@eidetective continued from ( x )
Sangwoo eats, silently, closing his eyes to imagine his kitchen -- the steady chop-chop of Yoonbum’s fork and knife on his plate, the way his dark, shadowy eyes flit from his foot to Sangwoo’s face. Bright sunlight through the kitchen window. Cold floor under his feet.
The dry strips of what he thinks is chicken tastes nothing like Yoonbum’s cooking, or his mother’s cooking, or even his own cooking. It’s not supposed to. It’s prison food. He knows well enough that the people in this place don’t actually care about their comfort, don’t even really care about their safety outside of what might get them a slap on the wrist. But it’s better than the death penalty, for now.
Sure, he doesn’t have the know-how of some of the other people here; he’s only been here a few weeks rather than a few months, but he’s not actually an idiot. This cell, this particular cell, is about as far from where Sangwoo wants to be as he can imagine, and he has a pretty vivid imagination. But he’s been trying to stay positive. Even when they’d arrested him, even when the verdict had come back and the unsmiling judge had sent him to this place. Even on that first night; even when the guards told him he was moving cells and refused to tell him where, he’d managed to keep things upbeat. It wouldn’t be that bad, is what he’d convinced himself.
And it’s not. Not really. He’s been in much worse situations than this.
The question from down the way catches his attention, and he’s honestly surprised no one’s bothered to ask before now. The other inmates seem more concerned with getting him to shut up than getting to know him, which is understandable. He felt much the same way about the girls he’d killed. (About Yoonbum, too, in the beginning. Before the tables turned.)
