Chapter Text
He was tired, so fucking tired.
Yesterday had been rough and to say he was exhausted seemed like an extreme understatement. Just sitting in his seat, trying to listen to his teacher’s monotonous voice, drained his energy bit by bit. Every muscle in his body screamed for rest. The idea of sleeping in class or at least just daydreaming being ever so tempting on his mind.
But he knew better than that and no matter how much he cursed himself, at the end of the day he was thankful for being able to go to school. Somewhat at least. Rather sooner than later he wanted to leave this city behind and a good degree would certainly speed up job hunting later on by a lot. His possibilities were already scarred enough by his mother, not to mention everything else.
Only one glance at his scribbled desk confirms it for him. The entire surface is covered with profanities, only a few hidden by his open note book which should be filled with... you know, notes.
Damn, he let his thoughts wander again. What was the one thing he told himself not to do? It appears his aunt was right when calling him a good-for-nothing. How the fuck did he miss his teacher writing on the blackboard? He usually couldn't overhear the screeching of the chalk no matter how hard he tried to. His whole body felt repulsed and even when it was over the sound would spiral in his head. It made him want to shove her face onto the board with as much force as he could muster until he'd never have to hear the sound again. This is not what he should be thinking. It isn't his teacher’s fault. He knows that. He just can't bring himself to care enough. Also, he probably wouldn't even be able to do it with the poor excuse of strength he had left in his body. To see him try would be hilarious though, certainly an image that would be stuck in his mind for the day.
He should really focus right now, it is the first lesson so far and he has five more to go. Sighting quietly, he starts copying the notes made for the class.
Four hours later he finally gained enough energy to actually follow the lecture.
The day also immensely improved because he hadn't had to interact with Song Minwoon or any of his followers today.
Although something keeps gnawing at the back of his mind, something must have slipped from his memory. Lost in his thoughts he scratches his head. Ahhhh.... Fuck.
He remembers now, but he really wishes he didn't. Oh, how he longs for a reality where he could enjoy the time without a constant reminder weighing down his mood. Well, nothing he can do about it, the consequences would never justify it.
He tries to be discrete while using his phone under the table. Nobody needs to know what is going on the screen and he doesn't like the attention when getting caught. He checks his notifications nonetheless. Seeing he isn't free in the afternoon, he attempts not to grimace by keeping a straight face, not wanting let his class mates to notice. He is aware how paranoid that sounds, but he had learned that showing any kind of vulnerability, even counting simple emotions, already is considered as asking for it. And he really didn't need that, especially not today.
Hours seem to pass very slowly and he catches his mind time and time again drifting off.
An eternity must have gone by till the bell finally rings, signalling the end of the school day.
He must have put a curse on himself by feeling glad about not having to see much of that bastards face earlier.
Well, it seems like he played himself.
Since he rushed out, packing his school bag in record time, the urgency evident in every move he makes, he might have forgotten to check beforehand if any nuisances were waiting for him in front of the back entrance. Considering that everybody knows that Kim Dokja’s life is plastered by luck, it was to be expected that Song Minwoon and his underlings had it out for him.
Well, too late to go back in. He will just have to play it cool. Keeping an unbothered facade, he walked past them like he was just another unsuspecting student and not the one they had been searching for.
His extremely thought through plan surely would have worked, if not for one of the guys in the group looking up from his phone, perhaps sensing something was up. The look he gave him was a brainless stare until a flash of recognition kicked in.
At that point Kim Dokja knew it was already too late for him, nevertheless he broke into a sprint.
In a matter of seconds, they became alarmed and chased after him. The image of a dog hunt came to his mind while sprinting away. The rabbit, scared, running for his life and the dogs with their clashing teeth, falling in motion to satisfy their bloodlust as soon as they were freed from the leash. Every single one of them is certainly as dumb as a dog. If only he had the stamina of a rabbit. Or any stamina at all. Maybe if it had been another day he could have made it, but today he already felt physically exhausted just from walking. His lung screamed for air and he felt the throbbing side stitches worsen. A hand grabbing his collar shuttered his remaining hope of getting away. He can assure them, the little fur and flesh they can acquire from him, will by no means fulfil them. Not that they would listen.
