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Today was Kim Dokja’s last day. No, it wasn’t the last day of school or a particularly memorable date but this was Kim Dokja’s last day ever. Today was when his story would end. He was going to make his own happy ending.
He walked the school grounds trying his best to embody a spirit, invisible, unseen, but in the eyes of his classmates Kim Dokja was an infection, the one stain on their school.
Everyone was aware of the infection, for it stood out, but most simply watched to see how it would develop. Letting it air out and hoping it would go away on its own, their eyes followed it always so as not to be caught off guard. But some, some couldn’t help but pick and pick and pick at it. It itched you see, it bothered them. They just couldn’t help themselves.
In other schools there were ‘Kings’ and ‘Queens’ known for their beauty and elegance. In this school there was only Kim Dokja who was known by all, as a parasite.
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When he was gone and forgotten maybe some reader out there would cry for his self-inflicted misery, but cursed only-child’s don’t feel much love in their story so he supposed it didn’t matter if some entity far far away felt sadness. (A twisted part of himself hoped someone would mourn him, and he would be on the receiving end of pitiful gossip and not hateful gossip.). He wanted companionship in his story.
Readers can’t interact with their characters anyway, no matter how much they pour their emotions into their stories (he tried but the best he could do was pretend he was not Kim Dokja but a happy, loved, strong character and even then he was a cheap delusional imitation).
Though he hoped for recognition of his tiresome struggles, to survive and maybe even reach ◼️◼️◼️, he knew what they would say…
“What did you expect from a murder’s child?”
“You were so kind to take care of him, it’s unfortunate all he brought you was disgrace”
“He was so gloomy and antisocial, his clothes were always tattered and he was such a disturbance in the classroom”
“He creeped about in the back of the classroom and didn’t even try in school”
“He even lied about being hurt by his relatives! I mean really, how could you lie about the people who took you in?”
So he decided he was done, his peaceful end would come to him through his efforts alone.
He’d picked today out specifically for the sole reason that his favorite web novel had released its very last chapter this morning. He’d hid away in the supply closet furthest from the gymnasium, where all the ‘popular kids’ congregated during lunch, and let himself feel the peace that came with a smooth, clean ending (he hoped his was similar). The epilogue was everything he needed. The conflict was resolved, and the main character finally got their simple house in the suburbs to spend the rest of their life with the ones they loved.
Kim Dokja tended to gravitate towards novels with happier endings. He of course liked the adventure, the thrill, the tragedy, but he liked knowing his charcters were happy. His own last chapter might not be classified as happy for everyone else, but it wasn’t for everyone else. This was for his oldest dreams.
As always the cleaning duties of the classroom (and some other classes for good measure) had been piled on him. His classmates were always so busy and the teacher had better things to do than checking if chores were being completed by who they were assigned to. As long as they were done in the end.
He had tried once, rebelling. His classmates got in trouble for not fulfilling their duties and for one blissful moment karma served Kim Dokja. It didn’t last (Karma doesn’t help cursed children). Kim Dokja learned his lesson in the form of 4 hours locked in a cupboard. He clawed at the door until his fingers were bleeding. In the end no one let him out. He dislocated his shoulder ramming into the door, but the mop holding the door snapped and he was free. He was lucky enough to be an extra, he should have known rebellion was for main characters (Stay in your place). All he earned were new things to cover up.
Kim Dokja didn’t mind spending the extra time at school, it’s not as if he had anyone waiting for him.
For once this worked out in his favor. The moment the school bells rang, kids hurriedly collected themselves, bowed and thanked their teacher, and rushed out with their friends in one big stampede. The teacher then collected his things and quickly exited without a backwards glance. The classroom was left empty except for one Kim Dokja. Crouched as low as possible, he was in the seat adjacent from the closet doors with a window to his right.
He wore his usual worn, off-white, t-shirt under his school uniform. His pants were fraying at the edges and several seams had come loose. His uniform sleeves had been rolled up several times and haphazardly stitched in place. (After so many ‘accidental’ mishaps with his uniform, the school had stopped bothering to find him the right size replacements and his relatives couldn’t be bothered to care about the state of their nephew, so Kim Dokja was left to pick up the pieces, as always.) He was unusually bony and looked as if a particular passionate gust of wind would carry him away. If you looked carefully into his ensemble you would notice several concerning pinkish patches where it looked as if blood had been vigorously scrubbed out.
The teenager himself looked pale as if he had not seen the sun in at least a year. He sported dark circles under his eyes which matched the bruises you would find under his uniform in easy to cover places.
His bullies today had made sure to wrap him in large fabrics before releasing their anger and need to feel superior on him; thus, there were no identifiable scuff marks on his uniform. He knew better than to tell a teacher. They would either assume he was lying or it would be covered up by the offender's parents. The headmaster was a greedy greedy man after all, weak to the right encouragement.
He knew he would have to wait for all after-school activities to close, so he could be truly alone. He was content to clean up his assigned classrooms as he waited, giving his classmates one final break before subjecting the whole school to a blaze of rumors. The sight of Kim Dokja’s body might be quite gruesome for the squeamish who couldn’t watch or take part in violence but had no problem verbally beating him.
Kim Dokja’s stomach growled in protest as he finally sat down. He didn’t remember his last proper home-cooked meal. Yesterday, he had treated himself to his favorite kimbap in his go to convenience store. He got the most expensive flavor and he got 5 of them so he could feel full. He felt pleased that he would never again have to push down complaints from the stomach that had not yet understood that it would never be satisfied.
