The meat is gristly and rich in tendons. Ones which snap beneath the grinding of his knife, while the sliding slab of dead flesh push and shove the congealed versions of condiment towards the edges. It is a sauce once made to conceal the unpalatable choice cut of meat—now it serves as little more than lubrication to what is already doomed. The metal of the cutlery screech against the plate, piercing a silence otherwise only interrupted by the faint hush of the television, on in the living room as though of any interest. And now for the local news... The knife and fork were set aside by hands of long fingers, void of any trinkets.
Squelch. The carcass of a small rotting fish slid out of a plastic container, onto the plate, vying for space alongside putrid meat. The smell. Oh, the smell, it could have surely been defined as something awful, if you were sensitive of it. For the tall man calmly executing these tasks, it seemed not to give an inch of bother. He was meticulous, quiet, his lips pursed and large eyes following the movements of his hands as the dinner was prepared. This was nothing, compared to the stench he knew the world produced with all its filth. … The police is not eliminating the possibility of homicide... Vaguely, his head turned, as though to look towards the door which cut him off from the rest of the penthouse. But as soon as it was there, that moment was gone, and a low hum of a melody left the man, as he opened the door of a cage, placing the plate of rot onto the floor of it.
The fragile wings of butterflies fluttered as the cage's inhabitants were rustled, but before none could leave their confinement, the latch was in place again. He stood before this cage, this man did, for a moment. Watching the specimen peacefully, humming and waiting. Perhaps he had intended to keep watching. To see whether the beautiful representations of purity would descend upon rotting flesh. But as he stood there, the door went off. It appeared to shake him, almost as though ruffled awake from slumber, and the reluctance to leave the room was momentarily as clear as day across his features.
His name was Choi Minho, and although the apartment he resided within was not his own, it was where he had been allowed to stay, so that in the face of his current state of solitude, it fell upon him to leave the sanctuary of his butterfly room, and answer the calling of whoever came visiting. The door to his passion was closed with a quiet click, and he moved to the kitchen. The tap water rushed over his hands as soap cleared away grime, and the towel dried them, as he moved through the penthouse. Her. The face was familiar, by now. She had come by more than once, and they had talked, more than once, but no more than casualties, the formalities of acquaintance but not quite friends. The friendship was something the owner of this home could claim.
“Ma'am” he spoke, as the door had opened further before his hand, exposing more than a mere sliver of the residence to the woman beyond. “Hyung is not home, I'm afraid.”
