Love.
An emotion so subjective... yet substantial in the minds of people. Throughout my life, I've never understood this emotion called love. But in my hand, a hard-covered book told me the tale of two people.
Underneath a cherry blossom tree, a man framed with midnight hair took a step forward and stretched his arm out with such a desperate plea until, finally, he grasped the delicate hand that belonged to his beloved, whose white hair flowed freely with the wind. Enamored, both stood still without moving a muscle—neither dared to turn their eyes away, for they feared missing a precious moment to ingrain deep inside their liminal memories.
Time could've been but a mere vision during that inscribed moment. But when a single petal glided in-between them, they found themselves back, and in turn they danced. The more they danced, the closer their faces drew. And just when their lips were about to brush, they suddenly stopped.
That frozen moment became the front cover of the book.
To have read such profound words, I couldn't help but wonder: how would it feel to love someone like that—be it to family, or a significant other?
Could there be a person out there who'll show that to me?
Still, who were the two people I spoke about? They were the protagonists of the popular novel titled Ways of the Mystic.
Through a world mirroring the Medieval Europe era, the story centered around Augustus Rutherford: former First Prince of the Izora Empire who journeys to take back the corrupted Empire from his father's hand. By his side stood Seraphina Blakesty: the sole daughter of one of the four Grand Ducal families of the Izora Empire.
As I flipped over the first page of the novel, my eyes inevitably gazed upon the opening paragraph that began their tale. I placed my hand on the thin paper, trying so hard to feel the simple words that many said were beautiful and romantic, only to fail. The only other thing I could do, then, was to read this story once more.
Not even autumn's dark colligence could hide the deep luster emanating from the child's silky-white hair as she sat upon one of the many porches belonging to the Blakesty's family garden. Her woeful ruby eyes lingered down to her dangling feet, and as she dazed herself to its rhythmic motion the dim sunlight got caught by the clouds, causing her light-rose skin to dwindle and her irises to grow darker.
Rustling silence now consumed her.
Yet through the sorrow, she maintained an unwavering posture with pristine elegance and maturity. Slowly, she shifted her gaze to the rows of red geraniums in the near distance.
How beautiful, she thought. And with that she ventured onto the quiet space. The red petals broke free from their bud as she did and trailed their way towards the corridor until they found themselves circling around a boy.
A crack appeared on the clouds, letting a ray of light sip through until it shone upon the boy, revealing his delicate shade of midnight hair and tanned skin that resulted from his harsh sword training. Though the golden light dazzled on his face, his sharp sapphire eyes continued to show indifference to everything it viewed.
Sensing the girl's stare, he stopped amidst his track and turned his head to her. The same petals from before glided around the two children as they interlocked gazes. Neither dared to blink—neither dared to move—because for once... it felt like their whole world changed for the better.
The boy opened his mouth, hoping to ask for her name, only to fail when the guard that accompanied him interrupted.
Your Highness, we must hurry now.
He nodded and turned to the girl one last time.
Unfortunately, she was no longer there.
Though no longer within each other's view, this chance encounter marked the beginning of Seraphina and Augustus' story.
But behind the scene, another boy hid himself behind a pillar, carefully observing the Prince who walked away with a sad wonder of where the girl disappeared to.
Wavy white-hair framed his face, and his rose-skin gently shimmered with the passing sun. A simple glance would make one mistake the boy for Seraphina, for the only differences they shared were their eyes. A shade of hazel inherited from his mother colored the left one, while silver-white took its place on the right.
Under the shadow formed by the pillar, he crossed his arms and sighed once the Prince left, only to be found surrounded by countless black-robed people wishing to assassinate him. A normal child would cower under such circumstances.
Yet this boy didn't.
In a blink of an eye, all robed people perished. Only a pool of blood remained as the boy's heterochromia eyes shimmered brightly in the pure darkness of this world—his blood-stained hand oozing with cold vapor, and his dead face ever so unchanging.
That boy was none other than Lysander Blakesty: one of the three main villains of this novel, and Seraphina's older brother.
To bring about the full destruction of the Izora Empire, he once said in the novel, is my grandest desire. Especially by my own hand. I won't stop until I see that through.
