people who died

There’s a particular creak Harang’s come to know, like the full weight from the ball of a foot is jammed down right in front of his door, loud enough to see-saw its way into his brain. It’s subtle enough that he could probably blame it on something in the apartment if he wanted to. The same way he could blame the slip of pictures on the brittle wind of an oscillating fan, or the rattle of his door on the obnoxious pre-teens who live two floors above him (don’t question why they’d come and play on the floors below). The same way any person might try to rationalize the irrational. The problem of it is that Harang’s been living in this building, in this flat, for long enough that every time he hears That Particular Creak the hair of his nape raises and the backs of his knees shiver. 

Sometimes the creak meanders its way around his room, a flat-footed drag to match the (slightly warped) record Harang has spinning music to life. Sometimes the creak seems to sink into the gaps of slotted floorboards and disappear. Sometimes he can hear it fainter, a room over, rattling at ceramic cereal bowls. Sometimes Harang is so sick of it invading the sanity of a perfectly normal Monday that he jams his wallet into the worn pocket of his sweatshirt and slips out the door, snaps it shut behind him before it creaks right after him. 

For a moment, he rests with his back against it, like the full weight of him might keep it locked inside. The hallway’s empty enough, though that bleak wash of grey he’s grown to normalize is broken up, one door propped open and letting artificial light spill out in a river. Unconsciously, he hops over it while walking back toward the vending machines, some lingering childhood superstition about cracks. 

By now and it’s late enough that the machine’s already decided what it’ll sell him, a wall of chips color-split down the middle, blue for vinegar and red for ketchup. Harang opts for vinegar, feeds in a couple of coins and pops the bag on his way back up the hall. The taste of them stings at his tongue. This time he stops at the edge of the light, can hear the static buzz of it past the sour crunch at his molars. Stops because he sees Hanhui, arms full of cardboard like he’s cleaning out the recycling. Harang doesn’t offer to help, but he does tip his head like he’s pretending to contemplate the idea of it. 

but from the feminine products of razors and sanitary napkins to wide range of empty bottles varying from perfume to aftershave, hanhui simply couldn’t put a finger on who it was exactly that pilfered his uncle’s attention.

whether it had been any specific person at all—or merely just an inane fixation to collect general clutter.

                                                                well, what did it matter? it's all going in the trash.

and though that conviction was enough to drive him through the first four boxes of junk shuffled along the way to recycling, wear and tear (on the muscle and brain) began to rear its head on his 5th round back. only this time, a body stands in his way.

                                                                                                               a living body, for once.

“oh,” hanhui blinks, nitrile clad fingers flexing absently around cardboard edges. this box in particular smelt, ever the nostalgic waft of stale beer and cigarettes and wet cardboard with every drag of his foot;  it even went as far to speak to him—a multitude of broken bottles on the bottom that clinks a mocking sort cacophony somewhere along the lines of lee hanhui you silly thing, picking up after a dead man you barely know. but that’s what happens when it’s blood. you do everything for each other—or something like that.

“no...” he starts slow, tongue wetting his lower lip in thought. there’s a choice to be made here and hanhui debates on the what-ifs of lying. the benefits of claiming to be someone else, someone not in the slightest related to the former terror that occupied his flat. but what’s the point in that? when the landlord already knows.

who’s to say nobody gossips in a building like this?

“they said it was best i do it, next of kin and all...” his lips purse, biting back the rest of his train of thought. he’s sure, by now, that they also didn’t want to do it. but can he blame them? the boy shifts his weight idly, nose scrunching slightly at the odor seeping out between the cracks. “ah, i’m sorry,” hanhui speaks quickly around belated mortification, hugging the box closer to his chest. as if this stench, his predecessor’s reputation is now his to bear.

and because he’s new, new and unknown, he feels especially pressured to be on the good side of his future neighbors. so, as seen by mom, apologies and a smile first.

“does it smell?” am i in your way? “i’ll be done soon.”

there’s nothing like black coffee on a thursday morning to cure a hangover in the works: four shots, no sugar, and a mug filled to the brim. the stuff is pitch black, almost like her partial memory of last night, and the scent of freshly made caffeine wafting from tinted froth barely keeps her eyes open. that, and the sunlight piercing through the thin curtains of her little place; the light of noon is so bright that it’s almost jarring. honestly, she just wants to go to back to sleep, maybe knock out till 4 pm and then roll out of bed for instant ramyun and cheap beer. but as the owner of haesu restaurant who needs to maintain a believable facade, sleeping in on a workday is a bit too much to ask for.

low mumbles of complaint leave her lips as they sip what looks like poison, the bitterness of it hitting the back of her throat like holy water. everyday in the publicly available floor of this goddamn restaurant seems to be the same. don’t get her wrong, siyeon adores her diner—small, homey, with a cozy interior—mostly because it reminds her of the person she named it after, but she also knows that she’d much rather be spending time in the basement, tending to her actual profession. using her brain rather than just her hands. letting her fingers sketch rather than hold a (cooking!) knife. two jobs, one real, one semi-real, mean double the work, and double the work means half the sleep; and she needs at least four hours to function. 

for good or the bad (she can’t choose yet), something other than just coffee keeps her awake today, however; about half an hour ago, a moving truck had passed her shop window and had parked only two blocks over. while her body is still in denial from being dragged out of bed, her mind is alert and on edge, and for two reasons: one, because she’s not super perceptive to newcomers, especially if it requires her to smile for the camera and be all hospitable, and two, because she knows that place two blocks to the left. it belongs (or, well, had belonged) to some creep from her apartment complex, and he had taken photos for a living. at least, until he’d been rolled out of the building on a stretcher, the studio surrounded by people in suits and flashing red lights. a lot of weird things go down in ville city, but it’s not every day an ambulance and police car pulls up to her street, lights and all; that had been an unusual, almost a surreal moment, the sound of sirens deafening in her ears. and though her knowledge on the guy is limited, and she only has seen him a couple times a week from behind her windows, it’s hard for siyeon to forget how dead he had looked when the night wind had slightly pulled away the white cover off of his stale face. 

brr. the image of it sends shivers down her arms, and she rubs them out of habit. she doesn’t have anything necessarily against death, she supposes, but she isn’t one of those adulators, more a realist. she’ll think about it when the time comes is the plan. in the meantime, she decides to check out exactly who it is that’s moving into that creep’s old business. you know, just out of neighbourly curiosity, really. nothing more, nothing less. 

downing the rest of what’s left in the steaming hot cup, siyeon puts her hair in a messy low bun, grabs a bag of jjang-gu, a korean snack, for brunch, and makes her way over to the photo studio, eyes following the workers still unloading furniture and whatnot from the back of their vehicle. she can make out the silhouette of a tall young man who looks, to put it plainly, utterly lost.

he’s seen death. cut to ages 7, 9, 13, 15, and 22. so much so that, at night, when peers his age would dream of magic and superheroes and crushes, hanhui dreamt of the guy at the park, roadkill dragged across asphalt, dead birds, dead dad—in special cases, an amalgamation of carcasses and maggots and other things that brings chill down to the bone.