#* mailbox!

do you think you're redeemable?

“redeemable for what?” she asks, hands busy making a pot of coffee, pouring in the grinds, which had been meticulously crushed by the spin of a manual handle on the grinder, finely done, equally poured. “redeemable for living? for doing what i need to do to survive?” gyuri flops the lid shut and presses the button, turning to lean against the counter, looking at the rest of the apartment, cleanly, orderly. all of it staring right back at her, the little things she’d collected over the years, a result of staying put in a place for too long and getting too comfortable to decorate it. make it something like a home, if it ever existed past those hazy, warm days she tries not to remember too often, if only she paints it through a lens that her longing shapes.

the coffee starts, dripping down into the glass, arms crossed over her chest. “then yeah. all i can do is push forward, and survive, and try to live my life in the best way i can. all i’ve got is what i’ve done for myself, nothing else. so yeah, redeemable, redeemable because i’m just trying to live and i deserve that. i deserve to try. nothing’s been handed to me, i’ve taken every bit of it for myself.”

she reaches for a mug with a chipped handle, some worn pattern fading with every single wash. holds it, looks over the porcelain. “if i just didn’t do anything about it, where would i be now? not here. not making a life for myself. i’ll redeem myself later, when it’s all said and done. when i can look back and say that i did something. lived my life. maybe even be happy.” gyuri laughs, shaking her head. “yeah. something like that.”

do you believe in heroism? in heroes?

“if you would’ve asked me when i was younger, yes. i believed in heroes. i believed in the people that i thought could be heroes, like my father. he was a hero to me without even trying, just— that he could go out there and volunteer himself like that, to help people. i wanted so bad to believe in heroes, to believe that he could be one. i wanted to believe in my dad.” there’s a storm raging outside, battering against the windows, orange table light and a stack of books, filled with the messy scrawl of her handwriting.

she’s got pen ink on the side of her hand from writing too long, slumped over in her chair in glasses with her hair askew. bandages on her knuckles, results of a fight gone wrong at daemon, someone not leaving as quietly as she wished they would every single time. a split lip. leans her chin on her hand, tapping the end of her pen on her cheek. “but then i don’t think he really believed in me. not me, and not my mom, because i don’t think he ever went out there to do that for us. maybe in the beginning, maybe before it all went wrong.”

“you’d think that they’d encourage people to be heroes. these aeternals— whatever, it’s not really my fucking business, but— whether it was heroes or the villains or just my father, maybe in my heart i wished he could be a hero. i wished being a hero was enough for him. i wanted my believing in him to be enough, and it wasn’t. you can want to save people all you want, but they have to want to listen.” she remembers one of the last times she saw DREAD, standing over the body of someone scrambling back towards the wall, begging for mercy, tendrils of darkness enclosing like a trap, and knew she couldn’t recognize her father anymore.

“maybe i’d ask for help if i felt like there was anyone to even ask, but who’s going to do it better than me?” she blows a strand of hair out of her eyes, tucks it back behind her ear with the back of her wrist messily, not doing it quite right. her hands are covered in old, worn gardening gloves, dirt streaked across the fabric, the hot afternoon sun burning down a shine on her brow as she tends to the flowers. knee deep in the dirt, she digs and roots around to tuck them back into places that are neat, orderly.

a blow of air. that hair keeps bothering her, falling down into her vision as she bends over to tend to the earth. “sometimes you ask so much you realize how pointless it is to try. i’ve only ever got things done doing it my way, so asking others for help doesn’t come to mind as often as that. i’d rather get it done then wait for someone else to figure out whatever the fuck they’re going to do.”

“i forgot to tell my sister i work late tonight. so she’ll probably be texting me soon, because i didn’t come home with food like i normally do.” his gloved fingers tap a beat against nite rite’s counter, where he’s propped up in a chair and waiting for another customer. the lights buzz, it’s probably been a few hours since he’d seen someone, and that melody stuck in his head keeps getting beat out against the countertop, only thing he can do while he waits out the rest of his shift. keeps picking up more hours, as long as it means more money in his pocket at the end of the week.

“so i’m tired.” it wears on him, the long hours and the whole night out, but at least it’s somewhere where he has a place to sit, and snacks to eat. he can scroll around on his phone while he waits, thinking about how many long hours he’d gotten through before and he’d do again. tries not to think about what he really needs all of the money for, shame sitting right there in his back pocket, a shadow every time he turns around.

he jolts, suddenly, hands placed firmly against the counter as a vision overtakes him, eyes blanked out white, unseeing. his lips are parted almost as if in answer, like he was in the middle of something, and slowly, slowly, his fingers curl into small fists, like a reaction that takes awhile for it to get out. when his eyes come back, it’s like all of the energy gets sucked out of him, marionette on a string no longer pulled taut, crumpling forward against the counter. “i’m going to slip off this chair when i fall asleep.”

his hands reach, then, for a bottle of iced coffee that has condensation dripping down the sides. he downs it in a few sips, puts it down, closes his eyes. they blink open white again, still holding onto the coffee while the taste lingers on his tongue. the bell at the door rings and he sits quiet, finally pulled forward, with a few blinks, as he gazes around. someone’s looking at all of their drinks, reaches forward, fingers bringing one out. considers the ingredients. clears her throat. puts it back.

“home?” he says, and then thinks about it for a moment, silent, unwavering disposition as he looks off at some blank part of the wall, half expecting a crack to form, to split right down the middle, all of his wants and fears to come spilling right out of that darkness, shaped right there and ready to find him. he thinks of his mother’s eyes, and he thinks of the silence of his father, and he thinks about how eunjae’s hand in his own was the only thing that kept him strong in that house, kept any part of his spirit leftover, even after he had to leave her.

he thinks maybe home isn’t the right word. home in his memory, home when his powers hadn’t manifested yet, and he can barely remember it now, a time where he didn’t have the haze of the future looming over him with every moment, every decision, every touch— but here he is, now, still yearning for that memory, that time where everything was warm and soft and easy, and he didn’t feel that clawing notion of darkness climbing up his throat every time he perceived the world his abilities wanted him to. “i’d go back. i wish i could go back to how i remember it, home where everyone was there and nothing else mattered. home with a family. one that wanted us all there.”

the inside of his room wasn’t where he wanted, maybe the living room, where they’d spent hours watching tv and playing games on the carpet. he thinks he’d go right home and lay down on the floor, watching the spin of the ceiling fan, feel the wind float down to him, back when he wasn’t afraid of touching things, carpet, rug, floor, home, everything in it. “i’d go home, and i’d stay there for awhile, and pretend it was still all the same. that nothing changed.” everything did, which is why it seemed an impossible task.