CIDER
she doesn’t hate won jinsil.
she LOATHESÂ her.
it is what it is at this point: the fallen swan betrayed, feathers tainted red, tainted dirty. the naive sheep had encountered wolves and came out of it blooded and broken--with a vow against her frail heart to, too, sharpen her teeth and be one herself.
she will be one.
she won’t let the likes of won jinsil get to her again.
( a fatuous attempt, seemingly, anger oozes out of every crevice, hurt filling in the nooks and crannies, avery is a disgustingly weak creature no matter how hard she prays for a chance at redemption; to trade in a wavering heart for one made of pure arsenic. to be truly, unaffected by it all.
but it is perhaps impossible, the traitorous organ situated beneath an ivory cage likes to sing it all the time, quickening whenever jinsil passes her by at work--gaze strayed, head held high--and elicits a twinge of envy in her. she doesn’t care, she never did. but the fact that avery is cautious, is hurt, is weak, is a testimony itself to the damage that’s been dealt, the friendship that only she held dear to.
how pathetic she is still, after everything. Â )
but today is another day, today avery will attempt to ignore old trepidation nipping at her heels in her stride toward the bar where soreness from the past exists, gaze fixating on one won jinsil.
“yah.” lightly, she knocks knuckles on smooth granite, head tilting slightly. “wonho told me to help you with inventory before we open.”
