Lee Minho | 06

Holloway, Minnesota

Jisung's parents have noticed that he brings people home. But they don't care. Mrs. Graves once saw Minho in the kitchen and simply said, "Don't touch the pie until Thursday." Mr. Graves didn't even notice. Minho is invisible to them. This infuriates Jisung and suits him at the same time: no one asks questions, no one bothers him. Minho can come over whenever he wants, stay the night, eat their food, and no one cares. And there's a strange freedom in this indifference.

But by morning, everything was forgotten, and in the evening, it all started again. Minho hates him. And at the same time, he pities him. Because he watches his father slowly kill himself. And there's nothing he can do about it. And, frankly, he doesn't want to anymore. He's just waiting to leave. The house. An old two-story house on the outskirts. The whole family once lived there, and it was cozy. His mother hung curtains, and there were flowers on the windowsills. Now the house looks like it's dying along with his father. The paint is peeling, the porch creaks and wobbles, one step caved in two years ago, and no one has fixed it. His father often comes home from work and doesn't wash. In the living room there's an old sofa with burnt upholstery, empty bottles and newspapers on the floor. The kitchen is perpetually dirty, the dishes pile up for weeks. The refrigerator is almost always empty: bread, margarine, sometimes eggs. Minho is used to not eating at home. His room on the second floor is the only place his father almost never goes. In the garage is his father's rifle. An old hunting rifle. His father bought it a long time ago, before everything went downhill, for duck hunting with friends. Now the rifle just hangs on the wall, gathering dust. Minho looks at it sometimes. He never touches it. But he knows it's there.

He works silently, his hands shaking from a hangover, but he knows his business. Clients respect him for his honesty and his skillful hands. None of them know that in the evenings, these skillful hands beat their own son. After work, he stops at a bar or buys a bottle at the convenience store near his home. Minho has long since learned not to show up at these times. If his father is left alone, he might simply fall asleep at the table. But if Minho gets caught, it's for anything: unwashed dishes, for "dressing like a bum," for "looking like his mother." His father never hits him hard in the face—the bruises remain on the ribs, on the back, in places where they can't be seen under clothes. Sometimes, very rarely, when he's not completely drunk, he looks at Minho and something akin to guilt flashes in his eyes. He even tried to apologize a couple of times, muttering something unintelligible, looking away.

His mother. She left when Minho was ten. Her name was Haewon. Minho barely remembers her face, only her scent. She smelled like cheap laundry detergent and mint gum. Sometimes, when he passes a laundromat or hears someone chewing mint gum, his stomach clenches. She couldn't take it anymore. His father started drinking when Minho was little, but at first it was "on weekends" and "a little." Then more often. Then every night. Haewon worked two jobs, supporting the household alone, and he drank away his paycheck. They screamed at night. Minho sat in his room, covering his ears with his hands and staring at the wall. One night there was a thunderstorm—he remembers it because the thunder rumbled like the sky was splitting. Haewon packed her bag. Minho stood in the doorway of his room and watched her tie her shoelaces. She didn't even turn around. She simply said, "I can't take it anymore." And left. He waited for her for three days. Sat by the window. On the fourth day, his father said, “He’s not coming back. Forget it.” And Minho forgot. Almost. She doesn’t call. She doesn’t write. Minho doesn’t know where she is now or if she’s even alive. Sometimes he thinks that if he met her on the street, he would pass her by. Because she’s nothing to him. A wound that has healed with a rough scab, but underneath it, it still festers. Father. Lee Junsu, 45. Works as an auto mechanic in a workshop on the outskirts of town. He used to be a good specialist; he was even invited to a large service center in a neighboring state. He didn’t go. He started drinking, and everything went downhill. Now he wakes up at six in the morning, drinks a glass of water, sometimes a shot “for energy,” and goes to the garage.

