Music: Linkin Park, Given Up

*****

December 26th, 2008

With a start, Keith woke up. His heart raced and mind fumbled in empty space. It took a second for him to realize he was still in his bed.

At his dad's.

Where he had been for the past month.

Even in the dark, the undecorated white walls shined. Then again, living in the city, nothing was ever truly in the dark. There was always a street light, or a passing vehicle, or something casting light. It would have helped if he had thought to close the blinds before he collapsed into his bed last night.

Unsure of what woke him up, Keith rolled onto his back and glanced at the clock. The large red numbers proclaimed the time as too late for most people and too early for surly teens. He closed his eyes, but sleep refused to return.

Giving up on sleep, he took his headphones off his nightstand instead. He felt around in the dark for his CD player. His hands brushed over the worn plastic surface; years of use left the buttons smooth. From memory, he pressed play, the now-familiar beats of Linkin Park's Wake blasted through his headphones.

The music drowned out the surrounding sounds. Not that there had been many to begin with - his dad snoring in the next room, a few cars passing by, and the sound of his cat meandering throughout the house. Sounds, so small, remained such a large reminder of how his life had changed so much in the past month.

Keith's breath caught in his throat as he remembered his mother. This was his first Christmas without her.

It wasn't like it was a huge holiday for them; she'd grown up in the USSR. Christmas wasn't a thing they celebrated then. She'd told him that she hadn't done anything for Christmas until she came to study dance in New York, two years after the Soviet

government fell.

It was in New York where she turned to Russian Orthodoxy; it started off as a craving for home. She'd wanted to be with other Russians, speak the language, eat the same food she had growing up. He learned those traditions from her.

Keith's dad tried to make up for it. He took Keith to the group of friends he and his mother had always celebrated with. Fasted with him and tried to do what his mother did.

It still wasn't enough.

Keith and his dad had also gone to pick out a tree - a New Year's tree his mother always called it. She taught him, as a child, that Ded Moroz would come put gifts under it every New Year's Eve.

While he had given up on believing in Ded Moroz years ago, his mother still insisted that some of the gifts had been left behind by the legend. Every year, with a roll of his eyes, he opened a few gifts left behind by the mysterious Father Frost along with those from his mom.

He'd always spent this time of year with her. In the days leading up to Christmas, they'd make solyanka, kutya, or one of the other traditional dishes that they would take to celebrate with friends.

Nothing beat the year his mom took him to Russia to celebrate with all of his cousins and grandparents. His lips twitched at the memory, a rare smile on the otherwise sullen exterior.

They went to a small town, about an hour outside of Moscow, that he couldn't quite remember the name of.

It was the first, and only, time he met his cousins. His mom had been one of four girls, and all of his aunts had multiple children. His grandparent's house, even though it had a lot of room, found itself packed to the brim with three generations of Lodovskys in it.

While it had been fun, it was the first time he realized he wasn't Russian.

Not really.

He spoke the language. His mom raised him in the culture - it was hard to find a house more steeped in Russian tradition and culture than his had been.

But he heard his cousins, talking about the American one. It was the first day - they hadn't known how fluent he was. Keith never told his cousins that he overheard them. But he never fit in with the group, either.

They treated him like some novelty. Asked him a lot about America; were disappointed that he didn't live in New York. Everything that you could think to ask a foreigner, they asked him. And then some.

Keith did, eventually, let them know he understood everything they spoke in Russian.

It wasn't the first time he felt like an outsider in his own family.

His younger, Korean, cousins didn't think he fit in either. They treated his American-ness the same way his Russian cousins did.

There had been a time when he'd been excited to meet his extended family. They sucked the joy out of it quickly.

Rolling over, he sighed. Those old memories were best left alone. Keith knew, by now, he didn't fit in anywhere.

He looked too Korean to be American. And was too American to be Russian or Korean.

The CD ended, sleep still eluded the sixteen-year-old. Keith, with a heavy sigh, threw off the covers. As quietly as he could, he put on jeans and a hoodie. He stuck the CD player in his hoodie pocket.

Keith opened his window, a blast of chilly air did more to wake him up then the past hour thinking about things that no longer could be had done. He stepped out onto the porch roof and listened for any sounds from below. He couldn't hear his uncle talking to anyone – he was often on the phone with his employees in London this early in the morning – or smell the telltale cigarette smoke. He walked over to the edge and lowered himself to the ground – dropping the last five feet or so.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he left the brick row home behind him. The heavy atmosphere

that filled his bedroom clung to him like a second skin. It numbed him against the December chill.

Keith let his feet carry him throughout the city. He didn't have a destination in mind; he just did not want to be home.

The city, usually full of life, thrummed with silence. It was the day after Christmas, after all. Most people took the day off and it was too early for those that hadn't to be up and about.

He wasn't sure how long he'd walked for when he stumbled into the park. It couldn't have been too long; the sun was just reaching above the surrounding homes, bathing the sky in varying shades of pink.

