MAY 23

[

   Chan was "resting" this week.

    Funny joke, right?

   Apparently, as it happened, Chan was a bit of an insomniac. He wouldn't have known, because for years, he'd learned to push himself until his body literally shut down automatically. But if he tried to sleep before he got to that point? Well...

   The windows were open. The breeze cool. The summer crickets still young; still distant and quiet.

   He'd been lying there for two hours.

   Was it always like this? The way his ears felt as if filled with an unending static hum and with the pulsing beat of his heart? Did it always feel like so much work to keep his eyelids shut tight so they wouldn't pop back open on their own?

   His back hurt. His mouth was dry. His body was hot in some places and cold in others. He tossed and turned over and over, desperate to find a comfortable position.

   It wasn't just the bombardment of bodily sensations he was annoyingly aware of (seemingly for the first time) that was keeping him up. Other things were bothering him; bouncing around his mind as if his attempts to fall asleep were nothing but a game of table tennis.

I can't even keep my eyes shut. I'm wasting time.

Tick-tock.

You're useless.

What if dad's out there? 

Thump. Thump. Thump.

This is pathetic.

I'll never sleep with my heart pounding like this.

What if he's angry that we called the cops on him. What if he's more wasted than ever and looking for something to take his rage out on. I've always known there was violence buried inside him somewhere. What if...

Screeeeech.

Are those sirens I hear through the window?

   He shot up in a quick-breaking cold sweat, holding his breath, listening closely. No, it must've been a figment of his imagination. He was, of course, sleep-deprived and paranoid. So he sunk back down, wide eyes boring holes into the dark. Anxiety winding his exhausted muscles up tight.

   He just couldn't go on like this. Worrying constantly that his father would slip into the house again while Chan wasn't there to ward him off— or perhaps, while he was asleep. If he ever fell asleep again. This was shaping up to be his second consecutive all-nighter. The longer Chan went without working and the longer they went without a word from the police, the harder it became to fall asleep.

   As soon as he gets out, he'll be coming right back here. It's only a matter of time.

   The more he thought about it, the more he realized that the reason he felt so dead barely into his twenties was his father and his absolute inability to put anything down. It was the reason his back hurt. His eyes constantly ached. His hair was falling out. His appetite was gone. His body was weak and stiff and achy and his mind was frazzled and— 

   His father was killing him, and Chan wouldn't stop dying until he was sure that that lousy drunkard was safely away from them all. For good.

   Huffing frustratedly, Chan threw off his thin sheets with purpose and pushed himself to his feet, his blood suddenly pumping; boiling. And as soon as he was on his feet, he sunk into himself again. Just what did he think he was going to do?

   He knew there was only one solution. A restraining order. But how on earth was he going to get that? 

   Restlessly but exhaustedly pacing his room, he thought back to when he was thirteen. Already had a job; already got used to giving his meager paycheck to help his poor, raddled mother get food on the table each day. He'd do anything to help— but when he first realized that all the money he'd worked so hard to get and more had gone straight to the bar with his deadbeat dad?

   Sporting dark under-eyes and a stress-furrowed brow that clashed violently with his small, youthful figure, Chan had lost it when he came home from one of his shifts, with his homework-filled backpack still slung over his back, to see his father passed out on the couch with empty amber bottles all around him.

   Mom said he'd quit two weeks ago. She said he was working. Finally. Doing something to help the family.

    He'd stormed into his mother's bedroom, fuming: "Mom, he's drinking again! We can't— I mean, he's never going to stop! We have to just— I don't know, get away from him! Let's go live with Grandma or something." Initially he'd stared her down fiercely, but his gaze softened as he saw her red-rimmed eyes. Hopeless eyes. "...Please, Mom."

   But her answer would always remain the same, throughout the years, as Chan would ask time and time again for her to do something. "Relapses happen, honey," she sniffled. "Your father is only human. Just be patient."

   And he'd been patient, so patient. It was different now, though. Through his teenage years Chan had learned to just put his head down and watch his hard work go to waste at least half of the time. Couldn't she see that he was only human, too? He'd had to worry about paying bills, affording groceries— but until now he'd never had to worry that they wouldn't be safe. That he might one day leave the house and come back to a crime scene. He couldn't be two places at once, and she needed him at work, not at home. Earning money. Just to give it away for nothing. 

   He only had so much energy, so much effort to give.

   At some godforsaken hour, without having slept a wink, still pacing, Chan wandered out into the kitchen, where, surprise, he found his mother brooding over a cup of coffee. Also not having slept.

   At the sight of her, her and her prematurely creased brow— the deeply embedded lines of her frown and her faded, aged complexion, he couldn't hold it in anymore. He ignored her shocked expression when he joined her at the table (she clearly was not expecting anyone else to be up at this time of night), sparing some extra time for all the begging and convincing he'd certainly have to do. Had he let her speak first she may have asked him why he wasn't in bed. And that's a question neither of them wanted answered truthfully.

   "Mom," he pleaded, breaking the midnight, moon-lit silence. "Please. We have to get a restraining order."

   He'd meant to preface the words with something more reasonable, to explain his thought process. He hadn't meant to just drop this on her like this— she wouldn't be prepared; it'd be a shock.

    He meant to follow them up with persuasion. If Dad was forced to leave them alone for good, it would put all their worries to rest. She'd be able to breathe easy; to afford all those things they'd always had to say no to when Chan was growing up. Hannah and Lucas would be safe. They might actually be able to put money towards college. Chan might even be able to sleep, maybe even work a little less, too. But none of those persuading words came. 

   This was all he had: a simple, unexplained, late-night or early-morning plea.