And each deliberate attempt he made for said goal inevitably ended with bloodshed; however, his ulterior motives were never revealed. In fact, aside from his violent descriptors that akin him to a sadist, no other information regarding his character could be found.
However, there was one thing that all readers agreed on: Lysander wanted to use Seraphina's unique power to accomplish this unknown goal.
In this world, those who followed the path of spirit summoning must've been chosen by them if they wish to wield their powers via a contract. To be unacknowledged simply meant you were unable to summon them, hence the power to summon any spirit on command became known as impossible.
Yet that single limit didn't obstruct one person.
Thanks to the Blessing given to her by the God of Spirits, Seraphina could call forth any spirits without a contract. But in return, her mana became so pure that she would be unable to use any form of magic. When the world came to learn about this, many tried to attain her via any means.
It might have been his own considerate way, but when Lysander attained the Ducal seat after murdering his own father, he locked away his own sister and never allowed anyone in society to ever see her again.
Reading this section once more, I could still not find any evidence of him ever using his own sister's power for his goal.
I couldn't help but wonder: why were people suspecting him to be this cruel?
I flipped to a new page and found the details of his childhood that I believed made these accusations slightly baseless.
His mother, Isabella Blakesty, was assassinated by none other than her own father, Count Avington, right after giving birth to Seraphina. That tragic incident caused former Duke Laurence Blakesty—his father—to suddenly change and lock himself away.
From then on, Lysander became the victim of many kidnapping and assassination attempts from nobles who knew of the Duke's neglect, hoping to use him to increase their status and power. But even after hearing about this, not once did the former Duke ever cared about the suffering of his own child.
How strange. I flipped back to the last page I read, and the one before that. With the amount of suffering he underwent through his childhood due to the neglect, killing his father because of vengeance (in some way) seemed logical. What happened right after, though, puzzled me.
The day the former Duke died, all the servants from the Blakesty manor found Lysander carefully carrying his corpse out of the bedroom, and even prepared a funeral in remembrance right before locking Seraphina away.
I wondered: why would he do that if he truly hated him?
When the Duke's death officially got announced, many rumors began to spread throughout the Empire—such as who found him? or how did he die?
One rumor, in particular, sprang around everyone's head, for they thought it to be true: Lysander Blakesty murdered his own father to attain the Duke position. And him neither confirming nor denying the rumor made it more obsolete.
During this moment, fifteen-year-old Seraphina—after being locked up for three years—broke free from her constraint with the help of her fellow spirits and escaped the hellish place that used to be her home. Lysander went mad once he found out and ordered a full-military search to bring her back. Seraphina could only wander through the streets for weeks to avoid his personnels, almost starving to death until she ran into the Prince again in another fateful encounter.
Though the Prince did all he could to hide Seraphina after learning of her situation, she was soon discovered. The maddened Duke then went on to try and eliminate the Prince, who only wanted to protect Seraphina, via any means until, finally, they both decided to battle it out in an empty green plain that no one knew.
Their swords clashed hard, each blow relentless as they gashed each other's body with no sign of stopping. But like any other fairy tale ending, the hero had to win. The Prince forced his blade into Lysander's heart, and ended his tragic life.
Reading to myself the last sentence of his death, I gently closed the book, and stared at the front cover one last time.
They were still frozen in their majestic dance, as if nothing happened.
Of course, the novel didn't center around the conflict with Lysander, for it merely constructed a fraction of the overall plot. Readers preferred other parts of the story, such as the romantic development of the couple, or the magic system that the author carefully planned out.
But this cruel villain named Lysander... he stood out to me. He suffered so much during his childhood, yet died so cruelly in the end—and without his sister. His past actions were, of course, morally inexcusable—yet many things about him reminded me so much of myself.
One thing differentiated us, though: our names.
My name is Choi Do-woon, and I'm just another reader of this novel.
The sharp smell of anesthesia and sanitizer lingered in the air as I turned my eyes away from the book until they landed on the small, closed window to my left. For the first time in weeks, I could finally see my physical state.
Not a single ounce of fiber remained in my body—not a single healthy strand of hair remained in my scalp. The dark bags under my eyes have worsened, making my pale skin look paler than it should. But even though my body had dramatically changed, one aspect remained the same: my static expression.
Emotions were one of the constructs that helped define humanity to its rudimentary level; it became the concept, aside from intelligence, that they believed separated themselves from those "primitive" animals guided by their natural instincts.