A hiss was ripped from his throat when the back of his head made contact with the ground. Mud came into the little wounds left behind whenever he got too stressed and scratched his scalp open to the point of bleeding. Might not have been the smartest move. Seeing the amusement in their faces, he couldn't keep himself from praying for them to die soon. Can you blame him?
They must have somehow recognized a speck of defiance in his facial expression, because Kim Dokja clearly noticed the change of demeanour.
"Got a problem?"
When he didn't answer, Song Minwoon kicked him in the stomach after saying "didn't think so", interpreting his silence as a negotiation.
Oh, how he wished to mouth off, but knowing them, that would only conclude into a much longer and more agonizing session.
The kick stung and he knew the pain would continue to linger for a while.
A scowl creeps unconsciously on his face. Arrogant fucking prick.
"Do you think this is unfair? You think you don't deserve the treatment we give you? Well, I've said it before, I will say it again. Your mother should have killed you as well that day. I bet she wanted to was prevented that day Don't you want to fulfil her wish? You should end what she started. "
Maybe those words should hurt him. Maybe they are supposed to make him feel some type of way, but he heard similar too often and he stopped caring a long time ago. After all it started out this way, before Song Minwoon began to use physical violence to cope. When the news first got out, he lost his cool as soon as they mentioned his mother. And it's not like he never tried to fight back either. Both of those things were in the past. Alongside becoming indifferent, he learned the more he tried to fight, the more brutal they became and the longer it would last. He couldn't afford to waste any time. So, he gave up, learned in which position it hurt the least and how to protect his face from getting injured. After all he could cover-up everything besides it. Bandages, turtlenecks, long sleeves in summer, gloves or makeup, he used it all. He tried with every means possible to look presentable.
Of course, none of the above kept it from hurting. And while he naturally tried to avoid taking punches, he made his peace with it. It aches for sure, but it was bearable. The perpetrator being an immature middle schooler limits his ability compared to a grown man reaching to a whole other level.
Kim Dokja rolled over to his side to avoid another boot in his stomach. Instead, the sharp throbbing pain spreads over the lower part of his back.
He only began (begins) to notice himself clenching his teeth once the resulting pressure makes itself known. Not that he will change it now though. He'd rather off himself then let Song Minwoon have the satisfaction of forcing him to let out embarrassing noises.
Not that it would mean much nor that it never happened before. He would rather be dead than a lot of different things and Song Minwoon has too much fun humiliating others, than to waste an opportunity like this. Making hate his own voice is a rather harmless action by Minwoon's standards.
There was no end in sight.
He hears them laughing, leaving his field of vision. They laughed a lot, from when this first started lasting till today. Kim Dokja doesn't get it. It's all the same. There is nothing new about him that could bring them amusement if not situations they've created themselves. But from day one to this day on, they laugh. It's not fair. Why do they have the right to laugh and he doesn't? What makes them that much better of a person then him? Why do they get the kind of life where they can laugh so freely and he gets this one? He is sure, that if he counted, they must have laughed more on this very day than him this whole year. What a joke. Did his mother damn him to this life or did he? There is no one who can say.
They left. Should have had better things to do in the first place. Immature bastards. Kim Dokja mourns for his ribs and not least for the sake of the lost time. He lets himself breath in and out once and after urging himself to do so, he gets up with a lot of groaning. Slowly taking one step after the other, his focus stays on making precise movements.
He just has to think of walking as a monotonous task or a test of endurance. Dividing the procedure into smaller parts, his only goal now is to reach the subway station. Everything else he can focus on later and the only way to fail is collapsing. And surely that won't happen. He's been in worse conditions and made his way there without a problem, so no matter how intense his body screams at him to sit down and have a break, he just has to keep going. He just has to stop himself from thinking about alternatives.
Thankfully he looks up in time.
A group of reporters has gathered in front of the school building, unsuccessfully hiding near the path he usually walks home. The atmosphere is dull and their expressions disappointed. Of course, he can only assume, but he would bet on his right knee not getting severed off, that those reporters had been waiting for him and now believe to have missed him.
