( TRAPPED. )

           The door slams behind Kyungsoo following from his yelping for help (or to acknowledge he’s in pain), even though Seojin won’t hear a peep due to his condition. Breathe in, breathe out. By now, it’s possible he’s scared the living shit out of his twin brother, and to top it off, his right cheek is slashed deeply with blood gushing, drip by drip. The male’s hand conceals the wound, but it’s challenging due to the fact his tears mix with the red substance. Following from this, he experiences a stinging sensation once more which definitely doesn’t improve how he’s appearing right in front of Seojin. Weak hands raise from his grip on his thighs to sign a rather disappointing sentence. “Dad hurt me again.” In times like this, he’s appreciative for their lack of verbal communication; their father wouldn’t assume aggressive conversations behind his back–all he hears his silence. Attempting to gain his breath once more, his standing position soon transitions to him sitting on the floor, knees touching his chin in the midst of his arms clinging them. Maybe he’s implying for his brother to reach forth to receive the comfort and love he deserves. “I’m sorry I look like this. I’m hurting really bad.” Sentences are short and simple, but who would blame the twin who’s injured severely? This is an absolute nightmare, and their only wish is to escape. With their mother.

      Like the bruises on the other’s body and the ones on his face, for example --or mouthed insults that probably were meant for him to be heard but the detail of him being born without hearing becoming nothing but a symbol of mental disability.

      But was being naive, being hopeful and still looking at the sunlight and the sky with a smile and thinking how the light was warm and pretty like when he wakes up within the embrace of his twin brother a symbol of mental disability?

      Was watching the swelling eyes of his mother while washing cracked plates and putting them aside, signing to her how tomorrow will be a way better day for sure, a symbol of a mind unable to ‘work properly’ under certain scientific standards he wasn’t aware of?

      Was listening intently to the brother and his misadventures, putting aside his books and pencils to look at that face similar to his if not for the scars and cuts marking them in different place to dedicate attention to those moving lips and signing hands --was moving to him and being delicate when wrapping his arms around that similarly fragile frame, and allowing that face to sink in his shoulder like his own face was sinking in the other’s with fingers drawing spirals and flowers and waves of a wonderful transparent sea against the other’s skinny back. . .

             . . . was all of this a good reason to define him ‘retarded’?

“Keep living it? You are insane, absolutely nonsensical.” His words were bitter, rat’s poison by the time they left the tip of his tongue. And he swallowed them, much too easy – because they were in a way, words to himself. “You’re right, you can’t fix the past. But you can’t keep living the past either. Or more…” He has trouble finding the right words but then they come to him. “Or more so that you shouldn’t live in the past. It’s not healthy.” Once again, the words are uncomfortable even if he beguiles himself that they are for the boy, and no one else.

His hands disappear into his pockets when he feels them so cold to lose against the battle with the air around them. And that’s strange, because his hands are always much too cold. Here, they seem warm, as if he held heat in them.

“You didn’t tell me you were a maze addict.” His voice is light as he circles around his original spot. A meter is his maximum diameter, and he keeps close to the other. “Are you going to explain things to me, or am I supposed to explore it myself?” His back is thrown against the wall where the other sits and he slides down. He hits the floor, rough in movement. He lets his elbows rest above his knees, head turning to face his eyes. He tries to read them, if they’re fear stricken and just if, just maybe if they might to with his trembling hands and sticky skin. “There must be a reason you keep coming back to live this… of all memories. Why live a maze you’ve already cracked and solved out of?” 

He blinked, spitting out the words then immediately wondering if the answer was the exact reverse. Had he never escaped the maze? Was that the reason lying at the end of this?

      Funny how words had such power without actually causing bodies to bleed and organs to flush out from windpipes and carved holes.

« I am not an addict, mind your fuckin’ words. » And like enraged banshee he hissed and with his owl-like, tired eyes he glared at the figure now frustratedly leaning on the wall --he could still even feel the bags under his lids pulsating as the tension made the veins underneath boil with venom and vitriol that still had to find the exitway to his mouth. Fists balled and ready to strike and yet he didn’t, not when the echo of his steps moving closer to the intruder he wanted out of his mind immediately. « Addiction comprehends a little part of liking. Infinitesimal, even --but it is there. I cannot be an addict of something that I despise with all my being, of something that is part of my past and my present as no matter how much I run, no matter how much I try to rip off the needles from my veins and run again and again the actual maze I already managed to evade years ago, I am still t r a p p e d. I am still nothing but a series of barcodes, letters and numbers in a medical folder marked as TOP SECRET, product of genetic engineering with mutated DNA, a monster on the run because they want to finish the work, and they won’t stop looking for me and the remaining ones in order to realize their twisted project. Or just finish us all. Fulfilling the scheduled program or becoming nothing but an evidence to throw in a fire. »

      A click from his tongue against the palate, little pause of his speech that still was barely calm, not really betraying a sense of frustration boiling more and more and contrasting with the now evident monotonous accent of his voice.

“Maybe they were falling off I don’t- I thought the best thing was to make you know.” He shuts his mouth staring at the other´s evident frown  “You must think I´m crazy.”

      And he was kind of internally screeching. Why must he have these sparks of luck right ten seconds before being wrecked. Why must karma be still so terrible with him.

« Or maybe you just need to take a cup of warm tea and lie down. You look like you just got ran over by a car a few times. »

       with the very definite no her pout intensified. what was so hard about her just paying for netflix like every other normal person. well, she would, had she the money to afford it. secondly, her complete and utter lack of skill when it came to computers prevented her from doing any of the things he’d suggested. she felt at a loss, but more importantly, defeated. 

« I am sure Tao and Sehun will appreciate your presence within the ranks. » More or less. But the younger ones were the ones still more used to how the ‘modern trends’ of youth worked differently from their stern leader, so he was sure the girl and the duo held the highest chances to become friends immediately. Probably over some stupid tv program about idols doing stupid things.

The man seemed to believe him on the allergy excuse and Jaehyuk did feel slightly guilty for lying to him but he had a secret to protect. The feeling of guilt was one he was just as used to as hunger. “Yes, safe sounds good. Do you need help with shortcuts? I know every bit of this city. Born and raised here in Seoul,” he sighed. Jaehyuk knew that there was a darkness to this city but he still loved it so.

« Well, I don’t really want to bother you, sir. Especially if you might have other things to do that I’m not aware of and I might pull you away from if I dare accepting. » A pause. « Born and raised here? Lucky. I am aware of my recent surroundings only --Gangnam, barely Hongdae. »