Chapter Text
Minho has never been talkative. He didn’t talk much about anything really. Not his feelings, his opinions, or even just to talk. He can name about 4 times he had stated his opinion and even less did he talk about his emotions in his whole 24 years of living. He had problems, too. Mental problems mainly, although when he was 11 he snapped his leg in half. Somehow he was able to walk again, even if it was with a limp.
He didn’t have the best family either. They were the main reason for all of his problems. Even the one with his leg. One of his 3 brothers had pushed him down 2 flights of stairs because he accidentally stepped on his PS2 controller. Unethical, yes, but his family had favored his brothers over him. They raised their favorites to assert their dominance unto any one who caused them inconvenience, and raised him to take whatever anyone gave him, whether it be good or bad. So that’s what he did. He had tried being the one with more power once and that resulted in him getting hit so hard by his father he had a bruise across his back for 2 weeks.
Even after all that his family had done to him though, he still loved and relied on them. They had told him that all they are doing is toughening him up for the real world, they were looking out for him, they were doing it out of love. He had times where he thought they were lying to him, but he convinced himself out of it, because that was all he could do.
No, maybe it wasn’t, maybe there was hope, maybe just maybe he could do something against them, to just maybe help himself. Make him feel strong. Make him feel like a real person. Like he was cared for. Like he wasn’t just a mistake. Like he mattered.
No, there wasn’t.
He had gone over everything in his head. That was one thing that they gave him other than just bruises. The ability to overthink, a wonderful curse. They had been so inconsistent with the reasons for the punishments they gave him that he had no choice but to think so much about everything, and of course, because he still needed his family, he had to hide the bruises, constantly worrying that someone might see them. Worrying about if he had told someone, what they would think of him.
His family was so cruel to him, and he still ran back to him. But he also ran back to the knife hiding underneath a box full of books beneath his bed just as much. They talked profanities about him in and out of his face. Underneath their breath when he passed by, only loud enough so he could hear it. It hurt him at first, but he likes to believe he had become immune to it.
He even thought it was all normal until he went over to one of his very few friend’s houses. There he found that nothing he had been raised in was normal. Not a single thing, and just days after that was the first memorable time that he had talked about what he felt.
He remembers just how terrible it went.
“Mom, Dad, why do you guys treat me this wa-”
“What do you think you are talking about honey? We treat you just like any good parents would.” His mother cut him off with a forced smile.
“Bu-” he tried saying ‘but’, but he never really gets anything out without being cut off.
SMACK
His father slapped him across the face, hard. He raised his hand to his face feeling the warm, raw skin that was probably red.
“That’s what you get for talking back, maybe next time you go to a friend’s house, you will learn that is why people of this generation are so soft. No, scratch that, there will be no next time. Don’t you dare try to ask us why we treat you right, you don’t even know the jist of it.” His father raised his voice. It wasn’t anything new at this point, but he still flinched. Nothing good ever comes with a raised voice, he has learned.
“I’m sorry. I only got confused. It won’t happen again, but please explain to me why you hit me every time I try to say anything at all and why you guys seem to hate me so much.” He should know better than to ask this, but sometimes his mouth worked faster than his brain. This was one of those times. His eyes went wide knowing he messed up.
“Baby, we only do this because we love you, you should know this. We only want to toughen you up for the real world, and this is the only right way to do so.” His mother said with a fake concerned face. She is really starting to pull this fake facade off.
"But then why do you treat Bokhyun, Dongseok, and Seungtae so differently?” He decided to say since he was already knee deep in trouble for even starting this conversation in the first place.
SMACK
His father hit him again. Same cheek. Damn, that hurt. He’s probably bleeding by now. He really shouldn’t have asked that last question.
“Listen boy, you do not talk back to us, you hear? Learn to keep your mouth shut and maybe one day you will learn to be like them. You’re a fucking disgrace to this family. Go to your room.” His father said, yelling now, pointing at him, then to his room.
“I have, all that happened was me getting hit again! You tell me to-” He was cut off with a punch to his ribs. Damn it, why does he do this to himself?
“The nerve you have boy!” His father and mother seemed to have said in sync.
“BOYS!” His father yelled for his brothers. Shit. His father grabbed his belt and tied his hands together behind his back, then grabbing his own belt and tying his feet.
They came running into the room like a herd of hungry lions all of a different pride who just saw their first potential prey in 2 weeks. Bokhyun, the oldest, came first. Then Seungtae, and Dongseok, the unidentical twins.
“Take care of this piece of trash for me will you? Don’t kill him and make sure there is no need for a hospital visit okay?” His father said with what seemed to be a grin on his face.
All his brothers groaned when his father gave the rules simultaneously. He began shaking in his seat. The first punch came with the same force as his fathers. It wasn’t to his face at least. Then the second, and third. Then he lost track. Too caught up in the pain that never seemed to stop. It only got worse as they came. Soon enough he was unconscious.
He woke up that morning in the same chair his father had tied his limbs to when he yelled at his brothers. His face was sore and he could hardly see, and he could feel the dried blood down his face. Luckily it was summer so he didn’t have to worry about teachers or anything.