wc | 557
summary | she never calls unless she wants something. unfortunately, there’s a first for everything. chiwon’s mother calls with news. nothing will be the same.
phone rings, grating sound and he wonders when he took it off vibrate. oh, to work. he’s working a lot these days, trying to perfect his craft, there’s a nail in coffin sort of energy about the way he works. like each line he writes is his last, each line he spits might choke him. sometimes chiwon wonders why he’s so intense, why it matters so much to him. why does everything have to be like this? is it the way he’s been born? with a thorn in his side, courtesy of a man he’s never even met, never will, most likely.
is it a burden from his father? no, not that one. the other father.
“what?” it’s hardly friendly, but it’s sufficient. surprised he answered at all. so is she.
“chiwon,” shock is obvious but content with being acknowledged, “you must be busy recently. since you haven’t answered.” she’s bold for that one.
her sigh is static in his ear and like hydrogen peroxide to his nerves, bubbling and frothing instantly, like an infection. his mood is sterile. “nothing’s wrong,” she sounds defensive and offended. she would, wouldn’t she, like a natural state. “can’t i just call?”
“you can.” his tone is acerbic audacity. who does she think she’s talking to? why does she even bother? like he’s the public eye looking in from the outside, rather than the son she raised, “but you don’t.”
she scoffs, hmmphs at him and he leans back in his chair to begin picking at the fabric of his jeans.
“mother,” he reiterates like he’s the parent and she’s the child. “what?”
there’s a hundred things it could be, has always been. her need for his attention, affection, forgiveness. the way she begs him to ask for time off to fly and see her like being an idol is a dayjob, and he can clock in sick days for pleasure. almost like it would be a pleasure at all to see her in the first place. also not correct. or the way she asks nearly begs him to let her hire a lawyer to try cutting corners of his contract, to get him out years earlier than planned just so she can have her assembly of children at her side, tokens of her motherhood and custom. to make her look better to the press. it could have been anything. sometimes she even tried to worm his brother and sister into it, like it would soften the blows of her usual pestering and make him give way. come running back to her if not out of the duty of a filial son, of a brother.
it could be anything. he doesn’t want to hear any of it, because he’s heard all of it.
“your father is out of jail.” she says instead.
his vision is bricked in like a foreman had laid him down, fuzzy spots that pop in like dust motes and his ears ringing like a fire siren. “w-what?”
“he’s out.” she repeats without explaining like that might resemble enough of a response.
chiwon doesn’t know how many different kinds of pain there is in this world. countless kinds. but he thinks the pain of this far beats most of them.
“oh.” he says. and that’s all there is to say.
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