   Unexpectedly, she nodded quickly. Without a hint of hesitation or confusion. It could only mean one thing: she'd been up all night thinking about this, too.

  Chan released a tightly-held breath; sinking into a chair, body crumbling as the tension of anticipation spilled out in a deep sigh.

    She'd always defended his father. But she'd run out of excuses to make for him now.

   There was dark but hopeful silence; tense but light with relief. Her hands fell away from her coffee cup and she rubbed her tired face, speaking quietly through her hands, just loud enough for Chan to hear. "I'm so sorry, honey. I've been selfish for so long." Her throat tightened, judging by the sound of her shaky voice. "At first I thought he really would change— but he didn't. He wouldn't. And I refused to see that."

   Chan swallowed hard. With the small amount of moonlight shining in through the nearest window, he saw a thin, glistening streak on his mother's cheek.

    "I just kept pretending he'd get sober for good one day... letting him take everything... everything you were working for, in his place. Making you work harder." She swiped a finger under her eye. "It's not right. I thought I was just making peace by never telling him no but— I was stealing from you."

   Chan sat there and for a moment, considered acting as if this was all new for him. As if he hadn't realized that before.

   But no, it wasn't. If he was honest with himself, though he always saw his father as the villain, he was almost just as angry with his mother for never having put her foot down; never taking care of the family. Letting him take on the responsibility, trading away his youth and his health and twisting his sense of self-worth terribly in the process. But he buried that anger deep; covered it up with love and devotion. And now it'd come to the surface to finally be acknowledged.

   So they both cried in the kitchen for hours while filling out a form for a restraining order, the past more or less forgiven by the time the sun came up.

[

   Chan woke up on the couch at nearly noon, slowly blinking his eyes open; staring up at a water-damaged ceiling. This was a familiar scenery. While he was in high school, he'd often drag himself home from late-night shifts, kick his shoes off into a clumsy heap by the door, and collapse here on the couch, too tired to walk a dozen or two steps more to his bed. At least sleep had come easily then.

   The relief that had coursed through him like a powerful storm wind once the form was complete was so powerful that his body shut down. Finally. It allowed him to get in a five hour nap— the best he'd had all week. Though his body ached from the couch, his neck stiff, he felt as if he'd been brought back from the dead.

   Energy. Sitting up, he breathed deeply and savored the feeling of being awake. Not just conscious— awake. Not feeling quite so much like he was torturing himself as he rose to his feet. Of course, he wasn't ready to go run a marathon, but he might be able to handle a light jog without doubling over, lightheaded. He supposed even had enough energy be able to do his job decently. Right now, though, all he needed was enough to get himself to the courthouse. As soon as possible.

   A simple sheet of paper on the countertop, adorned only with neat lines of text and black pen ink, promised to change Chan's life. All of their lives. But wait— it wasn't on the counter anymore? His heart dropped.

   "Mom?" he called. Wandering about, he realized the house was empty again. All the rooms vacant. He checked his phone. A Saturday. Hannah and Lucas were working.

   Pacing the kitchen once again, with his phone pressed firm against his ear, he called his mother.

   "Hello?"

   "Mom, the form— where... It was on the counter—"

   "Don't worry, I have it,"  she explained. Chan heard the distorted whirring of an engine over the line.  "I'm heading to the courthouse right now."

   Chan's shoulders dropped immediately. She'd left while he was asleep.

Useless...

   "I... I was going to—" He would've taken the form there himself the very minute they finished it, if only the courthouse had been open at the time. It was barely sunrise.

   "I know you were planning on doing it. But... this shouldn't be your responsibility. None of this ever should have been."

   Chan swallowed hard, pressing his lips together. There was once a time where he would have believed that wholeheartedly.

   "And besides, you needed the rest. Take it easy, okay? See if you can go back to sleep. I'll handle this."

   The call ended seconds later and emptiness flooded in with the silence. Chan slowly shuffled his feet back to the couch. Sat down. Felt anxiety worming around in his stomach. Stood up.

   He could've at least gone with her. He wished he were at least watching it happen, knowing what was going on, instead of just chewing his lower lip anxiously in the middle of the kitchen. 

Please just give me something to do. I can only sweep the kitchen so many times.

I can't take another day of doing nothing. Even if it's the last one.

  He never thought the idea of returning to work would be so comforting. But there was still one more stretch of almost twenty-four hours until then, and he refused to waste it by trying to go back to sleep when he knew it wasn't going to happen. He was grateful for what he'd gotten this morning; it was enough for now.

   However, banned from working; banned from seeing to the acquisition of a restraining order, how would he not waste it?

   Unable to sit still, he drummed his fingers on the counter, racking his brain for a suitable way to spend this empty day, feeling like his brain was melting with each dull, thick second of silence. He felt alone. Silence wasn't something he was used to at all and his life had been so chock full of it this past week. At first, it'd been mostly relaxing, but now it was driving him nuts. There was nothing to distract him from anything.

   His brain had gotten particularly rude this week. It hadn't been this bad since before college; since before he met his friends— his second family. Holy shit, he missed his friends. How were they doing? Excluding his short interaction with Jisung last Sunday, Chan hadn't seen any of them all miserable week long. Apparently, he'd been too busy moping and being useless.

   And then his phone buzzed. With a reaction time faster than he'd probably had in years, Chan's head snapped down to check his lit-up phone screen.

   "Oh, thank goodness," he breathed.

]

idk was that too boring and repetitive? maybe i should've cut like 500 words of this haha. honest opinions please you won't hurt my feelings

well anyway there's a much more fun chapter coming up next