Damn, did he only dodge them due to Song Minwoon's little beating session? Does he now have to thank the prick? Maybe he should cry the next time they come to let off steam on him, that would certainly get the dumb fuck off. He'd rather not. Nonetheless, those people were inevitably looking for something or someone and he is pretty sure he recognizes some of their faces. Why the fuck wouldn't they leave him alone? Even if they were to meet him, he would tell them shit, so there is nothing to gain for them. On the other hand, there is much to lose for him. Apart from the obvious complications, were they to catch him in an adverse situation he would have a problem and then his aunt and uncle would have a problem and he would have a problem again.
At least he noticed them this time early on and was able to avoid them, which without much hesitation leads to him taking another route causing a waste of time and a dozen complains from his bones. Still better than the alternative.
Luckily, he makes his way without any further obstacles.
During the whole subway ride, his eyes are glued to the clock on his phone, never once letting the little numbers on the display out of sight. It should be enough time. But he can't shake off tension he always feels on his way back.
Kim Dokja switches his phone off and uses the remaining time till arrival to straighten his clothes out and brush off remaining dirt from his jacket.
The following trail he crosses by foot again. It leads him through increasing narrower side streets, in areas which you should rather stay away from. He ends up in a populous neighbourhood, although the closer you take a look the more flashing are the warning signs. The lack of children or even teens tells you everything there is to know. Kim Dokja wished he made a wrong turn. Or well, if you think about it he made a lot of wrong turns or he wouldn't be here in the first place. He rushes as fast and unnoticeable as possible to his destination.
There, already on the lookout for him, stands a man in formal attire, repeatedly checking his watch. A look of relief crosses his face as soon he spots Kim Dokja. Through this he could conclude that the mood inside is already down the drain. Which also means he is gonna get more than an earful, once the bruises on his body were discovered. Damn him and his bad luck.
Better get ready quickly.
Through a backdoor he hushed quickly into the establishment, up a small staircase, down a narrow corridor and in a side door. Into his room. A fairly cramped room, typical for this kind of building. One last look at the time leads him to rush in the bathroom, deliberately ignoring his reflection in the mirror. Showering as fast as possible, while trying not to get soap into the scratch wounds. While they normally don't hurt as much, when the hot water pours down, it stings and burns even without soap entering.
After drying off, he slips into the clothes laid out for him. His work uniform.
Through a knock, a staff member lets them self be known. They do not wait for a response and instead intrude with no further comment.
The employee musters Kim Dokja.
He didn't wait long to express his concerns.
" You are in time."
His voice was calm but had a slightly astounded tone to it. Did this dim-witted fucker just imply, that he thought Kim Dokja not arriving late was so unbelievable, that he had to explicitly comment on it?
" Yes, sir. "
Good heavens, to speak his mind for once. Letting out everything he had been keeping to himself, till his thoughts run dry and his mind could refill with more hopeful beliefs. How metaphorical. Sometimes he wishes he could work as an author, write it all down and let the world hear it.
" Your client, Mr. Yun, will be there in 10 minutes. He has a preference for being watched while masturbating. It’s a new high paying customer. So…-"
He left a pause and looked Kim Dokja intently in the eyes.
" The service is comparatively low for the amount of money we get for it, so do it properly and don’t you dare slack off. "
What a nice way to be brought back to the reality of being a brothel whore.
" Yes, sir. "
The employee scanned over Kim Dokja, until he spotted something he deemed disgraceful enough to point it out. Petty prick. You could see his nostrils flare before he began to pick on Kim Dokja.
" You got into a fight again, didn't you? Don't you try to hide it, I can see the bruises from here. You got lucky today, that the customer didn't ask for more. What would you do if he wants to see your body? Try to cover them up before his arrival. And learn to think before you act. Don't believe for a second, I won't report this. "
Alright, maybe it was not as small as he made it out to be, but this wasn't his fault, so it doesn't count.
They had reacted quite strongly when they first found out about his injuries, both self-inflicted and not.
How caring. Oh, the irony. He got affectionately introduced to some unspoken rules and even got some friendly advice on top. They give less than a shit as long as there are no visible wounds. Everything comes too late for the scars on his legs, so they let him proceed with that however he seems fit. They also don't care about the scratch wounds at the back of his head, since they aren't usually or only barely evident, covered by his hair. Those are the exceptions.
