itâs at the half-hour mark that heâs belatedly hit with a rational idea, so he whips out his phone to dial up a number and waits, waits until the other end picks up. âhey! everything okay over there?â in his other hand is a box of color changing jello marked half-off for the day. âand how do you feel aboutâŚâ he has to squint to read the label again. âfoods that have identity crises?âÂ
âwho is this,â she says, before the caller id catches up with her, âwhat?âÂ
the dog is adorable and the cat is, begrudgingly, cute as well. this makes the standoff theyâre engaged in probably the most vomit inducing thing oliviaâs ever had to see. the cuteness stabs her viscerally. it radiates out from her guts to her hands and back again. she wants to throttle something. this canât be legal.Â
olivia coos, âbring me back a hot pickle,â the dog perks its ears up at her tone of voice, giving the cat the opening to strike, âcat, no!â
there isnât enough fine motor skill in the world for olivia to hold a phone, console a dog, and restrain a cat at the same time. in the hospital, she practiced tying her shoes and writing her name so often she started doing it in her sleep and those things are still difficult for her.Â
this is nothing like that.Â
she drops the phone and the cat screeches so loud she canât tell if it even really happened, âtwo hot pickles!âÂ
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âbeats me,â sungwoo throws back with a laugh. thereâs other things he couldâve handed over just as easy. a puzzled look, a âwhat the fuck, liv,â half a xanax, maybe. he squints at her side profile from his periphery. maybe half of a half instead. âweâre not anywhere close to a beach, so i couldnât tell you.â thereâs an open bag of potato chips in his lap, which he holds up for her to take, a consolation prize. sea salt and grease, by all means, is the next best thing.
these chips are going to make her throw up but olivia takes them because theyâre as good a thing as any to fill the gaping, metaphorical void sheâs got rolling around in her skull. sheâs either got wild animals for braincells or bojack goddamn horseman dicking around in there. which, makes sense. bojack is a horse. âyou didnât think about it long enough.âÂ
her stomach aches approximately two seconds later which. while on brand, is absolutely the worst.
there probably arenât rocks heavy enough to keep her down to begin with. where would she even finds rocks like that? do they sell them?
sungwoo could probably buy them. heâs got rock money.Â
âi donât think iâve ever been to the beach,â she says, spraying little bits of salt and potato, forgetting that sheâs supposed to swallow before she speaks.
she swallows now.Â
ânot that it matters, itâs not like i would enjoy it under the intense weight of societal standards,â olivia huffs, folding her arms around her gut because itâs starting to scream why the fuck did you eat that!!! thankfully, itâs drowned out by the other 10,000 signals her half-functioning body is trying to send to her. âjesus christ, existence is wack. iâm self-identifying as a croissant.âÂ
too many choices in one small area triggers something in olivia. sheâd call it a system override, but that makes her brain seem technical when it is, in reality, two geese screaming at each other. each goose represents a choice. two is fine, three is alright, but anything more than four makes everything unbearably loud.Â
who knew there were this many frozen coffee drinks?
olivia isnât even supposed to drink coffee but here she is, holding the store brand and looking at a starbucks (? what the fuck is a star-buck??) because this a vacation and if youâre gonna do something you shouldnât do, vacationâs as good an excuse as any. there are so many flavors. so many brands. so many colors. how much espresso is too much espresso? what would pumpkin taste like when cold?
her head hurts.Â
âwhich do you like?â she asks slowly, a hint of desperation creeping into her face.Â
âsurely maths isnât making you rethink your existenceâŚâ he says, slightly concerned. after all, it was quite presumptuous of him to assume everyone does maths in the maths library, because he sure wasnât.
oh god. oh fuck.Â
thatâs exactly what her bullshit crazy people *~visions*~ would say.Â
the library feels like an ice box and though it could 100% be because her bodyâs ability to self-regulate anything has been through a hydraulic press, she feels like itâs connected to this not-person-not-vision-maybe-not-anything??-fuck thatâs haunting her.Â
didnât someone die in this building?
