Chapter Text
From an early age, Sunghoon felt an unsettling alienation, a gnawing sense of being adrift in the seamless sea of society. His attempts at belonging were persistently rebuffed by the harsh simulate of reality, reflecting an image of a solitary figure in a crowded room. Nestled within him was a heart as fragile as porcelain, encased in an armor as hardened as diamond, robust and pliable simultaneously. He was an island in the bustling briny of school desks, the partners chosen by teachers for assignments echoing the cruel, tacit exclusivity that pervaded his existence. Sightless as he was, his heightened instincts bore the weight of contemptuous gazes. His ears were unwilling receptacles to a mass of derogatory comments, slowly chipping away at the reservoir of his self-esteem. His eyes, devoid of the affability of color and focus, were an unending drain of silvery, an abyss filled with fear.
At the tender age of nine, his parents, desirous of pulling him out from the quagmire of moroseness, introduced him to the extracurricular activities. Football's intricacies held no charm for him, nor did the tactical nuances of volleyball or any other ball-involving sport capture his imagination. Gymnastics seemed an intriguing choice, but it was the enchanting allure of ice skating that seized his attention. The appeal was beguiling – could one truly glide over the frosty plane without succumbing to the biting cold?
From then on, his journey of discovery was facilitated with unwavering support; a pair of exorbitantly-priced skates, an adaptation to his visual damage, and a tenacity that refused to bow to the struggles. Or he thought so. The path was strewn with obstacles so formidable, they defied articulation. He lost count of the times his body kissed the wintry floor, the instances when disheartening thoughts of renunciation plagued his mind. Night after night, his younger self would saturate his pillow with a deluge of tears, flowing the remorseful chorus of his inadequacies. His feet refused to match the choreographed orchestration he envisaged, his anatomy met the rink's sides too often, the trackway was obstinate, and indeed, it was.
Two years of relentless struggle later, at eleven, he faced his first competition. Performing at Level C may have represented the lowest rung of the ladder, but it marked the beginning of his voyage. His coach choreographed his routine, chose the accompanying music, and despite the absence of podium recognition, Sunghoon skated with every fiber of his being. Disappointment may have veiled his post-competition feelings, but the joy that emanated from his heart was irrefutable. And in the embracing smiles of his parents, Sunghoon found a glimmer of hope and a hearty round of applause for his beautiful emergence.
For the first time, Sunghoon seemed to forget the rest, all the troubles and consequences that hovered like a gray cloud over his head. His effort had merit; and notwithstanding the fact that it wasn't a trophy, or maybe a medal, he had more than enough with the recognition of his family, of the people who propelled his desires to become someone. Because Park Sunghoon was nobody, but when his skates collided on that frozen thing, he felt like something, almost unstoppable.
As he grew, he advanced levels according to his progress in the competitions. Once in a while, he would come in second or third place, nonetheless, the first place was beyond his reach. At least for now. His room collected silver medals, small trophies but still significant, becoming his sanctuary of happiness and pride.
Sunghoon was so focused on skating that he only went to the institute to waste time. However, his grades were not as horrific as one might expect. Perhaps it was due to the difference in that he took dissimilar kinds of exams as a result of his disability, or the certainty that he always had teachers helping him in class. He learned to read with the tips of his fingers, to add and subtract, multiply and divide, etc.
He's not interested in any of that, isn't it obvious?
Twelve, fourteen, sixteen, and eventually eighteen – these phases have transpired with a velocity akin to the turning pages of an open book swept by a gust. Each birthday has found itself imbued with celebrations, splendidly flavored cakes, and gifts that, despite Sunghoon's inability to physically admire them, carry the intention to radiate warmth enclosed by his chest. Particularly, his eighteenth birthday has held a paramount status in the mind of the young skater for a considerable duration. The rationale is elementary: liberation from academic pursuits to channel his focus unequivocally towards his life as an athlete.
While Sunghoon's father extended a supportive hand upon his son's shoulder during this well-deserved respite, he maintains his distinct standpoint on the matter. The dedication to one's passions is undeniably commendable; but, retaining a contingency plan appears less dispirited. He aspires for Sunghoon to make an appearance as a proficient scholar in the natural sciences or maybe a skillful physician. After all, the question of financial independence looms if Sunghoon eschews the craving of a promising career.
