#sangah

Dokja knew he was dreaming — the colors of the world around him were too bright, and the hope was too pressuring, way more overwhelming than feeling of dread. His chest was filled with profound trust and warmth he had lacked for a long time. A dream. That’s how he knew the landscape he had found himself in was artificially created by his own brain, leaving him curious and bitter.

Perhaps, he should wake up from this absurdity of the dream to face reality, but he can’t. Finding himself in the entrance of his own house, his hand trembled as his lips stretched in bitter smile. Was it… longing? The dark orbs were glued to the view before him — bright light in the kitchen, a family of three eating dinner with little boy cackling his lungs out. It was laughter that echoes through Dokja’s consciousness, striking him deeply inside. Has he ever had a moment where he could laugh this loudly? His cheek pressed against wall, his dreamy gaze following the family. Drawing invisible figures, his eyes wandered across his mother’s face — still young, with no visible wrinkles or grey hair. Her lips were stretched in that soft smile of hers, as her hands, spared from scars, were placing more food on little boy’s plate. From her plate, to his.

The man with broad shoulders was sitting across those two, yet… Dokja cocks his head to the side, his brows furrowed. Lips, that were widely spread in soft, adoring smile, were now tightly pursed.

Before he could register it, the heaven on earth faltered — the floor disappeared and family members were swallowed in the dark pit of nothingness. The laughter died, the light upon them disappeared.

BAM!

Suddenly, the dread filled Dokja’s lungs, his whole frame tensed.

Badump, badump, badump!

He couldn’t guess if it was his heart beating this fast from sense of fear or noises happening in the kitchen. Now the tall figure, which he was before, shrank to the height of the kitchen drawer. The white coat disappeared on him — glancing down, Dokja could recognize the middle school uniform on himself. Blood stilled in his veins with sharp inhale he took. Glancing down at his trembling hands, Dokja felt nausea and helplessness fill him. Vision blurred, breathing heavied, yet his legs still bring him inside that kitchen.

He wasn’t grown up Dokja watching little Dokja anymore — he became little Dokja.

In the dark kitchen, with shaky breath, he approached the noise, noticing two figures — one, with hands in fists, and other, laying down. One was looking away in shame and empathy, while others eyes were filled with rage, blood shooting in the white orbs, filling them with dark red desire to kill.

“How come you don’t remember your father, Dokja-ya? Not at all?”, the father, with still, pretty much, blurred face spat out, stifling shaky inhale from rage through his gritted teeth.

Sucking the air, the little boy took a few steps back — panic overcoming common sense. He knew it was a dream, but right now surviving the nightmare again was more important. His little hand found the kitchen counter to not slip as he walked backwards, his teeth gritted in fear and eyes locked on the man whose face he didn’t remember. Maybe, due to resentment he held for him. Or guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

“You hate your dad, right, Dokja-ya? Am I the bad guy? Ri-iiight, your mother always portrayed me as bad one, huh?”, his cold laughter filled the room, making Dokja freeze on spot.

Wake up. Wake up. WAKE UP.

“Why else you wouldn’t remember my face, you little brat? It’s because you’re fucking ungrateful trash, am I not right?”, he spat out, not caring about drool on the edge of his dry lips. Huffing a smirk, he stood up. His body swayed weakly from alcohol as he walked over to Dokja, kneeling in front of him. Their gazes met, one full of fear and resentment, and other — of affection and fury.

“My Dokja… my blood…”, his words slurred, as his heavy hand landed on Dokja’s head traveling all way down to his cheek to pinch it.

“My adorable son… my legacy”, he murmured, gently caressing Dokja’s shoulder. The boy held his breath and soon enough the disgusting affection turned to rage. The grip went tighter. The gaze turned cold and unclear from alcohol.

“My adorable son, who can’t even fucking remember my fucking face…”, the man laughed coldly, his large hand pulling the boy by his nape, forehead to forehead.

“Should I kill you? Should I fucking kill you? Eye for eye, huh?! Or should I kill your slutty mother?! Ye-eah? Her? Alright!”

The line between dream and reality merged, blurring into one. The boy grabbed the knife from the counter and before he could even realize, the stabbing pain filled his own chest. Kitchen disappeared with the man, whose voice filled his ears with hysterical laughter until the vision dimmed out fully.

He doesn’t remember his face.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Dokja jumped from the laying position, sitting up. Sharp inhale sucked in a breath as his trembling hand went to his face, hiding it in both of his hands. In the darkness of his bedroom, he sat there in silence, disrupting it with heavy breathing and quiet stifling.