Sounds generous at first, but soon you realize that the most wounds or bruises he gets are not self-induced. Now the problem: Any type of harm made by others is not on the list. His explanations fell on deaf ears and now it wasn't only Kim Dokja who told himself, that it was his own fault for getting beat up.
Obviously, none of that came from their goodwill. Some customers get put off by bruises and similar things. Especially the one's on the well-mannered side start questioning their morals or simply get uncomfortable. Undoubtedly the extreme opposite isn't completely uncommon either. Sometimes when a customer booked him beforehand and let them now their preferences, the staff even encouraged him to let himself get caught by his tormentors or alternatively did it themselves. But since he can't really decide over what Song Minwoon and his pears do, he started getting more and more violent clients. And a few regulars with a saviour complex. Fucking hypocrites.
God, he hates them all.
"My apologies, sir. "
The employee sights and puts on a show trying to look as disappointed as possible, to make Kim Dokja better himself at something he can't change.
As if him crying crocodile tears would change anything about that.
The staff member looked once more at him as though they were having a heartfelt conversation and he wasn't just hoping to squeeze the highest profit out of Kim Dokja.
" Afterwards you will come down stairs and entertain some guests. Following that you are allowed to end your shift. "
Trying to appear considerate, hmm? They don't say it out right, but he knows very well he will have to work late into the night nonetheless.
" Thank you, sir. "
Kim Dokja observes him when he goes out the door. Even if the facility let them know the servant’s names, he wouldn't bother to remember them. While the higher-ups got anxious over the possibility of them connecting together, he felt delighted whenever the person who came in kept to them self.
He switches the lights to a dull red glow.
Afterwards he positions himself on the bed, trying to look at least somewhat inviting and not letting his customer smile slip off. Put on a brave face and bear with it.
A few minutes pass before the door opens again.
The man that enters the room must be his client, he presumes.
Right behind him, the employee he encountered beforehand gave him a stern glance as if to remind him to not fuck this up. The door closed.
After standing up, Kim Dokja bows to Mister Yun to politely greet him. Not exactly following the proper etiquette he remains silent afterwards and keeps his eyes on the ground.
" Your name is Guwon, right? How fitting. "
Judging by his tone he is more amused than annoyed by him, which leads Kim Dokja to look up.
He has to make it through, one way or another. His client is still checking him out, to engrossed to notice his change in behaviour. It makes him shudder. The way he stares much too hard at the few exposed areas as if to burn them into his memory feels vulgar and nauseating.
He stays like this, until his customer seems satisfied enough and his gaze wanders to Dokja’s eyes, searching for something in his sight. Eventually having found it, Mr. Yun slowly opens a pocket of his coat and takes out a bundle of money. Kim Dokja takes it, but avoids to touch his hand.
" Thank you, Sir. "
He is quite glad about it because he now has a reason to break eye contact, since he has to pass by the client to stroll to a dresser to start the timer which is placed on it.
Mister Yun requested a one-hour visit, so he carefully sets the alarm precisely for the duration. As if it was a standard procedure he draws out the time it takes him to count the cash as long as possible. He is set on trying to waste time by making sure it is the right amount a couple of times over. Once he is sure he won't get away with it another time, he places the money into a drawer of a closet.
Mr Yun seems mildly agitated, but the promise of the soon following action keeps him from saying it out loud. But our lovely air headed moron forgot something.
" Before we start the session, please take a shower as stated in our policies, Sir. "
Mister Yun looks like he wants to argue with that, but only grunts and makes his way into the bathroom while Kim Dokja leads the way.
The tension leaves his body for a bit, after his customer is out of the room. Sadly, there is no time to squander because he has to bring the money to the counter in the meantime.
Kim Dokja rushes back up, but this time places himself on the ground. Telling himself he has done this a hundred times before, doesn't stop his breathing from becoming slightly erratic. It feels like an invisible weight presses him down. The core of his nervousness settles down to his stomach, which is all wrong somehow.