He let himself embrace the angry yowls for the last time. He hoped wherever his soul was taken would satiate his body and his mind.
He knew someone would come to lock all the rooms soon and he would be able to close his story. He turned off all the lights in preparation and carefully arranged his stuff inside the closets.
He would never again see his things that he had fiercely protected from all who approached. He could proudly say the news reporters’ had never gotten the opportunity to take a look at ‘what the murderer's son hides in his bag’ though that didn’t mean they didn’t harass him in other ways. The bloodhounds would do anything for a scoop.
He gave his backpack one last mournful glance; it had served him well through all the years he had it. It was the only keepsake he allowed himself to keep from his mother. He threw away all the hurriedly thrown together birthday gifts over the years after she had betrayed him so viscerally.
He briefly remembered stilted questions and responses in an isolated, stifling room carefully watched from all sides with a little camera, red light blinking, blinking, blinking.
He had always hated being watched when most vulnerable. Being watched meant his father was waiting for a slip up, meant his fathers temper was on the rise, meant he better escape while he could. He quickly pushed those thoughts away.
Today was going to be a good day untainted by the past.
He tucked himself into the closet, held his breath and waited.
The monitor assigned to their hallway was a sickly old lady. She had no one left and had to work for her own health care, so she tended to only do the bare minimum. This trait of hers had helped him in many tight pinches so did the fact that she didn’t have time to spend time listening to rumors. She kept her nose out of current news, content to spend the time she had serenely.
She peaked her head into the classroom, gave it a cursory glance, locked the door, and moved along to the next room.
He waited until he heard her leave the hall then pulled out his phone to idle himself until the end of her shift and the time when the stragglers of the school would leave.
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Kim Dokja moved aside his desk. The school year was not yet over and still the desk was mutilated with carvings and ink. One particularly artistic bully of his had drawn a red spider lily on the inside of his desk accompanied by the real reference itself. It was a shame such a beautiful flower had such a horrid meaning, Kim Dokja could imagine finding peace in a field of these flowers. The only regret Kim Dokja would have is giving these bullies the thing they wanted the most for him.
Kim Dokja opened the window. He had day-dreamed the school year away (it had not been his first). When he looked at the stars that couldn’t be seen until the sun’s powerful glare moved along, he would one day think of Yoo Joonghyuk whose regression depression, as he lovingly liked to call it, was only seen once a reader looked past the brightness of his strength. Or how Yoo Joonhyuk’s love for his companions was only seen after the metallic shine of his blade passed through the still mortal flesh of his neck (he wondered what a death like that would feel like). Or how Yoo Joonghyuk’s more domestic talents were forced to stay hidden until Yoo Joonghyuk finally reached the end of the scenarios and found peace. Or just about Yoo Jonghyuk in general…
But now as he saw the sun all he thought was, this is the last time I will have to be collapsed on the ground watching the sun leave me behind.
Kim Dokja stepped on the ledge. He had rested his head here before and fallen asleep. It was nice while it lasted (a classmate had gently lifted his head up and slammed it down onto the very same ledge to wake him up for gym, how nice). He had rested a paper on the ledge when the carvings in his desk made it hard to write neatly.
Kim Dokja soaked in everything for the last time. This world had been cruel to him; he had not found a place among its people all for the sin of being born in an unstable house.
The stars could not intervene as he took a final step for their light was still overshadowed by that overbearing sun. Even the powerful, untameable wind was left to watch from afar as the sun had carefully controlled its heat.
Kim Dokja fell through the air. He felt like a bird. The rush of everything filled him up. The world was a blur. It was just him surrounded by the epiphany of a painter's brush. The colors swirled together highlighting his lone figure. Kim Dokja was the main character of this canvas.
Kim Dokja hit the ground. The journey of the colors ended all too soon. Everything mixed to a dull, murky grey.
Oh.
There was a lovely red coming out of him. Kim Dokja was vibrant.
Kim Dokja’s mind went dark. As it had so many times, his mind drifted. His colors were gone. He was back to black.
Wait.
He wanted to see the stars one last time. They would come out when the sky was black, right?
Kim Dokja drifted away.
This is the end, he thought resolutely.
Please let this be the end. I want to be loved happy free.
Kim Dokja could smell bitter all-encompassing antiseptic. Artificial scents assaulted him with metallic undertones.
Kim Dokja could feel aches deep in his body centered in a big glob in his head to neck area, in a sharp pin prick in his arm, and some cricks in his limbs. The softness over and under him did nothing to disguise the pain inside him.
Kim Dokja could hear small beeping noises and the hustle and bustle of multiple people with things to do and not enough time to do them.
Kim Dokja could taste itchiness. It surrounded his throat, and his tongue pulled roughly in his mouth.
Kim Dokja could not see. There was a heaviness in his eyes, but he could sense the sight of someone else. A feather light sensation of someone who cared, someone who would choose him over the world, an endless curiosity but if he could open his eyes he would see no one in his white, plain hospital room. Kim Dokja was 15 years old and he was entirely alone.
(When he later recalled the presence he put it off to meds making him loopy. A delusion made by a lonely child hoping for companionship. Who would wonder after an evil child?)
I failed. Waking for the first time after his escape attempt, Kim Dokja felt miserable. He cursed all who had heard his wish and disregarded it and him.