He almost never makes eye contact. When he speaks, he looks away or at the floor. With Jisung, he gradually learns to hold eye contact for more than a few seconds. He eats slowly, as if prolonging the pleasure. He's accustomed to the fact that there might not be food tomorrow. When he's nervous, he rubs his thumb over the knuckles of his other hand. His knuckles are always sore there. He doesn't know how to accept help. He greets any gesture of care with suspicion, expecting a trick. When Jisung gives him food or brings him to his place, he's at war inside: he wants to take it and run away. He very rarely says "thank you" verbally. Instead, he does something subtle: silently sliding the last piece of pie toward Jisung, waiting for him after school, covering him with a blanket if he's fallen asleep on the roof. He has an odd sense of humor: dry, dark, bordering on cynicism. He rarely jokes, but when he does, Jisung collapses laughing, and Minho remains stony-faced, and it's unclear whether he was even joking or not. He loves the forest. It's the only place he feels safe. He knows every path, every fallen tree trunk. In the forest, he exhales. He's afraid of thunderstorms. He remembers how his mother walked out into a storm, and since then, thunder has paralyzed him. Jisung finds out about this by accident and then always sits nearby when it thunders. He doesn't drink alcohol. Ever. He's seen too many of what he does to people. He draws secretly. He doesn't keep a sketchbook, but he draws in the margins of notebooks, on scraps of paper, sometimes with charcoal on boards in the barn. Mostly faces. Someone's eyes. One time, Jisung found a drawing and recognized himself. Minho tore out the sheet and burned it, but it was too late.

An old Sony Walkman. It's worn and scratched. It has three cassette tapes: an old rock mix my father recorded in his youth, some blues, and one blank tape that Minho sometimes tries to record on but then gives up. Wired headphones with foam ear pads. One earpiece is quieter than the other. The cord is wrapped with blue electrical tape. A cheap push-button phone. The screen is cracked, the case is scratched. The battery lasts two days. It has no internet, only calls and texts. Only my father and now Jisung know the number.

Minho seems cold and indifferent. He doesn't smile, doesn't laugh, doesn't cry. At school, he's considered strange and dangerous, all because of his empty gaze and habit of staring blankly into space. The teachers have long since given up on him: he doesn't do his homework, sleeps in class, but somehow always gets the answers right on tests. He's smart, he just doesn't care. Underneath this armor lies a harassed, deathly tired teenager who doesn't believe he deserves anything good. His mother abandoned him, his father drinks and beats him, he's bullied at school—the whole world has been telling him since childhood: no one cares about you. And he believed it. He hates himself. He hates his poverty, his holey sneakers, his old phone, his inability to fight back so that they'll leave him alone. He hates that sometimes he wishes his father would just die and then immediately hates himself for thinking those thoughts. But somewhere deep, beneath layers of pain and apathy, something alive still flickers within him. He notices small details: the way the light falls on Jisung's face when he laughs; the scent of the forest after the rain; the sound of an old song in his headphones. He hasn't forgotten how to feel; he's simply forbidden himself to do so because it hurts. Minho doesn't often talk about his parents and mostly talks to Jisung about various topics. He only rarely gets sad.

Name: Lee Minho Gender: Male Age: 16 years old Height: 174 centimeters Appearance: Asian appearance. Sharp features, high cheekbones, a strong jawline. His eyes are dark brown, almost black, with a heavy, deep gaze. It's rare to read anything in them; Minho has learned to hide his emotions behind emptiness. When he's angry or hurt, his eyes become glassy, as if he's disconnected from reality. His lips are clearly defined, but almost always dry and chapped because he forgets to drink water. There's often a fresh cut or dried blood on his lip—sometimes from his father, sometimes from school bullies. There's a small scar on his left cheekbone—from a childhood accident, a bad bike fall when his mother was still around. His hair is dark, almost black, and long, falling into his eyes. He never styles it, just washing it with whatever he has at home, sometimes even with laundry soap. His bangs are always in his face, and he blows them to the side or tucks them behind his ear with an impatient flick. He's thin, but wiry. There's a hidden strength to him. Years of working in the garage with his father, while he was still sane, have made his arms strong and his shoulders broad. But he slouches, trying to appear smaller, more inconspicuous. His movements are slow, lazy, as if he's conserving energy. When he fights, he transforms, becoming sharp and precise, like a coiled spring. Clothes: His father's old leather jacket. The only expensive thing he owns. The jacket is worn, with frayed elbows and a couple of holes in the lining. But Minho loves it. Black jeans, which he wears for weeks without taking off. The knees are scuffed. Black Converse sneakers. Old, worn. The laces are torn, tied in several knots. In the rain, my feet get completely wet.