Fuck this shit. Why do people like the ones who come here even exist? Why can't they just kill themselves the second they become aware of their preference? He certainly would have. Fuck, even now he would like to. Everything is better than to see this guy’s revolting, filthy, shrivelled up dick. Sure, he should be grateful that it is just that and not more, but it fills him with wrath and a sense of defeat instead. In which world is that something to be happy about? And why is it his world?
The door squeals open and Mr Yun enters, only a towel around his hips.
"I see you're already at your assigned spot. I take that as you've been briefed which services I booked? This time I'll just want to see if you fit my criteria and if I can imagine visiting you frequently. Nothing's more of a turn off then having to train them again and again. Better stick to one. I will figure out if I can get off with you and if there is time remaining, you can blow me one. "
He means will, not can. It's not like Kim Dokja has a choice. It's not like there was a need to spell all that out either. Maybe the guy secretly jerks off to his own voice or something. By the way he acts Kim Dokja is sure it's not his first time at such an establishment, so he concludes his customer must be an airhead. If he would have wanted a special task he formerly didn't mention, then alright, since that would require an extra payment. But he literally told that to the staff word by word.
Completely oblivious of Kim Dokja mental mocking, mister Yun sits down on the bed and frees his lower region of the confinement of the towel and Kim Dokja of the last barrier which kept the overwhelming sensation of disgust at bay.
He forces himself to not look repulsed and mimics a yearning stare.
Mr Yuns hands have already lowered themselves and started playing with his abomination. A few minutes pass as he strokes it to erection, his eyes are blown wide from pleasure. The noises are unbearable. Suffocating in this otherwise silent room. Mister Yuns movements grow faster, more desperate and he soon begins to squint his eyes.
Even in normal situation, Kim Dokja hates it if people breath loudly, especially if it's quiet all-around, but sadly you can't just approach a person and tell them to stop breathing. For some reason, they never take it kindly. So, it usually ends with him having viciously brutal fantasies about the ways he could make them shut up. With that in mind it is fairly easy to guess how he regards his client; whose shallow uneven pants get louder with every minute that passes. The consequences to choking a customer to death would probably be immeasurable, but what if he just destroys his ears and his ability to hear respectively. Or even better, end it all. Wishful thinking.
A hand grabs a tuft of his hair. Again.
In his disgust he did not notice the man approaching. Seems like he finished once already, judging by the crumpled tissue besides him.
" Don't think you can get away with not paying attention. You're here to ensure I have a good time. "
Mr Yun pulls Dokja up by neck, further inducing his already existing neck pain he developed from his bad sitting posture.
Their faces are repulsively close together and it takes him all the discipline he has not to pull back. The knot in his stomach which lessened in the last minutes is back in full force. He can do it, he did it before. His customer undeniably didn't ask for much and he has done so significantly worse shit in the past. He tries to steady his inhalation and keep down the hatred he feels for himself, the sounds he makes blaring in his ears. All while Mr Yun musters his face and complexion. Then he smiles and comes even closer. His lips are soft but dry and Kim Dokja almost retched. He claws his nails into his legs but reciprocates anyways. He spent years in this job, he knows how to make a customer feel good.
This fucker slid his tongue in too, Dokja doesn't know why he thought he wouldn't.
When this all started, he got pretty quickly that he couldn't save himself from their touches when they whored him out. He then remembered that some prostitutes withhold certain things like kissing or other services that they don't consider as 'too bad' but like to keep them for themselves. In hindsight he could totally relate to this. He wanted something to save up for a relationship or a person he actually likes what he can connect with actual shared vulnerable intimacy. Something that would differentiate them from a client and what wouldn't make him think of this living hell. Well, they took that from him with all of his other firsts. He has nothing to give and nothing to receive.
It had been a dumb dream from the start. A delusion. First, the thought that they would give him the decision over that and second, that all of that is based on the idea that he will get out of this. Of course, he has to believe in a chance to escape, but deep down he knows he can't. Not from the industry and not from the perverted Mr Yun sitting right in front him.