and if the soul is just a concept then maybe itâs not really dead? like, can a soul really die if it didnât exist in the first place?
ah, yes. paranoia, her old friend.Â
âum.â she says, eloquent and exhausted, after a long bout of silence has passed since her ~*vision*~ attempted communication,  âi asked you first.âÂ
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âumâŚâ he blinks, pressing his lips together into a friendly line so he wonât laugh. âno, uh, i just wanted to let you know itâs dark out now,â he says, as if that explains anything about anything. as with everything, he doesnât feel the need to elaborate, only to do what feels like the right thing, âare you waiting for someone?â
literally who the fuck could she possibly be waiting for? and who just sleeps in the quad waiting for anyone short of oprah goddamn winfrey?
olivia visibly starts, surprised with herself for knowing who oprah is.Â
âno,â she mumbles, and wipes a face across her eyes. her hip hurts from the way sheâs been carelessly laying on it. sometimes a gift is actually a curse. sometimes sleeping anywhere leads to arthritis, âiâm just tired,â she continues, like that makes this anymore normal.
thereâs a brief dillemma while she tries to decide if she should risk trying and failing to get up in front of this stranger but quickly decides, fuck it. if a poor crippled girl is the worst thing this rich boy sees his whole life, olivia would consider it a favor.Â
after months of trial-and-error, she now knows to put her bag on her back before she stands up lest she risk toppling straight over. her blood pressureâs so fucked. is there a part of her that isnât a disaster? sheâs yet to find it.Â
with a huff, olivia yanks her noodle legs underneath her and pushes.Â
âyouâre olivia?â she doesnât bother to wait for an answer as she puts her books and bags down and stares down the younger girl. âyou should probably show up to tutoring sessions on time if you actually want to make the amount you plan to charge. my dad says punctuality is key in the world of business. shows the consumer that you, yâknow, actually care.â
 the spine of her cracks quietly as seolhee opens the book, itâs never been opened before and the pages still carry the manufactured smell of the factory they came from. in a few months, god-willing, sheâll forget it in some corner of her room and never bother with it ever again.Â
âanyways, letâs maximize the rest of our study hour. whatâs so great about trigonometry?â
this is a lot of questions at once and oliviaâs half-cocked brain struggles to keep up with the cacophony of sounds this half-human, half-witch is spewing at her. she blinks, slowly, frowning a little, âwhat makes you think i care?â she says, as the two geese she has in place of brain cells attempt to make noise into words she can actually process. it is difficult.Â
okay. trigonometry.Â
right, okay, âthereâs nothing great about anything if you donât like it,â she murmurs, âbut passing is cool and probably, like, Super Cool for you, i think.âÂ
olivia digs around in her bag, taking out her secondhand graphing calculator and a few sheets of paper, âlet me see your homework,â she adds.Â
a really super fun thing about traumatic brain injuries is sometimes when olivia looks at words, all she sees are small dancers, doing their best at showing her what an electric slide would look like if performed by the characters that make up her name. theyâre adorable, and fun, and olivia feels like ripping out every page in her philosophy notebook.Â
i think therefore i am, she highlights, frowning. this means, by default, that these little dancing machines are real, living beings. are they trapped? do they even know theyâre alive? does anyone? olivia sure fuckinâ doesnât.Â
olivia squints at the only other person stupid enough to sit in the locked down library in the math building.
unless he isnât a stupid person. is he alive?
is he real?
olivia sits back in her chair a little. thereâs a good chance that this guy is just made up. a projection, her therapist would correct, because olivia calls them her crazy people bullshit ~*visions*~ and âthat isnât a healthy thought, olivia. how can we reframe that?â
blue turns to yellow to orange to pink, then far too quickly, the day starts turning blue. jisoo glances at his watch, surprised to see that thirty minutes have gone by since he last checked (circa when he decided to give up on schoolwork.) time is strange like that, always running too fast whenever heâs walking slow. and heâs a slow walker.Â
he packs his laptop into his bag and thinks about the rest of the nightâhow heâs going to spend it slouched over his computer screen because he spent the entire day throwing frisbees and playing guitar in the quad. the darker the sky gets, the more he feels like time is running from him. whoever said that the hands of the clock should be called hands instead of sneaker-clad feet clearly never spent an entire day procrastinating on an essay due in the morning.
