𝒐𝒐𝒐. "I didn't write this to forget who I am as a person nor did I write it for money out of desperation. I wrote this because I know, one day, someone will find this story in the corner of a library, squeezed between forgotten stories with a dus...
Jung Wooyoung. December ?, 1971. | What time is it? WARNING: Underage drinking, drug use, abuse. If anyone is confused about the dates, they are (mind) flashbacks.
This chapter is inspired by a Netflix show called "BoJack Horseman"!
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A soft melodic tune played in the living room where Wooyoung sat on the ground with his legs crossed, watching television with big doe eyes inspecting each actor's movements. His mother enters the room, her dark blue dress neatly ironed with her dark brown hair tied into a tight bun. She wore her infamous blue flats, never leaving them at the front of the door like they should, claiming she doesn't want to dirty them.
She held a burning cigarette in her left hand, taking a seat in the singular chair in the corner of the medium-sized room, sitting by the large portrait of a young Wooyoung and his family. "Don't sit so close to the TV," She says, placing the cigarette in between her red lips and inhaling a big breath. "It'll only melt your brain." She exhales the smoke, staining the cigarette butt with her red lipstick.
"Sorry, Mother." Wooyoung moves away from the small television, taking a seat on the brown couch beside the single chair his mother sat on.
"I used to be happy before I married your father," She said, inhaling a long drag of her cigarette as her long, painted red nails tapped on the couch's armrest. "Oh, what do you know. You're only seven. You're too dumb to understand how I feel."
"I know, Mother," Wooyoung mumbles, keeping his eyes forward on the television show he was watching.
"If it wasn't for him, I could've been what I always wanted to be," She continued, scrunching up her nose as she stared at the burning cigarette in her left hand. "I should've married Jaeyoung as my father had wanted. Then, I wouldn't have to be apart of this miserable family."
"I know, Mother—"
"I am not your mother!" She shouted, slamming her hand on the couch's armrest, startling Wooyoung. "I am... not your mother." Her voice quivered into a whisper, her brown eyes welling up with tears before abruptly standing up when the front door to their house opened and shut. She places the unfinished cigarette in the ashtray, wiping away the tears that had never fallen, and without saying another word, she turns away and exits out the living room.
The clicks of her flats echoed throughout the abnormally large house, and within seconds, Wooyoung flinches from the noisy crash of a glass bottle and the booming voices of his arguing parents.
"You've brought another woman to this house! Why do you keep doing this to me? Am I not enough!" His mother cries, slamming her hands on the counter. "I knew I should've listened to Papa, he was right all along! You are a dead beat of a man—"
