Beautiful, Dirty, Rich (Monsta X Fanfiction)

Chapter Sixty Four: If Hercules Was Mortal

Wonho's POV

I set my duffel bag down on the bed, after checking in to the Hilton hotel. I sat down next to it, staring blankly at the plush carpet.

It felt stupid renting this hotel room. I should be at the penthouse, explaining everything to Yuri. She needs to know every little detail about my screwed up life. 

But I needed time to be alone and think.

I looked down at my hands, noticing that they were spotted with tears.

It wasn't healthy, but I couldn't cry in front of others. I always ran away when my emotions started overflowing. That might never change, and it certainly wouldn't change now.

Thoughts of my mom made my heart ache. It brought back old hatred for my father, and my lingering hatred for the wealthy.

You see, my backstory is a sorrowful one.

I was born and raised in squalor. Until two years ago, I was close to starving in the smallest home of a farming town. My mother and I were outcasts. She was raising me alone. Mom was always sick, laying in our shared bedroom all day. 

She'd receive a small check in the mail weekly despite the fact that she didn't work. It was enough to pay rent and put some food on the table. Still, it was scarce.

Mom always told me about my father. In those fleeting moment, she a true smile spread across her face as she explained that Dad was a great, rich man who would come save us one day. She had a framed, but extremely faded, high school picture of a handsome guy. Mom told me that it was my dad in the picture. When she fell asleep, I'd often take the frame and stare at it, waiting to feel something about this guy.

But I didn't. There was no warmth or familiarity.

I stopped believing her when I turned twelve and we were still stranded in a hick town.

If that "rich" man was my father, then where was he? Why wasn't he here with us? Every one of my peers had dads, dads I saw on a daily basis. 

I was the only one without a father.

So I believed he didn't exist, or perhaps died. My childlike mind conjured up heroic stories wherein my biological father perished while saving us from a flaming dragon, or a tsunami, or an evil warlock. The older I got, the more cynical the stories became. Up until I saw my father, I fully believed he was a drug addict who died of an overdose.

When I hit high school age, my mom's health quickly deteriorated. I believe her sadness and pining made things worse. Although I was a bullied outcast, I couldn't tell her about my problems. I couldn't ask her for help, because I knew she had enough problems of her own to deal with.

I briefly had a friend, but his mom told him to stop hanging out with me once she learned my mom was a single mother.

Here, that word was synonymous with whore.

Townspeople called Mom a whore and cast her out of social gatherings. For that reason, we had no friends and no one to help us out.

I was five years old when I learned what the term "whore" meant. The other parents in our small town whispered it behind Mom's back. Of course, not too quietly, since I always heard them.

The look on my mothers' face when I asked her the meaning of the term is still burned in my mind. I didn't realize it was something bad until that moment.

Because I was the son of a "whore," kids treated me like I was diseased.

At first, it hurt. I wanted friends, someone to confide my secrets and troubles to; someone who made me happy, someone I could play with. But after a while, I started to enjoy being alone. Why bother with friends? They only left or disappointed me.