Keith turned his back to the sun and collapsed onto a swing. The metal rings squealed their protest at the sudden weight. He leaned his head against the icy chain, thoughtlessly rocking back and forth.

It had been a while since he'd been here. This was the same park his parents took him to when he was younger. As he'd gotten older, and outgrown the swing set, jungle gym, and monkey bars, he'd come less and less. Life had been good then.

These days, he only saw it when walking by - it was too close to home for him and his friends to hang out at. The small park was too close to home for their activities of questionable legalities.

Realization hit him like a cold slap - this was the closest he'd been to home since his mom died. His breath hitched, left him behind. Keith was so close to home. He could almost imagine going through the door and see his mother waiting for him. Maybe she was working on making pelmeni or piroshki. It was always a good day when she was in the kitchen.

Or it could be a bad day.

He ground his foot into the ground, stamping the memories into the frost-covered mulch.

"Keith?" the musical voice carried across the park, light and clear.

He glanced up, an escaped tear stopped in its track. He knew the voice - it belonged to Vanessa Johnson. They grew up together, she lived across the street from him. The pair had shared a lot of their firsts - words, schools, steps, kisses, ballet performances, and so many more. He used to hide in her room when his mom had a very bad day.

Vanessa walked across the tiny park, her even smaller toy yorkie bounded along with her. Despite

the no-effort appearance she had, he still felt as if she looked like an angel.

There was a time when his heart would have soared at her presence. Instead, it attempted a small leap and only managed to plummet. He looked back down at the ground.

The dog arrived first, and placed its front paws on his legs. Keith managed a small smile, perhaps the first in a month, as he scratched the dog's ears. It panted, a look of bliss on its face.

"Hey," she said.

Keith grunted something that might have been a greeting.

"I haven't seen you since," she trailed off.

She didn't need to finish the sentence. Raw memories of his mom's funeral swirled before him. Vanessa's face mixed in with the many other mourners.

"How've you been?"

Keith shrugged. He still refused to look at her - to see her striking blue eyes filled with pity. The last thing he wanted was to see her look at him like that.

Not her.

"You can come over, whenever, you know."

He nodded, pushing down the words that wanted to come out. Keith wanted to yell at her, shake her, ask her why the fuck was she still pitying him? Didn't she know that they'd slept together, right before all this happened, and he fucking ghosted her? Did she even care?

Didn't she understand that he was a worthless, good for nothing asshole?

On her worst days, his mother certainly had. Or, had those been her best? When she saw everything around her, for what it truly was?

Maybe he really was good for nothing.

Maybe, he should be the one six feet under.

"We'l talk later?" Vanessa asked, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Keith shrugged his shoulders. He really couldn't say he felt like talking to anyone. He wasn't sure when the last time he even spoke, was.

She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

The electric current that zapped through him made Keith turn his head towards her, jaw slackened.

Vanessa smiled at him before she walked away, encouraging the little dog to follow her.

When she was out of sight, he kicked the ground. Mulch flew up around him, a piece or two hit him in the face. He bit his tongue and the taste of blood, a coppery tang, was his reward.

He should have said something, anything, to make her understand.

Vanessa was too good for him.

"Mommy, can I go play on the swings?" a small voice piped up.

Keith didn't look around for the kid; he couldn't bring himself to care. He heaved himself off the swing and pulled the hoodie down more. It didn't matter if he looked or not, he knew that kid's mommy was giving him the stink eye.

After crossing the park, he stopped at the intersection. If he went straight, he'd only have to go half the block before he was home.

He felt his heart constrict at the thought. Before he realized it, he was running the few hundred feet to his home.

Doubled over, panting, his breath froze in the air. In front of him was the familiar navy door. Keith took his key out, the lock turned with ease.

He took his shoes off as he entered the house and bent over to pick up the mail - junk. All of it. Keith threw it all out, condolence cards and all.

A fine layer of dust stirred through the air. He would have thought it was the first time someone had been here since his mom left, if it hadn't been for the missing flowers. She'd always had some on the coffee table.

The blanket she used was still draped carelessly across the sofa.

His school bag still rested on a chair, his uniform tie draped over it.

Her favorite pair of sneakers waited by the door for a walk that would never come.

Keith moved further into the house.

The dining room looked dim, the curtains closed, just like she liked to do at night.

It was empty. Just like always.

The kitchen was all that remained. When he walked in, it was almost like she was still alive. With an invisible punch, his breath vanished.

In the late-dawn light, the white floors sparkled and the grey counter tops twinkled. The oven sat cold, perhaps for the first time in years.

Across the top of the stove was a half-drunk bottle of wine. The bottle of gin next to it only had a few shots left. The vodka bottle was unopened, perhaps his mom meant to open it when she got home. She could have been going for any of them.

If there had been one thing Keith learned over the years was that his mother did not have a preferred drink. In the end, it was all alcohol.

And it was the only thing that made her feel better.

She'd told him that enough times - when she wasn't yelling at him for being out late. Or for failing yet another test. Or for not pirouetting high enough. When she was drunk, there wasn't any pleasing her.

