#infernalkai

   “ book boy, ” which of the two though?

   he should’ve kept rounding the same corner. should’ve not let the bodies drift him away from the streetlights. jiang assumes the visual spasms he would love to call hallucinations have to do with the width of space, the height of time, but the short sequence of deflections make him wince enough to render him unfocused. the people at his back walk by easily to catch the latest holiday discount, that much he knows. 

   along with trying to find it in him to speak up again, jiang supposes he should make a mental note of two things; this boy, the library regular he finds so refreshing, is suddenly very familiar. gags at the notion he, too, could be a threat.

   second: people can fucking glitch like that.

   “ what’s wrong with you? ”

       THE    FIVE    SENSES  /     SENTENCE    STARTERS.

— Not accepting.

sentence starters ( x )

    → @infernalkai​

evening arrives in a veil of indigo, with jewels of magenta woven through the threads and glittering in the last rays of the slowly setting sun. shadows traverse the city streets like outstretched fingers, dipping beneath frames of steel and scaling freeways. as the sun retires, the city is only beginning to rouse, buzzing with chatter and straining against the seams of night. her veins are doused in fluorescent beams, from chartreuse to violet and everything in between; her lungs swell with the collective sigh of relief that swirls from her citizens. with the changing seasons comes the temporary dip in functioning, sinuses cloying with the drop in pressure and temperatures diving in mid-morning, only to spike once more by early afternoon. in any given area within arms’ reach, there lies the guarantee of at least one person suffering from the distinct haze of illness that looms like its close cousin, death. 

kyungsoo is one of those unlucky few, shuffling idly between shelves upon shelves of meticulously organised books, bound together by thread and glue and all vying for an adventure, for a journey to whisk them to the kingdoms discovered only on their pages. patches of red highlight the tip of his nose and the apples of his cheeks, creeping along alabaster skin like water colours on hot pressed paper, and the wicked, dreaded flu controls the flourish of the brush, twirling about as if aiming to pierce through the fibres. a soft sneeze interrupts the silence for but a brief moment, but the following sniffle is drowned out by the flipping of pages and scratching of pencils--the common etudes of a public library. ducked heads, stern eyes, and conscious breathing form the orchestra, each piece tuning their instruments in unison and following all the proper cues, but amidst the crafted bows and fixated gazes, an outsider crawls across the pit. he reaches blindly for direction and keeps low to avoid attention, a portrait of embarrassment and pity.

Repost do not reblog.

( @infernalkai / source: here / status: not accepting! )

BREAK. A WEIGHTED word. One that’s crossed Sangho’s mind countless times over the expanse of his life. What it means to break, to be broken, to have cracked skin that shatters like glass under the weight of another’s touch.

He was pushed, he was pulled, he was morphed into something entirely not Kang Sangho. And for this, he suffered as a fully shapeless being, possibly not even human anymore. More clay than flesh, bone, muscle and blood.

Yet he pretended. If he presented himself as whole, as someone that inhaled oxygen and exhaled carbon dioxide, then surely he would eventually come to be just that.

The facade he wore had existed since he was six years old. And at almost twenty-four years of age, he didn’t feel any closer to completion. Would he ever? Was he doomed to be encased in emptiness, until death’s embrace took him away? He dreamed, desired, decided. Yes, yes, yes, he chanted like a mantra.

Never would he know true satisfaction or what it was like to feel free or happy. Day in, day out, Sangho would question the actions of companions and perfect strangers alike. People were nothing, but another chance at hurt. So he kept them at an arm’s length, while wearing a bitter, false smile. He was a fake, a phony. And he wore it oh so well.

The worst thing was that no one cared, because he didn’t allow them to. Letters came in the mail every so often to remind him of prescriptions which needed refilling. This was the only notice he had regarding the black stain in his life. But it continued to wrought grief through his entire existence with each shattered breath he took.

“We get pushed, we are broken. The cycle of life. Never-ending.”

                  pitter patter on the asphalt and velvet glows through the flow.                                                                                           k i l l e r.

the discoloration of a naturally pale patch of flesh is drawn through the frost-bound droplets oozing from overwhelmed masses of water condensed above, a tide intense enough to drench fading strings of silver annexed atop of his skull along with clothing of a light coloration, a blinding white under the streets lights, stained in a mixture of sheer, thick blood with the unceasing pouring liquid, black pair of jeans carrying the reflection of what once was set cased between the delicate walls of a fragile vein – despite the rain’s best efforts, the coloration still lies into an masterpiece between human pores and its porcelain frame, splattered across the face of a cold blooded assassin. no, a puppet.

the dragging of step by step results into the attrition of a black boot sole to the ground, wearing off the coverage bit by bit and producing a vexatious sound fading into the heavy downpour. dead; every ounce of the young male’s body reverberates the behavior, or better saying, lack of behavior of a walking corpse. limp, unsteady. however behind hazel colored hues repercusses desperation in its true and pure colors, an unknown fear brought by the slaughtering of an entire faction – human, no, he is no more when seized by the strings of a puppeteer, left to the demons of his own havoc to haunt series of dream into endless and deadly nights.

steps ahead lies a figure outlined by the poor lighting providing by the public government to its citizens. a male, that much he can tell. closer and closer they are drawn until an intersection takes places below the flickering illumination. face recognition, a matter thomas has been both cursed and blessed with throughout the dragging years, the reason creeping behind the prayers in his mind so his name won’t be called out when the once unknown figure takes the shape of a male he had come to meet six months or so ago – wishful thinking, child, the night guards surprises not even you can avoid.

                                                                  “thomas?”

run. the voices in his head scream from the ragged strings of breathless lungs and yet his feet disregard the command to move – he is not in control of his own body, he is a mere puppet caught by the bones in invisible strings. it takes a couple of seconds until a foreign hand reaches out in a futile attempt for the broad figure of his shoulder, rebounded by the swat of a wrist to the side of the latter’s limb.