he thinks about dinner, how he hasnât eaten since lunch. he thinks about blowing off his assignment and faking a fever, how the new nurse at the student clinic has a crush on him and will definitely get someone to sign a medical certificate for him.Â
he glances to the side and remembers the sleeping girl not ten feet away from him. he remembers seeing her sometime in the afternoon, while he was strumming strings and singing songs with a few friends and a handful of strangers. she was still there after he stopped playing and everyone left, but sheâd already fallen asleep. at first, he thought she was waiting for someone, but itâs almost night time now, and he doesnât think leaving anyone alone and asleep in the well-lit dark is a good idea.
he walks over, bag slung over one shoulder and guitar case in hand. he sets the case on the ground, crouches down and gently taps the girlâs shoulder to wake her. âmissâŚâ he says as softly as he can. the sun has completely disappeared now, and there is nothing but dark blue and stars and light posts for miles.
itâs not like turning the human body into cucumber peels and back again comes with a litany of perks. if her doctor or her physical therapist or her regular therapist or her psychiatrist had any say, being alive is the perk. she lived through something very few do! she learned to walk again! she can talk now! sheâs progressed so far itâs semi-safe for her to be alone!
thankfully, no one is asking them. as far as oliviaâs concerned, only one thing has come out of her untimely transformation into casper the dumbass ghost:
no matter the background, no matter the time, no matter the place, olivia can go the fuck to sleep.Â
her doctor says itâs because her bodyâs so exhausted from simply keeping itself upright it takes whatever solace it can get. olivia feels that and she respects itâs wishes by promptly knocking out whenever the opportunity arises.Â
she dreams of her dog and yellow and heated pavement.Â
âwhat?â she says, before sheâs fully awake, blinking back into reality with ease that comes from being woken up approximately a million times a day. there is absolutely no recognition on her face because she has no idea who this guy is. do common areas have cleaning staff if theyâre outside? is she being robbed? she says, âi donât have any money,â but thatâs redundant. anyone could look at her and determine she has maybe two slices of rotted cheese to her name.Â
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and not a normal ball, not the âoh sorry! i forgot to pick up milkâ ball. they dropped the livelihood of five (5) whole living, breathing, shitting creatures off the top of lotte world tower. the ball is gone.Â
one of themâs a snake.
this is more helpful than she originally anticipated as it requires no guidance whatsoever. olivia respects this, but immediately pays it very little attention. the cat is all over and cats are nothing like dogs. theyâre picky and petulant and confusing and olivia canât figure out her own moods, howâs she supposed to decipher what a kick-roll-roll-hiss-rub means?Â
and how the fuck did a room acquire all these animals, anyway? is there no limit to what rich people can do? are there no bounds?
a distant part of her is panicking but, honestly, her body sends out a million signals at once. panic gets lost in the thrum of it.Â
olivia watches the cat watch the hamster.Â
âeat or be eaten,â she murmurs sagely, and scratches the cats butt. itâs the only place itâll allow contact.
money, like most social constructs, is hard and stressful and confusing. the fact that itâs a requirement at all is, in the words of her therapist, fucking wack. sheâs supposed to just remember to pay for things? no reminders? no cutoff warnings? olivia can barely remember to tie her shoes on a good day.Â
but money, like all social constructs, is vital for life and without it olivia might as well walk into the ocean right now. physical labor is out and she canât do anything in customer service without attempting to stick her head in a fryer so tutoring feels like a good middle ground.Â
and sheâs good at math. numbers, weirdly enough, are just about the only thing that donât cha-cha slide across her frontal lobe. they march in an orderly line, kicking their little numbery legs out and saluting her as they pass. this is different from literally every other concept which meringueâs past her in a blur. faces do this. names do this.Â
olivia comes into the tutoring center ten minutes late since time is another construct thatâs been eluding her as of late, and stares blankly around the room.
