(pov Ki-Moon)
I complain about this game, but in reality… I've never liked going home.
Our apartment always had this strange smell; there was nothing warm about it. A mixture of stale alcohol, cold food, and damp dust. A smell that clung to clothes, to the walls, and to my throat.
Why am I thinking about this?
That's stupid.
When I was little, I thought all houses smelled like that.
The silence in this place was annoying.
The apartment appeared to have been abandoned for a long time.
the light in the hallway was flickering continuously
She scared me.
Every evening.
My father said he was going to fix it.
But he never fixed anything.
And every time, he was there, sitting on the floor against the sofa.
A bottle between his legs.
Empty eyes.
Like a man waiting for something that will never return.
Sometimes he slept.
Sometimes he would just stare at the wall for hours.
Without moving.
Without speaking.
Without even noticing that I had returned.
At first I was still trying.
– Dad… ?
We would just end up shouting at each other, so I would put my things down quietly so as not to wake him up.
Or to prevent him from talking.
I never knew which was worse.
When he was quiet or annoying.
I watched his hands tremble as he tried to open a new bottle.
I was looking at the reminder letters piled up on the table.
I was looking at the dirty dishes in the sink.
And above all…
I used to sneak around to look at that photo hidden in her bedroom drawer.
My mother.
The only photo he had never thrown away.
I can barely remember what his real face looked like.
Only from this image.
Her smile.
Her hair was tied back.
His hand resting on my shoulder when I was a child.
Sometimes at night, I would see this man take out this photo when he thought I was asleep.
He remained seated in the dark.
Looking at her.
For hours.
Without drinking.
Without moving.
Once…
I heard him crying.
I really felt sorry for him.
Only once.
I must have been about ten years old.
I got up to drink some water.
And I had seen him in the kitchen.
Sitting on the ground.
Back against the fridge.
The photo held tightly against him.
His shoulders were trembling.
I stayed hidden behind the wall.
I don't know why.
Maybe because I was afraid.
Or perhaps because at that moment…
He already looked like a ghost.
The next morning, he acted as if nothing had happened.
As always.
He just handed me a few coins.
– Go eat outside today.
Then he started drinking again.
I think that's what made me the angriest.
Not his alcoholism.
Not poverty.
Not even blows sometimes.
Non.
It was his abandonment.
He lived from day to day.
And me…
I was stuck next to him.
I was growing up in the remains of a man who was already dead.
I remember a particularly cold winter.
The heating wasn't working anymore, it never worked anyway.
I wore three sweaters to sleep in.
I could see my own breathing in the room.
My father was still lying near the sofa.
An empty bottle was rolling on the floor.
I had approached him.
Slowly.
I don't even know why.
Perhaps because he looked too much like a corpse.
I had shaken it slightly.
– Board.
No response.
I expected my heart to race immediately, but I felt relieved.
– Board.
Still nothing.
I shook it harder.
And then…
He had opened his eyes.
Slowly.
Red.
Tired.
Then he sighed as if I were bothering him.
- What…
It's pathetic.
My father never spoke about my mother.
Every time I tried…
His expression changed immediately.
It was as if I had just opened a still-raw wound.
– Where is she?
Silence.
– Why did she leave?
Silence.
– she promised to come back
CRASH.
This time again he had thrown his bottle against the wall.
It was becoming fun to annoy him.
he murmured in a broken voice:
– Never speak of her again.
And then he would go off muttering to himself in his corner, alone.
Incomplete sentences.
Fragments of words.
"I should have…"
"It's my fault…"
"I couldn't…"
And still that empty look.
As if he were reliving something horrible over and over again.
I felt nothing but contempt.
Then Fantasy Game came along.
He was smiling because he had won.
– we won, that's what matters…
His voice was trembling.
I still hate that word.
I slowly close my eyes, letting the icy wind of the island penetrate my clothes.
I'm waiting to return to this game.