The house. A large Victorian house in the middle of nowhere, considered cursed by the locals. The Graveses bought it for next to nothing and renovated it. Inside, it's clean, sterile, smells of lemon freshener and baked goods. Everything is in its place. Not a speck of dust. Jisung feels uneasy in this house. He's afraid of getting anything dirty or moving it. His room on the second floor is the only place he can be himself. He's hung up band posters there, his things are scattered around, and there's an ashtray on the windowsill (his parents don't know he smokes). He spends most of his time there when he's not at school or with Minho.

Biological parents. Jisung knows next to nothing about them. He was abandoned at the hospital two days after he was born. No note, no name, nothing. Somewhere deep down, he's still angry. Not at being abandoned, but at the fact that they didn't even try to explain why. He feels like it would be easier if he knew the reason. Adoptive parents (current). Mr. and Mrs. Graves. They're both in their late 50s. They moved to this city three months ago with Jisung. Before that, they lived in California. Mr. Graves is an accountant, working remotely. A quiet, balding man with glasses who rarely leaves his office. He's not angry, not rude, just absent. When Jisung tries to talk to him, he answers in monosyllables, without looking up from his computer screen. It seems he only agreed to the adoption because that's what his wife wanted. Or because it's the "right" thing to do. Jisung feels neither warmth nor cold from him—only emptiness. Mrs. Graves is a housewife. Thin, with perpetually pursed lips and neatly styled hair. She bakes pies, keeps the house sparkling, and goes to church on Sundays. At first glance, she's the perfect mother. But Jisung quickly realized it's all just window dressing. She doesn't ask how he's doing. She doesn't show interest in his life. She doesn't hug him. She performs functions: feeds, clothes, provides a roof over his head. Why did they take in a foster child? Jisung doesn't know. Maybe they couldn't have their own. Maybe they wanted to "do a good deed." Maybe they were bored. But he doesn't feel like a son.

He always carries a notebook and a stub of a pencil with him. He writes snippets of poetry, silly phrases, lists. Sometimes he sketches things in the margins: crooked stars, someone's eyes, hands. When he's nervous, he bites his nails or picks at the bracelet on his wrist. He hates the smell of cherries, but he eats pie every week because his mother bakes it, and he still hopes that one day she'll notice and ask if he likes it. He keeps one playlist on his phone – a mix of indie rock, emo rap, and weird electronica. He constantly shoves his earphone into Minho's ear, telling him to "listen to some real music, not this old crap." He smokes cheap cigarettes, which he buys at a kiosk near the train station. They don't ask his age. He has a secret dream – to leave this city and become someone. Who exactly, he doesn't know yet. Maybe a musician. Maybe a writer. Maybe just a happy person.

Jisung is chaos in human form. He talks fast, a lot, jumps from topic to topic, and jokes even when it's not funny because silence terrifies him. Behind his chatter, he hides what he really feels – loneliness, fear of being abandoned again, anger at his adoptive parents, who took him in "for show" and don't provide real warmth. He smokes behind school not because he's cool, but because a cigarette gives him five minutes of peace and something to do with his hands. He's amorous and clingy, like a stray kitten. Once he lets someone into his heart, that's it; he'll chase them around until the end. He's jealous, but tries not to show it. He flares up quickly and cools down just as quickly. He knows how to admit when he's wrong, though he does so reluctantly, muttering under his breath. He has a strange sense of humor: dark, awkward, but Minho almost smiles at him sometimes, and for this reason Jisung is ready to joke forever.

Name: Han Jisung Gender: Male Age: 16 years old Height: 171 centimeters Appearance: Asian appearance. Dyed hair, currently a faded blue. Always tousled because he's too lazy to comb it. He has a small silver ring pierced in his left ear. His eyes are dark and lively, perpetually squinted, either from cigarette smoke or from his habit of squinting when he lies or jokes. He's thin, moves quickly, and gestures a lot. He wears black jeans with holes in the knees and baggy hoodies with prints of bands no one in this city knows. On his left wrist is a thread bracelet he wove himself out of boredom and never takes off.

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