I personally found it difficult to understand actions caused by emotional instances, rather than logical causes, because I could never fully understand that construct myself.
It just never... clicked.
Though my sense of emotions were null, I found myself able to remember every single thing I saw or heard. And it stuck to me like a sticky note on a wall—one that would never fall down, even if it wanted to. To this day, I wondered whether my emotions were the price for this extraordinary ability; nevertheless, this trait allowed me to delve deeply into the world of academia at such an early age.
"Mother, look what I did."
March 23rd, 2004.
On that spring afternoon where I sat on the front porch of my parents house, my eyes wandered up to the sky—and as a young child I wondered to myself, where were the clouds drifting to?—until, suddenly, a crumpled-up paper hit my head.
Curious, I picked it up and checked its contents.
So many letters, I thought. So many numbers, all wedged together—only to be conjoined by two straight lines. And below that typed strangeness were scribbled and erased attempts from the previous respondee.
To think that this was my first time being introduced to mathematics. At first, it felt impossible to comprehend this subject in front of me—yet my mind tried to formulate the logic behind it. Using the written attempts as a basis, I managed to answer all those questions.
Whether the answers were indeed correct or not mattered little to me at the time. I merely wanted to show my mother what I did.
"What is this..."
In the midst of her cooking dinner, I showed mother what I did. The moment she saw the paper, the corner of her lips curved downward, and her brown irises shrunk and trembled. She placed her cooking utensils down on the counter and grabbed the paper from my hand.
I found it fascinating how the more she looked at the strange contents, the more unfamiliar her expression became to me. Even more so when she went on to tear it into tiny pieces before yelling at me to go to my room.
I wondered what made her react like that.
Since then, I began to notice a commonality in my parents' behavior around me. Whenever they saw me their eyes narrowed, their eyebrows furrowed, and their faces slightly turned to the side—as if to avoid looking at me completely. Their bodies, too, moved in such infrequent manners. But it was the rigid and forceful motion of their facial muscles that became especially clear to me, even as a child.
One night, in the midst of my sleep, mother and father began talking about me in the living room. Light seeped in from underneath the door, alongside their silhouettes and voices.
Curious as to why they were still awake, I wiped my sleepy eyes and got up from the bed. I wrapped my hands around the chair that mother once used to read me bedtime stories and pushed it towards the door. Once I heard the two surfaces clank, I climbed up the chair and opened the golden doorknob.
The bright light blinded me for a moment—but just for a single moment—as I made my way to my parents. They seemed so absorbed in their conversation that they didn't notice me getting closer and closer until, finally, I could hear the topic of their conversation.
"Toys, therapy! We've tried everything—everything!" She dug her nails deep into her scalp, and began to scratch it hard while mumbling the rest of the words out from her shivering lips. "Why is he still like that—"
Perhaps seeing how deep her fingers were getting, father had no choice but to restrain her hands. "Calm down—"
But she broke free from his grasp, yanked him from the collar, and pulled his face down to where he could see her shaking pupils. "That thing is not my child. He's nothing but an emotionless doll—no... a monster! He's a monster I tell you. A monster!"
She continued to rant on and on about just how terrible my existence was to him, all while weeping on his shoulder. Father only stroked her hair for a few crying moments before mumbling out a response.
"Don't worry, we can always try again."
It seemed that they were well prepared beforehand because two months after I heard that statement, mother gave birth to twins: a boy and a girl. Looking back at it, her belly did suddenly enlarge during that time frame. I just failed to notice what it entailed.
I remembered gazing through the incubators room from atop a stool that I grabbed nearby. My eyes drifted between countless name tags, but I eventually found my new siblings snuggled up in their cribs.
Fascinating: how could a human being grow so big from a size this small? Though curiosity drove me for a proper answer, I couldn't shake out the thought that, perhaps, at this moment I will finally experience my first emotion: Anger.
These new siblings were going to replace me, and my own parents were going to abandon me without a second thought. But when I saw their smiling faces for the first time, something within me... clicked.
I once read that humans who typically look at newborns have a sudden surge of dopamine which, ultimately, led them to experience emotions such as happiness. Never in my life did I ever experience said surge, but at that moment, such unfamiliar warmth coursed through my body.
