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Kim Dokja had never really known peace. Even before the ‘incident’, as his relatives often referred to it as, Kim Dokja had only known broken bottles and explosive rage, and eerie silences made by held breaths. He had only known darkness, the one that exists under low tables and beds and the deep end of the closet. So, Kim Dokja had never really known peace and he has always greeted all silences as a momentary reprieve, the calm before the storm.
Perhaps a younger version of him, one that only knew the rage of his father from afar and one that never saw his mother bleed would have known peace. Peace in his mother’s arms and in between pages of the books his mother had read to him. Stories softly whispered in the soft darkness of night and lullabies sung under the warmth of the blanket, a hand patting him to sleep.
But for the Dokja of now that was staring out of his classroom window, those moments of peace are even more haunting than the choking hand of Song Minwoo as he landed another punch while calling him a murderer’s son or the jibes and slurs of both his classmates and relatives. In a way, he was an expert at taking loud rage and harsh terms in a stride. It was almost like routine clockwork now.
In the silence of the morning, he would slip out of the house. If he had some money with him, he’d stop by a convenience store on his way to school. As the other students filed in, they’d glance at him and sometimes whisper, other times some particularly bored students would throw a jab or two his way and their friends would add to it a little for the sake of extending the fun. Then throughout the day, he’d occasionally get a bit roughed up by Song Minwoo and his friends. When he was just short of fainting, they'd leave. It was a pitiful ordeal but he had almost gotten used to it now.
Because despite all of this, after coming out of school on the days his bruises showed a little less than usual, he’d go and visit his mother. He’d look at her face and despite knowing he will not get a response, he’d talk. Some days he’d tell her about his day, maybe he’d lie a little and act like he had been doing better than he is. Other days when there was not even good enough lies to tell her, he’d tell her about whatever books he had been reading. It’s okay, he’d tell himself when she doesn’t reply, it is okay if she does not want to talk, he can talk enough for both of them. Her silence at least wasn’t her absence.
And as he did all this, as he settled into this new routine, he’d sometimes lie to himself and call it peace. He’d tell himself that the worst had passed and they can be okay together soon.
However, all that changed when ‘The Underground Killer’ came out. As the story of a woman and her child fighting to overcome domestic violence moved many hearts and shook the nation, Dokja’s illusion of peace shattered. As he became the main character of this tragedy, the routine that he had carefully crafted around his hopes grew thorns around his neck. It got harder and harder to breathe as the jibes got harsher and the punches got heavier.
For the Dokja that now stared out the fifth-floor window towards the peaceful sky and the hard concrete below, his previous routine almost seemed muted in his memories. Like a fever dream or a passing breeze. He faintly heard the teacher telling the class to turn the page as he explained the meaning of ‘Peace’ that the chapter was trying to convey.
Dokja had gone to meet his mother when he had found out about the book. Despite being plagued by reporters and getting the scorn of his relatives, he had rushed out of the back door and run all the way to the prison. He had fallen and scraped his knees and palms right before reaching the gate, but dusted himself off and despite being exhausted, he had schooled his expression the best he could.
However, after seeing his mother’s face have the same stoic expression as always, it was as if a dam had broken loose. Tears had streamed down his face and his voice broke as he had tried to ask her questions after questions. Hoping she’d answer any of them, any one.
‘Why? Why do something like this? Why not say a word to him all this time and instead suddenly write a book like this? Even if she needed to do this, why air it like this? What about him? Will it be okay now? Will they ever be okay again? What does being okay feel like?’
However, he couldn’t ask any of this. Instead, after opening and closing his mouth a few times, he could only let out a single word.
“Why?”
It had slipped out of him surprisingly clear and firm. He was his mother’s son after all. And as he had come to expect, he did not get an answer. Maybe then, he should have pressed more, blurted out everything going through his head. Maybe then, he should have told her just how much he was hurting and had been hurting. A twisted part of him had wanted her to feel his sorrow, to understand him and suffer with him.
But they never were the type of mother and son to do such things. It was as if they had been cursed to make up for his father’s loud rage by being silent about their pain and quieter in their suffering. Or perhaps, at that moment he had raised up his head to search his mother’s eyes for the first time in a long while and seen something he couldn’t even begin to decipher.
