Chapter Text
Kim Dokja holds the same knife that had consumed the life of his father. So, he wonders; will it crave his, too? Trapped in a dimly lit foreign room, with walls as vast as a pure white void, Kim Dokja's tears stream alike the broken air conditioner's leaks. Again, he wonders; where did this knife even come from?
The knife is familiar. It has the same handle, the same lingering garlic smell, and the same freezing sensation around its edge. Maybe it had hanged from the same dish cabinet — that, Kim Dokja wasn't sure of these days.
Was it the same?
Same, same, and another same. The word flutters around his palms, pointing that knife's tip to the thing in front of Kim Dokja. Years ago, this would mean his father's gasping body. Now, curled up against the bed frame, that thing is Kim Dokja. Now, he could only lash out on himself.
The same few rows on his thighs, like the few stabs on his chest. Blood beads soon drown whatever he drew. Some day, Kim Dokja hopes to see the same fast squirts like his father's wounds had spat. At least, then, couldn't he finally present evidence of his own sins?
Kim Dokja simply can't admit he's scared. All he wanted to do was relieve anger. Center of thighs, not inner—far too many arteries—and never too close to his joints, his protruding hip and knee bones are far too easy to hit in to deeper layers.
The first time someone saw Kim Dokja's fear, they held his hands tighter than the amount of neglect he expected.
"Why? Dokja-ya, can't you see that it hurts me too?" That woman saw Kim Dokja's world, cradling him as she sucked on his sorrows. It's fear that encompassed her that day. But Kim Dokja couldn't help but to grasp on to hope. Did she actually care for him?
"I'm sorry! I'm really sorry!"
"Who taught you this? Did anyone online tell you to do this? Did your mother..." teach you, was left unsaid, but both of them could feel those words on their fingertips.
"No, I'm sorry! I just... It was an experiment. I want to become a surgeon, yeah. To help. Through help, I'll practice first... Uhm," Kim Dokja blabbered on without controlling his lips, confused on the meaning of his words.
Memories are imprinted on every knife. They are in every shelf of a stationary aisle too, as he had learnt a few months back. Kim Dokja scroungered up every won left in his wallet to buy a small cutter in his neighbour's corner shop, thinking it would have the same effect as the kitchen knife. It didn't. It was far duller than any blade he'd picked up. Yet it still hovers over any other cutter, inviting him to remember, ultimately pushing him deeper.
That woman continued her rant on how guilty Kim Dokja has to feel for hurting himself. But, as she went on, he had only remembered one breath she took: "Oh, baby. Surgeons don't do that to themselves. They use those silicone things."
Surgeons don't listen to random documentaries during operations, either. Nontheless, Kim Dokja keeps up with social studies homework. This particular documentary—about Napoleon or something—isn't even on his curriculum. Even so, the narrator fills up this void clawing on to Kim Dokja. He speaks so eloquently, laughing at every joke in the script, pauses matching each swift slash Kim Dokja inserts.
It's funny. He only started this hobby to waste time after school. Kim Dokja has friends, but not satisfaction. Several hang-out requests rejected only to please his addiction. It tired him the first times, as if he were slicing off things in his to-do list. However, Kim Dokja found his spark once more.
Some messages await network connection. The first, to his boyfriend of a year. The second, to his best friend. Third, to the stubborn classmate always inviting him to a warm lunch.
"Haha." Kim Dokja scrapes crusted blood off the blade. "I don't know, would you have forgiven me?" He points the tip to himself, resting against a wrinkle on his neck.
"Sooyoung." Yoo Joonghyuk adjusts his gaming microphone from his neck towards the tip of his lips. He rests upon his plush chair, computer screen glowing within the full black void of his dark room, an ongoing call illuminating each sparkle in his eyes. "Just woke up. What."
"Hyuk, you fucking idiot! Look at your dms for once!"