she forgot what her tuteeâs name is.Â
fuck. fuck.
she takes a seat at an empty table and wills the gods both above and below to bring her cashbox to her so she doesnât have to trudge up to every single table and ask, are you looking for olivia? because iâm olivia. youâve found me.Â
this is olivia, freshman, 20, taurus, chaotic good, she/hers, biomed engineering major, stats minor
was supposed to go to harvard a year ago but thanks to someoneâs superb driving skills, she was in a bad accident and had to postpone her whole life so she could glue her limbs back onÂ
itâs a 50/50 shot sheâll remember anything at all ever
would benefit from a support group for people who never know whatâs going on
sheâsâ how do rich folks say?? like, dirt wagon, dusty ass, musty, okey smokey poor.Â
i have some ideas for plots but iâm open to anything~Â
- youâve introduced yourself to her at least three times and she still has no idea who you are
-Â welcome to the broke club: population yâall!!Â
- if ur into having a gf who doesnât like to be touched, may suddenly forget ur name, and has mood swings that put seesaws across the nation to shame, sheâs ya gal
- ugh we love bonding over newly recovered traumatic childhood memories *chefs kiss*
- please make her stop eating shitty convenience food someone feed her please god anyoneÂ
- yâall wear the most chaotic, uglyass clothes on campus
- she can barely read how tf is she supposed to pass this philosophy, soc, psych, history, etc. class
her vibe is here, bio is here (itâs mad long tho sry), and stats are hereÂ
in tradition of lit majors across the globe, olviaâs mom has a twisted sense of beauty and names her first daughter beatrice. this goes over exactly as expected and when the second daughter stumbles out of her, so overwhelmed her little lungs donât even work, she breathes out âoliviaâ like shakespeare himself will reach up from the depths of hell and jumpstart the reincarnation of his characterâs lungs.
i. in tradition of lit majors across the globe, olviaâs mom has a twisted sense of beauty and names her first daughter beatrice. this goes over exactly as expected and when the second daughter stumbles out of her, so overwhelmed her little lungs donât even work, she breathes out âoliviaâ like shakespeare himself will reach up from the depths of hell and jumpstart the reincarnation of his characterâs lungs.
olivia spends four days in the nicu because she swallowed so much blood at birth.
beatrice, a whole seven years old, isnât allowed in to see the babyâ not that sheâs particularly inclined to, itâs the principal of the thingâ and spends four days on her fatherâs motherâs couch watching the news because the tv only gets six channels and none of them are cartoons. also, grammie invested her pension into the stock market at the advisement of a scamming financial advisor so she watches the screen in the same way a born again christian stumbles to the altar for penance. beatrice watches, and learns, and starts mumbling under her breath when the numbers are red, too.
ii. when olivia turns seven and beatrice fourteen, grammie dies. she leaves behind an unpayed mortgage and a stock profile worth exactly four trips to the aquarium.
dad is grammieâs only son. mom hates this and hated grammie so the house is tense for days. olivia stays in her room mostly, playing with beatriceâs old toys and drawing little houses with four smiling people and the dog sheâs always wanted.
âwhat would itâs name be?â beatrice asks tiredly. she doesn't really care, and olivia knows this, but the deep, resonating sound of dad yelling is starting to make the wood floors rattle. Â
but olivia has no fucking idea how to name things so she says, âdog!â in a loud voice, choosing to use tone over language to express the admiration and love she would bestow upon the possibility.
âyea, dumbass, but the name,â beatrice rolls her eyes to the ceiling like sheâs saying a prayer, ânevermind, youâd pick something dumb.â
thereâs silence for a beat while olivia squints. her mother starts shrieking in the background.
"the dogâs name is beatrice."
iii. beatrice the dog is bought by their father when olivia turns nine. sheâs tiny and adorable and will only grow to be about twelve pounds. itâs an apology for the way heâs been working late nights but olivia is nine. she doesn't give a shit if her father wasn't home for the birthday dinner or missed out on her chorus concert last week or only remembered it was her birthday because she's been leaving post-it notes on his car for three days. she has a dog.