As though nature harbors an enmity towards the mere existence of Park Sunghoon, his world descends upon him like a cold water bucket.
I apologize, Miss Kim, but the institution is compelled to require Sunghoon to repeat the academic year,
elucidates the director, his arms crossed over his chest, exuding complete ease while reclined in a plush black leather chair. Before him rests a substantial expanse of sturdy, solid wood desk that occupies nearly the entirety of the office space, while the atmosphere seems to grow frigid. Silence assumes prominence, nearly cacophonous.
The elder gentleman retrieves a pen from the desk's edge, toying with it amidst his elongated fingers, clicking it repeatedly, encapsulating his stress at having to address a multitude of students. As the director, his duty entails fetching this news to those who must retrace their steps within these four walls for an additional, pivotal ten months. Conversely, the instructors merely distribute report cards and occasional commendations.
Sunghoon has carried a sour taste on the tip of his tongue ever since his mother mentioned the director's correspondence summoning a meeting in the same week, on the afternoon of the final day before the break.
Sunghoon has never been a poor student, has never found himself embroiled in trouble, and his scholastic record remains impeccable. Although, his academic performance and efforts have proven insufficient since the onset of the second semester. The final year typically presents particular challenges due to intricate exams and syllabi, yet Sunghoon's engagement has been minimal. Absenteeism within this institution also wields influence over grading,
the explanation falls upon deaf ears for the visually impaired young man, basically sprawled in his seat and unmistakably defeated. Sunghoon has placed excessive trust in his somewhat ludicrous guise as the disadvantaged individual, and this time his absences have not gone unnoticed.
‘His grades were not as horrific as one might expect.’
This phrase currently serves as a blow to the stomach. It's remarkable how circumstances metamorphose over the course of time, culminating today, where Sunghoon will have to rewind his zero efforts. Because of his own negligence.
Sunghoon's hands tighten on the edge of his sweatshirt, reconsidering the thought of that voice screaming at him to run away without turning his head, without caring about the fact that he could end up hurt. Whereas, hurt is what he is right now, and one or another physical scratch wouldn't change anything. He's disappointed, but why is he? He himself has made those decisions to risk his studies for a grain of momentary happiness.
All those days that he convinced his mother to skip school, the number of times he faked a cold, pharyngitis, tonsillitis, or any persuasive excuse that kept him away from the discomfort of having to go there, to sit in a worn-out chair for endless hours and hours. It sounds a bit selfish, and, if you think about it, it really is. Which makes him feel worse.
His mother sighs, a sigh of having been left speechless for a couple of seconds, her eyes deciphering the neutral expression of her son right next to her. Repeating a course doesn't sit well with everyone; knowing that you're more behind than the others, a decision that, whether you like it or not, will mark all your trails. You will be a year behind from start to finish. And, knowing the enthusiasm that Sunghoon had, nothing good can come out of this.
The principal likewise glances at the boy with black plaits, not very surprised at his dearth of response.
Well, here is his report card if you want to take a look at it, Miss Kim, and I trust that your son will get on track next year. Have a nice vacation,
these are the last words spoken before Jiyoung gets up and chats a little more, gently grabbing Sunghoon's shoulder and guiding him to the exit.
With the white envelope in her hand, Jiyoung hesitates to take a look at the catastrophe. In the waiting room, there are more families waiting their turn to find out what lies ahead - hint, nothing to jump for joy about. Her son is silent, and it's not as if it's anything out of the ordinary, but knowing the reason for this mutism is, in some way, very different.
I too am culpable for allowing you to miss so much,
the woman remarks, walking through the vacant hallways of the institution, longing to sink into the car seat and simply take a breather once she arrives home.
Sunghoon grimaces, biting the inside of his cheek, his fists clenching into a small ball.
Do not shoulder the blame for something you know perfectly well is mine, Mom,
he replies, fervently hoping to downplay the affair, not at this moment when he is still grappling with the information, his future, and myriad other aspects he wishes he could rectify.
In instances like these, Sunghoon wishes he could offer up every fiber of his skin, one by one, to possess a pair of eyes that wouldn't lay dormant in their sockets like mere decorations, useless and dysfunctional organs. He longs to witness his mother's disappointment, his own expression of letdown, his hair, his lips, his cheekbones, the landscape around him. He yearns for rain to be more than an auditory experience, to revel in it, to see clouds in the sky, to relish the beauty of day and night. This realm lacks the essence of life's vibrant pulse.
