She commanded; me to take two aspirins and three pills that I didn't recognize. 

My foot was draped with cloth. Red was blotted on the white cloth. I looked out the window, there were few trees blocking the view. I sighed deeply, I don't want to be here. But that morning wasn't too horrible. I was left undisturbed except for the few check-ups by nurses. My bed was placed right next to the window so I spent the counting the leaves of the withering tree. 

They said I would be released in a few days and I dearly hoped that it would be before Friday night.

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Photo by Osman Rana