[ The way Akira is poised as the images fade projects confidence; his breathing isn't ragged and his gaze is focused, not panicked. It last about a second until he drops down, crouching on his knees, and punches the floor. ]
...fuck. [ His right hand is clenched, the leather taut. ]
[ Dokja steadies himself on his legs, it's a memory he remembers before. Something in passing. His mind shakes, steady, he recomposes even as he feels out of breath. The sight of the children he travels with is a fond thought. However, a memory of his childhood... it always has a way of having him shut down. This time, though, he pushes it away, shakes his head, and tells himself to focus on the here and now. However, his attention is brought to the teen when he drops down and he moves to him. ]
...You saw it. [ His voice is quiet, more of a statement than a question. Anything else he might say doesn't come out. It's not the kind of memory you go talking about to anything, and yet there it was on display for him to see. ]
Is that so... [ Huh. As for the question, he goes silent. When he finally talks- Dokja seems to be looking at his own hands. ]
He was killed. [ ... ] Domestic violence, gambling... my mother and I lived in fear every day. There wasn’t a single day without bruises. [ It's probably an obvious enough sign what led to the man's fate, but Dokja continues as though telling a tale. ] My mother went to jail, leaving her single child alone.
[ A pause. ] There was a book called the Underground Killer. It was previously on the Kyobo bestsellers list. It was an essay written by an abused woman in prison after she killed her husband. It was praised by critics at the time. ..My mother had wrote it. I still remember the time a bunch of reporters waited in front of my house. They kept asking me if the essay was real. I remember everything my classmates said. They told me that my mother made money by selling murder. My relatives also said this. "Your mother is a murderer. How dare she slip her face into the newspapers?"
..Not that my relatives cared, they didn't actually care for me. Any money they used on themselves. [ He had been neglected. Bullied. It was a bit hard because of this. No, it was hard for a long time. After a few moments, he laughs. It's empty, there's no real meaning to it. This is the exact conversation he had with Yoo Sangah and it's strange for it to be coming out like this. How fresh his answer was on his mind. However, by now, he knows better. ]
It's a lot to take in. Do you think he got what he deserved? [ Even if someone didn't approve, it won't change what happened. The man was dead and Dokja strongly believed someone like him was meant to die. ]
There's no other ending for people like him, for people like my father. [ He heaves a shy and shakes his head. ]
I never knew my father until he was dead, so it's not the same. My mother was worse than useless, but I guess she didn't kill girls so that's something maybe. I'd have killed my father myself if one of his victims didn't beat me to it.
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...fuck. [ His right hand is clenched, the leather taut. ]
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...You saw it. [ His voice is quiet, more of a statement than a question. Anything else he might say doesn't come out. It's not the kind of memory you go talking about to anything, and yet there it was on display for him to see. ]
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...seeing murders is easier than that. Sorry, I didn't mean to look but I always...
[ He shakes his head, almost in an effort to match the jumbled thoughts in his head. ]
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It's alright. You don't have to apologize. This isn't the first memory I've unwillingly shared, so I know how impossible it is to not view it.
[ His hand trembles but he fights to recompose himself, steady steady. ]
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[ ... ]
Did you get to deal with him?
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He was killed. [ ... ] Domestic violence, gambling... my mother and I lived in fear every day. There wasn’t a single day without bruises. [ It's probably an obvious enough sign what led to the man's fate, but Dokja continues as though telling a tale. ] My mother went to jail, leaving her single child alone.
[ A pause. ] There was a book called the Underground Killer. It was previously on the Kyobo bestsellers list. It was an essay written by an abused woman in prison after she killed her husband. It was praised by critics at the time. ..My mother had wrote it. I still remember the time a bunch of reporters waited in front of my house. They kept asking me if the essay was real. I remember everything my classmates said. They told me that my mother made money by selling murder. My relatives also said this. "Your mother is a murderer. How dare she slip her face into the newspapers?"
..Not that my relatives cared, they didn't actually care for me. Any money they used on themselves. [ He had been neglected. Bullied. It was a bit hard because of this. No, it was hard for a long time. After a few moments, he laughs. It's empty, there's no real meaning to it. This is the exact conversation he had with Yoo Sangah and it's strange for it to be coming out like this. How fresh his answer was on his mind. However, by now, he knows better. ]
It's a lot to take in. Do you think he got what he deserved? [ Even if someone didn't approve, it won't change what happened. The man was dead and Dokja strongly believed someone like him was meant to die. ]
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There's no other ending for people like him, for people like my father. [ He heaves a shy and shakes his head. ]
I never knew my father until he was dead, so it's not the same. My mother was worse than useless, but I guess she didn't kill girls so that's something maybe. I'd have killed my father myself if one of his victims didn't beat me to it.
[ ...so maybe he gets it, a little. ]
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[ It's a heavy topic, those dark unsettling emotions still swimming in him but he keeps himself as composed to the best of his ability. ]
People like that don't really deserve to be in this world.
[ Finally, a sigh leaves him. Of all the memories to share... it had to be that huh. ]
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[ He looks off to the side, to provide space for Dokja to get himself back together. ]
This kinda stuff the whole week makes me wish we had a bar.