"𝙄 𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝"
"𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝"
Kim Seokjin, the youngest supreme court justice in South Korea. He was the man who had everything anyone would ever want, money...
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Author's POV
'But it made you stronger'
I was a child.
I didn't need to be stronger.
I needed to be safe.
Melodies of pain filled the empty skies in vain. Notes of sorrow held words of despair.
The silence in between was the loudest scream of agony. Shouts of wrath reopened wounds in the most shattered of hearts.
The crisp music of the oh-so-famous Stradivarius violin resonated through the thin and unsteady walls of the cramped house. The crisp sound of the violin reflected the emotions of its owner. Because screams of wail danced note by note. Beautiful chaos played out as the fingers of the young boy calculatively touched certain frets.
The aggressive piece was an outbreak of the rage that the composer in front had unleashed on it when creating the masterpiece. So this is how the young teenage boy ran the wooden bow across the tight strings of the instrument. Like a machine, he played the impossibly speedy notes, but like a human, he portrayed the burst of emotions.
His expression was that of an artist who wanted nothing but to be understood and have the freedom to express themselves. Therefore, his eyebrows were furrowed, and his eyes shut close so that he could feel the notes deep down in his heart. He poured his soul into his craft and passion. He gave his everything for the one thing he could call his. His music.
It wasn't exactly his, yet the way he portrayed the set of emotions given to him as instructions was something only he could do differently. And that was the only good thing about him that he was aware of.
However, that was not the case in his father's eyes. The way his fingers swiftly dashed across the frets, the way his frail, busted hands held onto the bow, and the loud echos of his rich melodies-none of that ever pleased him.
The boy was nothing but a failure in his father's eyes. He could do nothing but play the violin, but even in that, he was worse than any artist. Perhaps it was the perfectionist mind of his father or his composer that didn't allow that man to ever be satisfied with his son. Because all he saw in his child was one of his filthy papers that he'd note down his ideas and throw away if he didn't find any interest in them.
His father used him for nothing but money. He wasn't worthy of anything else to begin with, so, like a peasant, he treated his eldest son. It was for reasons that the poor boy had no control over. Something that, no matter how much he prayed and begged, could never change.
Hense, like a machine, his father worked him non-stop. The adolescent was born into a family of performers and musicians. There was no such thing as a 'choice' for him from the very beginning. The only choice he was given was whether he'd play the piano or the violin for the rest of his life. And we all know his answer.