After the 4th wall disappeared, the memories, that were stacked up in his consciousness, were now released, chocking him and crushing him down. The guilt, the blame, the pain and feeling of unfairness were now overwhelming him whole, yet his lips were pressed tight to not slip. To not let anyone know.

Staying in his apartment, refusing going out, Dokja would sit in front of his desk for hours, typing his questions to understand. To make sense of it. Why? Because those didn’t make sense to him at all. He missed his 4th Wall. He missed being fearless. He missed functioning like normal person.

“Why do I keep crying?”

”See nightmares of memories that happened a long time ago, why?”

“Memory loss, why?”

Scrolling more and more, blinking away ache of his dry eyes, he would sigh. Loudly. Bitterly. A soft hum would leave his lips, that were now stretched in pained smile.

“So… is that what it is”, Dokja wondered, staring at the “PTSD quiz results”. His hands went to his face to rub his eyelids. Joonghyuk went through worse and, yet, came out in one piece, so there is no way someone like him, Kim Dokja, had PTSD, right?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“Sangah-ssi”, he murmured, twirling shot of soju in his hand, unfortunate smile on his lips.

“Yes, Dokja-ssi?”, the woman smiled, her cheeks were dusted pink from the alcohol.

Despite the noise other had been making, all of that faltered between them. Nothing was important — not the kids fighting over joystick in the background, not Sooyoung making Joonhyuk drink more of soju. None of it mattered.

Biting his lip, Dokja smiled bitterly, shaking his head.

“Has… Sangah-ssi ever had nightmares?”

The woman tilted her head to the side before nodding, huffing a shy laugh.

“O-of course, everyone has, right?.. Why, though, Dokja-ssi?”

“No, no, I mean… ah…”, Dokja laughed awkwardly, alcohol getting to him, “I meant… Sangah-ssi have mentioned before she knows psychology. So, I just…”

Soft hum left Sangah’s lips, as she nodded slowly, her brows slightly furrowed in sympathy. Her clear gaze, despite the alcohol, was watching him with worry and anticipation, silently asking to tell more. Sensing the request, Dokja chuckled again, pursing his lips tightly.

“Our abilities disappeared after scenario. 4th wall, too. And I’m just—… lost?”, his voice cracked slightly, full of uncertainty. Was he even truthful right now? Was he truthful to himself only, or only to Sangah or to neither of them?

“I see nightmares. I can’t sleep, I—… slightest reminder makes me anxious like I’m—…”

“Back there?”, Sangah gently prompts, her eyes watching him closely. Of course, she is listening. She always does.

Raising his eyes to meet hers, he nods curtly, sighing heavily. Despite the warmth from soju, he felt gnawing emptiness and coldness in the deeper pit of his soul. He didn’t know where to go to make it disappear.

“It’s old wound. I don’t know why I’m even—”, he laughs bitterly, biting his lip and glancing away. His trembling hand toys with the glass with soju, his fingers encircling the edge of the glass.

Despite the noise of others in this large apartment, silence between them was stretched. Like they were in a different world, dimension. Far away from others.

“Dokja-ssi… I—”, Sangah sighed, furrowing her brows in confusion. How does she console someone like him? What can she even say to Dokja?

Dokja was a kind man, a man, whose whole life was revolving around everyone around him. Their happiness guaranteed his own, and there was nothing more in his life than giving to those people laughing loudly in separate room right now. That is the man he is — selfish and stubborn. He helps, he assists, but once it’s his turn to get help… He disappears, he hides, he jokes, he changes subject. Drowning alone, he waits until the air will be knocked from his lungs, letting him lay low.

That is Dokja. This is what kind of person he is.

Biting her lip, Sangah lifts her gaze to glance at the man, who couldn’t even raise his gaze to her anymore. Her hand covered his trembling one, thumb caressing the dry skin. Dokja’s eyes met hers in confusion and surprise, yet his body relaxes. Despite the noise around, all he could focus on was Sangah and her sympathetic gaze. She saw him. She heard him.

“Old wounds… they can be deep, not just shallow. Yours… they’re not shallow. Hence why even if they’re decades old, they still need attention. Care. And it’s… it’s totally okay”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

After everyone were settled and ready to sleep, Dokja was led into his bedroom. Joonghyuk was supporting him while Sooyoung walked nearby, plopping on the floor next to the soft bed. With quiet grunt, Dokja was laid on bed, as Joonghyuk gently pulled blanket on him. Glaring at that tipsy man, the protagonist, who was barely tipsy due to his alcohol tolerance, sat nearby, his shoulder brushing Sooyoung’s.