And Alina Lodovsky was not drunk often, no more than once a month. She could go months without touching it. There had been many times over the years when Keith thought she'd finally quit, for good this time, only to come home to find her in a drunken stupor.

He couldn't count the amount of times he'd cleaned her vomit and held her hair back as she threw up more. All the while she'd cuss him out, blame him for the reason why she couldn't dance anymore.

Looking at the bottles, he felt something swell inside of him.

For the first time in one solid month, he felt something.

And it was hot.

He took the bottle of wine and smashed it against the floor. Shards of glass flew everywhere, one stuck in his jeans. The red liquid flooded the floor, the sharp smell of alcohol fueled his anger.

If it hadn't been for this she'd still be alive.

The bottle of vodka joined it. The clear contents turned the wine a pinkish color.

Laughter tore at his throat, escaped into the otherwise empty house.

The bottle of gin was next. The pale yellow contents did nothing to the mess already on the floor.

He looked at the dark pink mixture that saturated the tile. Legs trembling, weak from hunger and emotion, he collapsed onto the floor. The jeans, now too big, soaked it up.

It should have been him that night.

She would have been better off if he hadn't been born.

His mom would still be alive.

Keith's arms shook, from exhaustion or supporting him he wasn't sure. He felt his arms give out, saw the shard of glass his face headed for and closed his eyes in anticipation.

Instead of room temperature alcohol, cold floors, and sharp glass he felt arms encircle him and a body join him on the ground.

"Uncle-" he started as he opened his eyes to look at the person holding him. And stopped.

It wasn't his uncle. The man holding him looked exactly like his Uncle Seong.

Except a little fatter. And wasn't wearing glasses.

The hot surge of anger, that had disappeared under the flood of alcohol, came flying back. With the strength that he could muster, Keith tried to push his dad away. His arms burned with the effort, screamed in protest.

His dad held him tighter.

Unable to fight him off anymore, Keith collapsed against his dad's chest. Keith heaved with sobs. "Let me go!" he screamed through them. With what little energy he could pull together, he tried to push his dad away.

In an uncharacteristic show of affection, his dad held him close. The older man didn't speak.

Keith wasn't sure if it was because his dad didn't have anything to say, or if he just didn't want to say anything.

He certainly didn't deserve whatever words of comfort his dad had.

If any. Dae Min wasn't known for his tender, loving words.

"Why won't you let me go?" he whispered the words, not meant for any years. The words scratched against his throat, already sore from yelling a minute ago.

"You speak," his dad's voice echoed in his head. It almost sounded teasing, maybe under better circumstances Dae Min would have joked about Keith's selective mutism over the past month.

Keith stilled, feeling his struggle fruitless in his dad's iron grip.

"I hold you, because you are my son."

The words washed over Keith, a new wave of tears welled up. A surge of lightning-hot anger followed them. "Then why do you want to get rid of me?" He didn't try to push his dad away this time. Keith knew he didn't have the strength - he hadn't eaten more than a bite here or there for the past few days. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten a full meal.

"Keith, I don't want to get rid of you." The words came out in Korean. His dad used the language, sometimes, when he felt English wouldn't get his point across.

Keith wanted to yell, to shout, to ask why he offered to let him go to his uncle's in London. Or his grandparent's in that no-name town in Russia. Or, if he was feeling particularly adventurous, his grandparent's in Incheon. "Why," he choked out. He couldn't form the words - why send him away?

"You aren't eating. You haven't gone to school. And until today, you refused to speak. The only sign of activity I've seen out of you has been when you sneak out of the house. I thought getting out of Philadelphia might be what makes you happy again."

Keith let the words sink in. It was the most he heard his dad speak at once in a while. About something that mattered, anyways.

Dae Min loosened his grip.

Despite the chance at freedom, Keith leaned against his dad's shoulder still. The way his dad's touch quelled the tumultuous sea within him was not something he was ready to give up. It didn't matter that his dad's shirt was thoroughly soaked with tears and was perhaps a bit uncomfortable to lean against.

"I chose you, you know. Sixteen years ago."

"Instead of what, running off?" Just because his dad held him, calmed the raging sea within, didn't mean that his anger lessened any.

"I could have, yes. Especially since you might not be mine."

Keith pulled back, his eyes wide. He searched his dad's face for any sign of a joke, any hint that for once in his forty-some years of life, Dae Min Park might actually be joking.

"You could be your uncle's."

Keith watched his dad's face. Surely, he developed a sense of humor. It'd be an odd time to develop a sense of humor like this, but weirder things have happened. Right?

"Your mother told me when she found out she was pregnant. I decided then, that no matter what, you are my son. You can always stay with me."

Keith leaned his head back against his dad's chest. The well of emotion stayed in him, a bottle of shaken soda. But for now, he was okay.

Later, after he cleaned up his mess, after he went back to his dad's and ate a full meal, when he was alone, he snuck back out. Anger still ran red-hot through his veins.

And there was a really cute girl who liked him that he hadn't spent enough time with recently.