So, he had bitten the inside of his cheek and clenched his aching hands. And then, he had pulled out the chair and sat. He had told her about everything else except that he had not been able to go to school that day. The reporters had camped both outside the house and outside the school. He had told her about everything else, except that he had still not eaten anything yet that day because he cannot stomach the scornful gazes of his relatives. He had told her about everything else except that sometimes he still heard phantoms of her voice telling him to ‘read it again’ when he couldn’t sleep.
And as the pain had slowly dulled into a quiet emptiness, he had told her about everything except about the things that he had wanted to tell her about. He had not talked about books that day.
Dokja looked at a bird that was building a nest on a nearby tree twig by twig and he saw the teacher motioning outside with his arms creating a wide arc as he further explained the lesson. He then remembered how he had spent the night outside after leaving the prison that day after his visit. Perhaps if there had been a bird for him to watch that day, he’d have felt a little less cold under the summer stars.
The bell rang, signaling the end of class and start of the lunch period. He braced himself for what he knew was coming.
“Hey Kim Dokja! Let me borrow some money yeah?” Song Minwoo said in a friendly manner, a contrast to his actions as he harshly grabbed the back of Dokja’s collar.
Dokja didn’t feel much except perhaps a little tired. Maybe it was because the lesson was especially tiring today, or maybe because he kept remembering things that had happened not too long ago in vivid detail. But he was too tired even to stay quiet and get beat up.
Song Minwoo proceeded to make some comment that got his friends look at Dokja and roar with laughter that almost drowned out his quiet response. However, Minwoo seemed to have caught it.
“Hey! What did you say? Speak up! Didn’t your murderer mother feed you? Oh I suppose she can’t since she’s in prison and all.”
His friends laughed once again as if it was the funniest thing they had ever heard. Dokja just let out a quiet sigh as even moving his mouth to speak seemed too much of an ordeal for him right now.
“I don’t have any money.” He said quietly. That caused the hand on his collar to move to his hair. His head was jerked back so harshly that it almost brought tears in his eyes. However, he just lightly closed his eyes as crying in front of this bastard would be too humiliating, no matter how tired he was. He felt a slap across his face and a punch to his stomach that would have made him throw up if he had eaten anything. He heard the sound of his bag being overturned and some curses coming out of Minwoo’s friends.
He kept still, knowing they won’t find anything. On days when he was particularly quiet and kept his eyes shut, they tended to get bored earlier. So that’s what he did as he took a few more punches. The place where his hair was held gradually went numb and his ears started lightly ringing.
Of course, there were still a few students left in the class. But most of these students didn’t care or pay attention to what happened in the back. After all, you don’t know what a murderer’s son would do if you looked at him wrong, that’s what they said.
The beating seemed to be slowing down, Dokja thought, they must be getting bored and hungry now. Just as he thought this, he was flung to the floor. Minwoo and his friends spit out a few more curses at him for good measure before leaving.
"Useless bastard."
"Murderer’s son and still so weak, tsk.”
“Should just die.”
Dokja slowly got up after hearing the footsteps leave and got back to his desk. He didn’t bother to pick up his minuscule belongings strewn across the floor as he just picked up the bag and hung it in place. He then looked out of the window.
He thought about what he should do now. He didn’t have any money for lunch and he had no interest in classes. There was no home for him to go back to, only a house with people who’d rather he didn’t exist. His mother… Would his mother even want him anymore? She barely said anything, perhaps it’s because he just served as a reminder of everything that happened. Perhaps if he weren’t here and never existed, she would’ve had a better life.
‘Peace’, he thought about that. If something like ‘peace’ really does exist… perhaps if he went away, his mother could have some semblance of it. Perhaps if he went away that’d be his peace too. Maybe he can achieve it in his own way. Maybe he can craft a new peace for himself this way.
While having these thoughts Dokja found himself staring out of the now open window as he looked outside. There was no breeze, it was eerily still. It almost seemed inviting to Dokja who was more used to eerie things than beautiful things like the cold breeze and fluttering leaves. He looked at the cloudless sky and he looked at the grey concrete path below. He looked at where the bird was making a nest earlier and only found scattered twigs on a branch.
He slowly took a step forward. This time his eyes were wide open as he saw the world blur and pass by. There was ringing in his ears, this time louder than ever, until it was completely quiet, and then he saw nothing at all.