A horde of thoughts swirl in his mind every day. Not a minute, not a second goes by without him pondering how his alternate life would be, where vision wouldn't be a growing issue. An insecurity that, despite his efforts to amend, will always resurface. Sunghoon despises it.
The cool breeze and the sounds of civilization reach his body, providing a slight solace, reminding him that not all is lost, that some of his senses remain intact. His head held high, he's guided by the touch of his mother, who still has nothing to say. A year of schooling down the gutter, joining the ranks of lost causes throughout his eighteen years. It seems the line of misfortunes is infinite, never-ending. He knows this won't be the last time, just as he thought during the first, when he tried to make friends.
Friends? What a foolish notion.
And again, that overwhelming sensation in his insides, the burden of being a weight on everyone filling him from head to toe. For his mother, who accompanies him everywhere, ensuring he navigates pedestrian crossings safely. For his father, who sacrifices sleep at work to cover his skating and school expenses, prioritizing his son's contentment over his parental desires.
It's gotten out of hand, Sunghoon. Promise me you'll do better come next September, please. At least give it a try,
Jiyoung murmurs, her words carefully chosen and empathetic, following their recent exchange.
His steps reverberate against the pavement, resonating, oscillating, the soles of his shoes caked with dirt. What color should his shoelaces be, or his shirt, his pants? Sunghoon wonders. No, how would it feel to dress himself without a pair of hands to assist with buttons? What's it like not to be blind?
I don't want to talk about this, Mom. I'm not in the mood,
Sunghoon says, almost a whisper, a mix of sorrow and shame, anger and sadness, his voice barely audible, trying to blend into the background like a cat in a passageway.
But you have to, and you know it. What about your father? Don't you think he deserves an explanation?
his mother replies, just as he expected, unwavering in her determination. All mothers seem to have that stubborn button.
No. You tell him,
he shrugs with a gesture of disinterest, passing the dirty cloth onto another living being, anyone other than himself and his ill fate.
Sunghoon, we've had numerous conversations about this. You need to start facing your mistakes and admitting them in your own words, not mine. I won't be here with you forever.
Bingo. Precisely at the nexus of reason. The reason that probes like a stake. His mother won't be by his side for the entirety of his life, cleansing his suboptimal decisions, imparting counsel about youth. No one will, no one will stand with Sunghoon until the day they bury his body, and though it stings, he has never felt as if anyone truly has. To appreciate the love bestowed by his parents is one thing, but be in need of anything beyond that within the sphere outside his family is... discouraging. Disconcerting. He wants to go to the movies too, he wants to sit on a bench and consume snacks in company, he wants to be a teenager too.
‘Look, isn't that Park Sunghoon over there? He looks a bit dumb walking like that, don't you think?’
‘Oh my, have you seen his eyes? He doesn't even have pupils.’
Hardly paying heed to the concurrent shifts, where Sunghoon is now seated in the worn car seat, inhaling the familiar scent of vanilla and mint - an odd blend that, despite sounding unpleasant, brings about a sense of normalcy - his mother sinks into the driver's seat. Sunghoon anticipates the ignition of the engine via metallic keys, yet instead, the rustling of an open envelope graces his earlobe. The report card. It's not that he's forgotten about it; rather, he would prefer to do so. What's done is done.
Milliseconds become perpetual. His fingers trace an undulating remnant on his thighs, comparable to a roller coaster's trajectory, the fabric of his gray sweatpants feeling rougher than usual; undoubtedly, his heightened sensitivity is magnifying this tactile perception in the tense context. A few strands of his muted hair settle upon his eyelids, his teeth ensnare his lips, gnawing at the loose skin, tearing it away from the tender flesh, chewing and ultimately swallowing it.
I was half expecting you to flunk English, but physical education? You're quite literally an athlete, Sunghoon,
Jiyoung hisses, her hands clutching the thin sheet of printed paper.
Sunghoon leans against his right shoulder, practically turning his back to his mother, the nips at the corners of his mouth growing more pronounced. He needs to do it, he needs the distraction to maintain his composure.
And what am I supposed to do when the teacher benches me every day? I stumble over everything every other step,
Sunghoon confesses, murmuring again, elongating his words, each syllable.