"Honey don't space out, we still got time. You know what you promised. "
Kim Dokja promises he'll fucking kill him if given the chance. One look at the clock tells him that unfortunately mister Yun is right. He reaches to the night stand and frees one condom of its packaging. Back to Mr Yun, he single-handedly coaxes him back to full hardness. Kim Dokja skilfully slips the condom on with ease. He slowly lowers his mouth, putting his hands on the client's upper legs in the process. The contact of his mouth and rubber-like material feels alienating. It's weirdly warm and causes him to perceive himself as beneath and inferior. The sensation confines him. Once he starts to use his mouth the way he was trained to, he can sense that Mr Yun is pleased. His moans are louder this time and Kim Dokja sits closer to him and Dokja’s fist in his client’s face would feel so good. Is it rude to wish to be deaf? Or a murderer?
He keeps glancing at the timer to persuade himself to continue, since the session is almost over. Hoping to end it, he speeds up and soon after feels mister Yun finishing. The second Kim Dokja’s mouth is of his dick, Mr Yun takes the used condom off and lets it fall onto Dokja's lap while smiling. Fucking bitch.
"Come on, be a good boy. I'm not allowed to get a blowjob without protection on, so far so good. But there is no rule that keeps you from consuming what I so caringly made for you. "
The stare he gives him is expectant. The fuck he will do. The theory about Mr Yun being an absolute dimwit seems to have been right all along, if he isn't able to memorize how much fucking minutes he booked. So, with slowest movements humanely possible he grabs the filled condom and guides it to his mouth. Before he is even halfway up, the clock rings. Dokja lets his hand fall down.
Mr Yuns expression is clearly unsatisfied, but he gets up nonetheless. Suck it up.
"Oh, well. At least that leaves us something for my next visit. And there definitely will be a next one. I'll have to train you accordingly, but your ethereal and stunning grace in contrast to the situation and the lewd outfit you're wearing would bring every male figure with a dick to lust after you. If I had been your father I definitely wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you. We'll work at your demeanor and bring you to a level where nobody can resist you. Till next time, my angel in white. "
He looked Dokja over one last time and grins to himself. He then swiftly leaves to the bathroom to get his garments.
Fuck. That sickened him more than the whole blowjob. The nausea rises up again. The freaking pervert really didn't need to pour salt in Dokja’s wounds. He really didn't want to think about anything he said. What the fuck did he do to him? Also, it's not like he gets to decide what to wear. For some reason white is a returning colour on his palette. They seem to think it fits him well, makes him look innocent and untainted. He hates wearing white. He gets unnecessarily happy every time they choose something black instead, before he can dismiss the emotion. There is nothing left in him that somebody could call pure. Neither his mind nor his body. On top of that, with white clothes every bruise, bloodstain or injury could easily be spotted. They loved that. They love the image of tarnishing something pure, corrupting it. It doesn't matter if he is actually pure they only need to make believe.
Disgusting folks.
When walking out, mister Yun turns around once more.
"You know what, here. Gotta invest in my future adored. "
He lays a few dollars bills on the dresser and leaves.
What a white knight. Kim Dokja wishes he could curse him some more but he really needs the money. No way in hell the owners would voluntarily give him any of the money they earned through him. And while they barely paid for some of the necessities, they couldn't care less how he got to school. It was a privilege that he could go to school in the first place and owed to a loyal customer of his. A teacher there, who would have guessed. The way is long so he could choose between standing up really early to get there in time or driving by train. And well, he needs a ticket for it. Sure, you don't inevitably get checked as soon as you enter a train, but the risk is too huge. If caught, he would be fucked. The payment fee is too high and for some dumb reason he gets checked really often. Kim Dokja keeps wondering if it is caused by his sometimes roughed up look and they think of him as a homeless person who can't afford to waste the money or if he has just extremely bad luck. Maybe it's both. And for fucks sake he's not gonna walk. At least if he can prevent it.
So, he kinda feels a misplaced sense of gratitude.
Ah fuck, he totally forgot about the used condom in his hand. Fortuna seems to be on his side today since nothing spilled onto his attire. He, in fact, does not want to touch it longer than necessary, so sprints into the restroom to dispose of it and while he's at it also wash out his mouth.
After quickly freshening up, Dokja strolls downstairs. While he passes the reception, he gets his pin and clips it on his clothes at chest height. The pin has a plain white design with his number in black in the middle, the 51. It's easier for booking-purposes.