"she canât fucking name it beatrice!â beatrice the human is shouting.
âwatch it, bee,â mom growls, leaning on the couch like a retired circus tiger.
âwhy not? she can be beatrice the dog and you can be beatrice the bitch,â olivia sings to break her mom's gaze, and artfully ducks beatriceâs chemistry book.
iv. beatrice the bitch is seventeen when she kills beatrice the dog. âit was an accidentâ, she hiccups, perched over the toilet and puking up bright pink fluid. olivia cradles beatrice the dog in her arms, straight faced and quiet. there is the urge to have a full meltdown, of course, to scream and cry and wake her dad up from where he sleeps on the couch and demand he bring little beatrice back.
but she doesnât.
she watches beatrice the bitchâ the only beatrice, nowâ sob and groan and heave over the toilet. the bathroom smells like white wine and vodka.
"it's okay, bee," olivia whispers, and gently lays her dog on the bathroom rug so she can run her hand up and down her sister's back the way she's been doing for her mom for years, "i know you didn't mean it."
beatrice hiccups again, "she's just so tiny and i didn't see her ollie, i didn'tâ"
"i know."
v. "please don't leave me," olivia whispers so quietly beatrice could pretend not to hear.
and pretend she does.
vi. olivia does well in school. better than her older sister, better than even her mother, who was the first person in her family to go to school and still has the debt to prove it.
"you could go anywhere you want," her guidance counselor is telling her while olivia looks at the magnetic sculpture on his desk, "get a scholarship to any school you want."
she thinks about how the way her sister packed only two bags and left in the middle of the night. how the apartment still smelled like birthday candles.
"i want to go to america," she murmurs.
the guidance counselor smiles the same way creepy mr.choi on the first floor does whenever olivia gets home from school. it doesnât matter. men have been smiling at her like this her entire life.
olivia graduates at the top of her class, clutching an ivy league scholarship to harvard in her grip like the ticket it absolutely is. she waves it in front of anyone who will listen. she draws up the floor plan to her room and makes amazon wishlists with the things she wants to fill it with. they can't afford any of these things, but everyone in the neighborhood is riding the high of her pride and want to help in any way they can.
three weeks before the plane takes off, a semi runs a red light and hits the passenger side of the taxi she's riding in.
vii. second and third degree road rash, olivia learns through a haze of exhausted moaning and the frantic sound of carts slamming around the room, is just a really mild way of saying fuckfuckfuck her skin is gone!!! she knows her skin is gone, though, so not saying it out loud doesnât really make it feel better.Â
the pain is so severe she canât cry, or speak, or do much but attempt astral-projecting her soul into a different dimension. it creates an out-of-body dichotomy. on one hand, someone has taken a cheese grater to the very fragile bits of body she has left, and on the other, sheâs at the park, beatrice the puppy bringing her stick after stick after stick. olivia throws them all and watches as beatrice tries and fails to find the same one she threw.
someone abruptly pops her femur back under muscle and olivia loses her dog, promptly throws up an impressive amount of bile, and blacks out.
viii. getting crushed by an eighteen-wheeler is the easy part.Â
three months in the hospital with an injury list longer than her fucking brag sheet takes her to places sheâs positive sheâll never come back from. her parents alternate days because they donât want to be in the same room as each other and their vegetable daughter.Â
âyouâre lucky to be alive,â the physical therapist is saying on week fifteen, when olivia relearns how to stand up, âif you were on the passenger side, youâdâve been a goner.â
it feels like sheâs got cooked pasta for bones and beef jerky for muscle. it isnât conductive for walking the twelve feet to the bathroom. her mother isnât here to see her cry, so she does. cries, and falls, and tries to punch the nurse who helps her up.
lucky fucking her.Â
harvard rescinds the scholarship. elitism waits for no one.
ix. olivia signs her soul to the first private loan company who offers to buy. seongnam will still take her, despite the scarring and memory loss, and olivia, exhausted from living as a guest in her own fucking body, agrees.
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