Jiyoung directs her full attention towards her son, a bundle of nerves on the seating cushions, surveying his modest display of sincerity. With one of her hands now reclining on her long, coppery, and silky tresses, another sigh escapes her lips. Today is the day of sighs, and more are about to come.
Why haven't you discussed this with the other teachers or the principal? They could have adjusted the activities to accommodate your pace, dear,
the white paper ends up being placed aside on the dashboard, fluttering marginally from the air conditioning.
Sunghoon must stifle the sardonic laughter threatening to escape his throat. It's clear he's not laughing at his mother, but at her reliances and hopes. Above all, Sunghoon is laughing at himself.
Do you think anyone cares about what the blind guy on the corner needs, Mom? Do you genuinely believe that?
he responds with a tone whichever but sprightly. His breath spews bane.
All of your life, you've had the support of those teachers, Sunghoon.
I'm not nine years old anymore. At eighteen, they couldn't care less.
Decisively, the engine bombinates on the incarcerates of the cubicle, Sunghoon availing his oneself of the opportunity to huddle more deeply into his current position, speculating that by assuming a smaller stature, his predicaments might undergo compression until reaching a point of eruption. Few prospects could rival the enticement of such an outcome: an environment unsullied by cognitive aberrations. Humans, inherently social entities, intricately weave associative networks, while jointly embodying immanent vulnerability. Even if stemming from ancestral impulses to safeguard territory since times of yore or from the hurtful utterance of a peer of your academic cohort, either circumstance serves as an entreaty for solace, does it not? And who better than those of the fellow kind to anew imbue that inscrutable expanse with a sense of replenishment?
The crux of the proceeding, no matter how, lies in Sunghoon's conviction that he stands apart as a distinct species - his species. The unparalleled genus synonymous with Park Sunghoon alone, wherein heritage equates to everlasting adversity and unreciprocated obligations.
A sentiment that resonates with irony.
Forget it. You always get like that, so… I don’t know. So you,
with her elbow recumbent agin the window ledge and her left palm adeptly tenuring the steering wheel, demonstrating precision and focus while executing the suitable gear alterations, Jiyoung cannot forbear from supply herself the indulgence of delving into the acerbic disposition that Sunghoon indelibly sustains, thus molding it into his customary mien. I find it impossible to talk to you. You should…
Sunghoon ought to do this, and Sunghoon ought to do that. Sunghoon should halt his proclivity towards sloth and discontinue hesitating in his commitment regarding books. Sunghoon should desist from dovetailing as a fool, meandering through hallways replete with sensations, fragrances, and individuals extraneous to his vital milieu. Yes, sure, Sunghoon should, but still, he remains incapable of doing so. His impotence is attributed to the most dire mishaps; he manifests as a blot in the record, similar to a coffee stain blemishing a pristine white office shirt. The heaviness of this harrow proves as daunting to shed as a stone tethered to one's feet. At present, a meteorite even crushes his pinky toe. Barely ten minutes removed from the malodorous settings of school cleaning products, the common contemplation of reacquainting his foot with that terrain triggers cerebral epilepsy. Truly dreadful.
Repeatedly, his physical comfort personifies the other extreme. His lanky frame sprawled, legs akimbo, hands settled within, head tilted slightly askew, thoroughly adrift. His ashen gaze misses a specific focal point, averse to blinking; he simply remains ensnared in this state, perhaps in a philosophical reverie.
See? You're not even listening to me, 'Hoon,
his mother, finally realizing, quits her discourse - whatever it may have been - embroiled in with her woebegone son, the course of his cherished afternoon having plummeted.
Sunghoon conceals his quietude inside his lungs, secured by a padlock and a misplaced key whose whereabouts are unknown. Jiyoung peers at him through the windshield's reflection, only mildly disappointed by the young man's limited predisposition to articulate matters as he ideally should whenever he becomes immersed in his tempests. However, she bears no desire to become an integral part of this emotional maelstrom, let alone assume its role. Thus, with a gesture of simplicity, her index finger stretches forth to ignite the radio, the melodies erecting a barrier against the adversarial interplay between mother and son.