Once he arrives at the main hall, the odor of overbearing perfume, alcohol and cigarette smoke instantly gives him a headache. The whole area gives the vibe of a bar which it more or less is. There a variety of drinks that you can order, but also meals and of course the main attraction: the people wearing numbers. There are two types, the ones that loiter in the area on lounges and often try to approach the guests and type two aka the waiters. Also, there are different services which can be demanded. First off, the most obvious one, to take them to a room upstairs like a regular booking or they hire them as a sort of host, to sit with them and to engage them. Kim Dokja was one lucky bastard, since it's late at night, the guest who came here to fuck most likely already left with somebody. The remaining customers either used the place like a regular bar or only wanted the employee to sit next to them.
Additionally, Kim Dokja works as a waiter, so he doesn't have to bear the shame of going up to god-knows-who and coerce them to wasting as much of their money as possible, which will probably end up as trying to get into their sheets.
Not that this would protect him from possibly getting picked, therefore he attempts to meet the eyes of a staff member which is positioned in one of the corners and oversees everything.
Kim Dokja receives a nod once he got acknowledged, it serves as a makeshift registration. After his arrival at the pub counter, he logs in and takes some orders. Carefully balancing the drinks on the tray, he walks up to the tables he got told to. He learned pretty early on to brush aside the annoying remarks guests made and that he could totally get away with expressing his irritation as long as no other employee saw it. While there were some instances where a guest turns all the more interested due to it, many just left him alone.
Business goes on for a while and it sucks.
Kim Dokja just returned to the bar to pick up more orders, when he notices a hand on his shoulder, to light to be a drunk trying to cop a feel. Hyang-yu, the waiter who tapped him, is another one of the boys who work at the brothel as a prostitute and is probably the person he considers the closest to him in here. Dokja gives him a questioning look. This time Hyang-yu taps him again, but on his hand and nods his head in the direction of the kitchen. The boy walks off to where he formerly pointed at and Kim Dokja follows him without having to think about it for a second. Hyang-yu leads him deeper into the other room, ending abruptly in front of a table covered with a lot of used bowls, plates, pans and pots which are filled with all sorts of leftover food remaining inside. Kim Dokja looks up, his stomach growling and Hyang-yu smiles at him.
"They were happy with my work today. They said dinner time is already over and I am allowed to eat the remains while they are still warm."
God, this precious soul’s first thought was to share with Kim Dokja. Now feels kinda awful, he's not sure if sharing would have immediately crossed his mind. After a hundred times asking if it is really fine and insisting he already ate, which both knew isn't true, they start treating themselves to the meal. Kim Dokja is off to the side the whole time they dine, but Hyang-yu takes no offense. A few months back, Dokja had confined in him how much he detests chewing noises. While he can't really do much against his own, apart from making some sounds like knocking, his friend offered to keep distance when eating together. He's quite graceful for that, and Hyang-yu in general.
From an early age on he preferred warm meals over cold ones, but now in the brothel there was not much to choose from, was there? Warm meals hold some sort of comfort, a reminder to the past where his mother made an effort to feed him well, to care for him.
His mother... They led him visit her from time to time. Most times he left with lower expectations than when he came.
It has been visits filled with silence and indifference. Of course, he didn't lead on where he was staying nor what he was doing there. Letting her believe that he still lives with his aunt and uncle like he would have under normal circumstances, seemed like the better decision at the time. Couldn't bring himself to tell her the truth now and he doubts he ever will.
In dark moments, Kim Dokja questions if she would care even if she knew, if the treatment she gave him would change at all.
Weirdly enough, there is no need to mimic annoyance when he's out the kitchen to serve tables again. The time drags on and every so often he gets chosen to sit with a guest, a hand around his waist, to flaunt in front of their colleges with him. Occasionally they attempt to feel him up, but under the watchful eyes of the staff they don't dare to go overboard. They'd have to pay extra. This is followed by a lot of hateful thoughts on his part. Far too many to spell them out.
Some hours later an employee taps him and points his head towards the stairs, he nods as well and hands over the numbered pin.
Worn out and spent, he carries himself up the stairs into his room. The smooth spacious bed looks incredible tempting.