Three of them were sitting in complete darkness, each having their own thought processes. Silence was pressuring. Glaring down at two people next to his bed, Dokja sighed, chuckling dryly.

“I can fall asleep alone, go find yourselves a bed”, he murmured quietly, making those two huff in irritation. Well, felt like one.

Sooyoung’s cheek brushed against the blanket, as she looked into his eyes with sharp bitterness.

“You hide stuff from us again… jackass”, she muttered, her lips pursed in a pout, brows furrowed.

Feeling two pair of eyes on himself, Dokja hummed, sighing quietly. Despite the silence, the air didn’t feel heavy. It was calming. They appeared as judging, but deep down he knew they were worried sick. And what else they can feel if not irritation when someone so dear closes off without a word? Declines hangouts, leaves earlier than usually, replies dryly if he replies at all.

They knew something was wrong. Yet his unwillingness to talk was killing them all, not just himself alone.

“Sorry”, Dokja murmured weakly, not sure what else to say.

“Flashbacks”, Joonghyuk suddenly intervenes, his eyes meeting Dokja’s in complete darkness, “I have those too”

Before he could continue, soft snort leaves Dokja’s mouth. Despite having those, Joonghyuk always worked alone, always did everything to not burden others, endured alone, died alone, regressed alone. What point is he even making?

Almost like sensing his smirk, the man continued.

“And that was my mistake. Apparently”, Jooghyuk confesses grumpily, yet clearing his throat continues, “If it weren’t for you, who could read my mind, I would’ve spiraled. And regressed”

“Yeah, and we wouldn’t be here. Go to the point, Hyuk-ah”, Sooyoung rolled her eyes, hugging her knees. Throwing her an annoyed glance, Joonghyuk cleared his throat.

“You could read my mind. But now neither of us can read yours. We don’t know if you’re spiraling or going through something awful”, he said quietly, his eyes searching for Dokja’s in this darkness.

“Yeah. We can’t guess if you’re thinking about, don’t know… killing yourself? You have to be vocal about it. Just, well, at least something, ya? Stop smiling like an idiot when you don’t feel like smiling, it pisses me off”, the writer said, huffing.

Despite the darkness, Dokja could guess that, right now, Joonghyuk curtly nodded. The thought made him let out a snort.

He felt like answering, yet before he could, his eyelids close and he drifted in slumber. He didn’t see a dream nor nightmare. It was, finally, peaceful night with no regrets or fear or overwhelming dread. His lips were uplifted in his sleep.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“Is he… asleep?”, Sooyoung leaned in front of the bed, glaring at the smiling Dokja, who was sleeping tightly.

Joonghyuk was still sitting on the harsh floor, humming curtly.

“Perhaps. He drank a lot”, low voice rumbled in this silent room, making woman snort.

“Yeah, didn’t know he has such tolerance”, Sooyoung said, sitting next to the man, their shoulders and knees brushing. Soft sigh escaped her lips, and suddenly the room wasn’t filled with sharp remarks. It was filled with worry, honesty and intimacy of sincerity.

“You think… he’ll share?”, she murmured quietly. Her tongue couldn’t turn in a way to throw another remark. Too pained and worried.

The man hums, shrugging.

“We can wait. And hope, perhaps. He’s not the teller, but it doesn’t mean he’s not vulnerable”

Sooyoung sighs, nodding.

“True”.

Dokja never was the teller — he is the reader, he was born to appreciate other’s works, other’s poems, yet he is not the one to write one on his own. He’s not the one who was taught to be perceived, cared for. He’s the one, who still is afraid to speak out, to keep everyone calm. To let everyone else be happy, despite bearing his misery alone.

Yet it shouldn’t be like this all the time. Even readers might have poems for others to appreciate.

Even silent people deserve to be listened to, even closed off people deserved a try to be understood.

Dokja could’ve deny the need of being seen, yet he still deserved that. He deserved the worry.

He is worth the worry. He is worth more than put-on happiness and insincere, artificially created joy.

He was more than that. He is worth more than that.

He deserved to be loved despite the “ugly” sides he was doing his best to hide. He is Dokja not because of his unfortunate smile, he is Dokja because of the fact he puts on that unfortunate smile.

He is not just pile of happiness and self sacrifice, he is someone worth making sacrifices for. He is someone who’s worth the fight, especially if it’s a fight against his self sabotaging consciousness.