His father, with his chin dozing on his hasping fists in a solitary grip, his regard lowered and suffused with an emotion that proves elusive to decrypt without a concerted essay, has been left bewildered by the reception of such a turn of events. Moreover, the document indicating the failure of his son, his only progeny to whom he has given his all. Disappointment, fear, betrayal. His brawls remind one of a puzzle barren of pieces; Kwangho had never experienced such sentiments. And when it's never, it's truly never. Never in his fifty-one years. Why? Why did his wife exploit his trust and mercy?
Now he is made aware of the numerous absences of Sunghoon, engulfing the paper in a swarm of red crosses marked in each successive month. Every day, every subject. It sounds witless, absurd. How can a family patriarch stay oblivious to the scholastic life of his offspring?
The fact that Kwangho is absent at all hours is no jest. Working. Jiyoung also works, of course, but her position as a domestic employee does not cover all expenses. They possess a splendid automobile, Sunghoon has chased education and shields a passion, but what else?
I don't know, Jiyoung, I truly don't,
Kwangho shakes his head, adamantly refusing to alter his stance, to confront the present set of conditions. Their agreement entailed his wife attending meetings with teachers, aiding Sunghoon in the mornings, and maintaining a routine. There was no room for uprooting. These past few weeks, cargo trucks haven't been crossing the border by virtue of the protests, and I'm earning nothing.
The North Koreans and their regulations.
I don't believe I can afford another year. Given Sunghoon's rejection for university, I dismissed my expectations and thought it would be the best course, as I'd only need to cover his skating outlays. But... I have nothing. We barely make it to the end of the month, Jiyoung, and you're aware of it.
Sunghoon is in a passive disposition, assuming a subdued attitude, fully cognizant that the entirety of this scandal relies on his own actions. The onus lies solely and downright with him; indubitably, his nomenclature could aptly be "Culpability Park Sunghoon." Wherever he treads, abides his mark, albeit in the most unfortunate and ominous sense. The chronicles of his family history have been replete with vicissitudes encompassing frights and jubilations alike. Presently, they are confronted with a resurgence of an economic crisis, a prospect that fills each of them with trepidation.
How did it- this happen? Why? Everything was going well, right?
queries his father’s sotto voce. The perplexity he grapples with is palpable. The panorama in December was characterized by ceaseless marvels - from his vantage point at least. What cataclysmic shift precipitated the stark contrast that manifested between the months of January and April?
I’m sorry, Dad. I’ll try harder next year,
articulates the blind individual, adhering to his habitual tendency to murmur rather than talking distinctly. Engaging in discourse on these matters with his father deviates markedly from his interactions with his mother. The paternal figure seeks elucidations for every facet, and although he possesses the prerogative to seek such clarifications, Sunghoon is discomposed by the likelihood.
You better, because if not, you’ll have to quit skating.
The profound silence beckons at the door, promptly responded to as his father admits it entry. Might he be perturbed? Indeed, his state of mind aligns with agitation. Are his father’s brows knitted, indicative of disapproval? Maybe his stare is permeated with a sense of disdain? Irrespective of the specific nuances, Sunghoon is sufficiently exasperated by the day's tribulations. Upon hearing, in direct terms, the contemplation of forsaking the pursuit of figure skating, an unnerving flutter takes perch within the precincts of his belly.
You can’t be serious,
this time, Sunghoon speaks clearly, as if he's turned on his alertness. And so it is, just as it is.
Kwangho expels a dismissive snort, laden with expressive subtext.
Are you fully cognizant of the financial expenditure of figure skating on a monthly basis, Sunghoon? Have you taken into account the expenditure entailed in the procurement of the team's seasonal attire? Or perhaps the registration fees associated with competitive engagements? What of the distinctive uniforms? Do you possess even the faintest inkling of the pecuniary value invested in your skates?
Just as it appears the rhetorical inquiry has reached its culmination, his lips seal any further interjection. If you can't pass high school, there will be no more skating. People don't live for free.
Sunghoon has definitely reached a point of saturation. Accompanied by a resounding scrape of the chair against the floor, he rises in a single fluid motion, striding forward, only to barge with the edge of the table. His arms extend, searching for support from the railing of the staircase. His mother, a mixture of resentment and a desire to contribute beyond mere observation to the unfolding conflict, draws near to her son and aids him in ascending the staircase. Not a word is uttered by any party involved – neither his father, nor Sunghoon himself, nor his mother. The dialogue has concluded, cementing the future state of affairs.
Profoundly eventful holidays are coming.