This warm feeling... could it be?
I lifted my heavy head up to check my reflection. Never had I seen my own lips curved up like that. Based on what I'd seen on other people's faces, the only reason they would even do such a thing would be because of one emotion: happiness.
Rather than anger, my first emotion was happiness.
At first, I tried to reject this warm feeling. For some reason, it felt wrong. But at the same time, I wanted to enjoy this warmth. I wanted to enjoy this emotion called happiness. For the first time in my life, my world became filled with such bright colors.
Except it only lasted for only a single moment.
Father suddenly came up to me. And once I saw him, my world turned gray like before.
"Your mother said that she doesn't want you to fill their heads with your craziness." He placed his hand on my shoulder and sighed. "Please... start acting like a normal child."
"... Okay."
What he wanted from me was to start acting like a lovable brother—to hide my "true" self so we could then become the perfect family to the outside world.
How inconceivable, I thought. Because to oblige to that order meant that I needed to show some form of expression on my face, despite it being such an impossible feat for me. Still, it was the first favor that my parents asked of me.
If I do this, perhaps they'll start treating me differently.
And so I quickly began reading books to accomplish this goal. I supposed that by studying the psychology of emotions and the fundamentals of acting I could show my new siblings something, even if it was fake.
Words upon words—books after books—films after films. To experience the uniqueness of human emotions, I even watched people's faces as they walked past me on the streets, hoping to mimic every single movement the muscle did to indicate happiness, anger, and sadness.
It took such a long time, but I finally created a new me with emotions so real... yet so fake.
As my siblings grew older and smiled at everything I did or said, I would respond back with an empty one. Such a simple facial movement it was, yet for some reason I felt a sting deep within my chest. It used to be small, but the more they smiled at me, the more my chest ached.
I didn't know why, but It felt so wrong to see them smile like that because of my facade.
I realized then that this ache that I felt was known as guilt: the emotional feeling of regret and responsibility after doing something bad. Despite this awful feeling coursing through my body, I forced myself to believe that, finally, my parents would accept me as their child with no strange reaction.
Unfortunately, they didn't.
They remained distant towards me—even more so when I began to act out my emotional facades. Perhaps they found it strange that, after so long, I could now express such fabricated faces like they did.
Even though they continued to reject me out of their lives, I never felt that ache in my chest like I did with my siblings.
Maybe I should give up on earning my parents love, I thought. And instead, earn my sibling's.
If I could make them happy with my facade, then my being could at least serve some fodder purpose. So, to achieve this goal, I decided to read more books. The more I read, the better I understood their needs. And the more time I spent with them, the more this strange need to be around them grew.
Before I knew it, I had already graduated college with a PhD at the age of seventeen, for my wonder for academia continued for the sake of further understanding emotions and the likes. They considered me a prodigy: a human with high intelligence that could acquire any knowledge with ease. Many wondered whether my parents would be proud of me.
Do you really think this would make us happy? You can't even show us a real smile.
Instead, this accomplishment made them hate me even more. But shortly after attaining my PhD, my body began to change.
I always considered my body its own separate being from my mind, so I rarely took the time to care for its nutritional needs. Yet, one day it suddenly gave up on me. Consumption started to feel painful, and the lack of appetite that used to be so common now went on for days. Seeing the serious symptoms, I decided to go to the hospital to see what was wrong.
"It seems that you have cancer, and at the late fourth stage no less. We can hospitalize you to try and slow down the process, but..."
For a moment, I could only stare at the doctor with widened eyes when he stated my verdict.
"... I see," was all I could say.
I rarely took care of my body, so this shouldn't have been shocking news, yet the idea of leaving my siblings behind after my death left a bitter taste in my mouth. The doctor quickly hospitalized me and began my treatments, leading to the present.
Though I was forced to stay in this hospital bed, I refused to let my illness keep me at bay. I began reading, and reading, and reading countless books with the little time I had left.
Books were my only way to understand the world around me. It had the answers to every question I had, and the lessons to everything I wanted to learn. It helped me comprehend this cruel world that made me so... different. But after days of flipping through countless pages, I simply gave up.
Why should I continue to read when my death is near?
Nothing I read will help change my inevitable end.
Nothing I read will ever help me become more… human.