He squints down at himself. The overwhelming sensation of being defiled and sullied creeps up and just won't back down. So off to the shower. He carefully sorts out the nightwear to change into later and charges into the bathroom with it and a cutter knife in his hands. Mechanically, he folds his worn clothes, puts them into their designated spot and turns on the tap to extend the cutter. To cancel the noise. It's a habit he can't shake off, remains from the time he lived with his aunt and uncle, when he tried to ensure no noise would ring out, scared to risk them finding out. An unnecessary undertaking, they wouldn't have cared anyway.
His empty hand slowly runs over his old scars. There was an obviously palpable contrast between the smooth skin and the slightly coarse uneven lines, but it feels soothing in a way he can't describe. In many stories he read, characters who self-harm, talk about how they detest their scars or that they are ashamed of them. Like they got taken over by the devil for a minute and would otherwise never have done it. A flaw, a blemish, a deformity.
He can't relate. They comfort him, it is only due to them that he can look at the parts of his body where they cover the skin, without feeling disgusted of his appearance. He is scared of them fading away, being left alone.
Every last one of them is faintly different, the old ones, made years ago, are almost white, evident as a result of their colour which is even paler then his normal skin tone, outlined from the reddened skin around.
The ones from a few days ago also have a slight flush spread underneath the scarring, but on the contrary to them, they are a lot narrower, fine almost filigree lines, a dark brown in colour, only occasionally interrupted where the scab came apart. And the fresh ones, not jet existing.
He places the blade of the cutter on his skin, between the scars recently left. A bit of pressure and a slash result in a finely drawn pattern highlighted in a saturated red. It stings a little. For some reason they remind him of the way mountains in topographic maps are painted. What a weird thought.
He expands his pattern for a bit, then continues on his other leg. Once the restless feeling settled down, he puts away the cutter knife and regards his creation. Satisfied, he watches as a few scattered small blood drops form themselves along the lines. He brushes over them, the blood forming a cohesive fluid, one part spread over the scars and the other sticking to his finger. The blood drops would dry if left alone and little chunks would remain.
Only then sitting down in the shower, as if his daily routine was a ritual where he had to follow the exact steps one by one.
The warm water pours down on his back and scalp. It feels nice. He takes too long, not able to break himself out of his daydreams. Carefully, he gathers a handful of water and lets it drip gently onto the wounds. The now with water mixed blood, takes down a rather crooked than straight path. This proceeds up to the time the drop reaches the floor of the shower or it stops midway, until another one follows the formers tracks and their combined force leads them to their end.
For a long time now, the liquid has no longer its original dark scarlet red colour but due to the thinned consistency resembles more a light beige tinted vermillion red. For some reason this hurts a bit more than then the creation of the wound in the first place.
After turning off the water, he soaps himself up and at the same time he distributes the body wash, with the same hand, he scratches his skin until he is covered in angry red stripes. Or salmon coloured, irritated skin has quite the unique shade after all. They sadly, or luckily depending which point of view you represent, never last long, but they help when he has to face himself in the mirror.
Once he finishes his hair as well, he gets out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, cautiously not letting it touch his upper legs. The scratches are the type where you only notice the relaxing burn shortly after you turn off the water. If he looks down now, he can see them stick out like a sore thumb, the shapes similar to those of an animal’s fur. In order to dry himself without care, Kim Dokja first pokes the scars with a tissue as to soak up as much blood as possible beforehand, then coats the injuries underneath it. Next, he dresses himself, after removing the cloth piece, it gets flushed down the toilet, leaving no evidence. Since the cuts had not been as deep, the blood has stopped flowing already.
The night is not over yet. His homework is still undone and he can't skip on studying either. Slow ridged movements carry him to his backpack. He can do this. He has to do this. A tired breather slips out. Step by step, he works himself through the tasks painstakingly. It's too much. If he now begins his preparations for the subjects tomorrow he will nod off, he is sure of it. Instead he gets ready to go to bed and afterwards takes picture with his cell phone of the content he needs to force into his brain till tomorrow. Lying in his bed, he stares at those images until he falls asleep, wishing it would all end.
(I'm not really happy how it turned out and stopped working on it, but since I already drew it I thought why not just include)