#lithified

Everything becomes one. Time is an illusion.

He’s probably been drinking too much. His feet drag and it seems to take longer to get home than normal. Many people pass by as he traverses the city, looking for his dusty apartment, but he doesn’t remember any of their faces.

He’s transient even in his daily life.

When he finally reaches his abode, he’s fuzzy. His brain feels like static and he’s not paying attention when the front door doesn’t quite click shut. He doesn’t notice the looks he gets from the older residents that socialize in the lobby.

His key slides too easily in his lock, he doesn’t feel the normal resistance when he goes to turn the knob.

His light is on.

It’s twenty-three hundred and he hasn’t been home for about thirteen hours. His lamp shouldn’t be on. He registers this slowly as he removes his shoes in the entryway. He didn’t flip the switch before he left.

As he turns his attention to the lamp in the living room, he realizes that there’s someone on his couch. Someone facing his television, even though it isn’t on.

He bristles.

“Not looking for a roommate, so unless you brought a blanket with you, you can’t stay.”

This is one of the few times he wishes he’d invested in some sort of weapon for self defense. He has knives in the kitchen, but they won’t do much if he doesn’t have the advantage.

Only minutes passed before he became impatient. Tommy checked the time on his phone. 12:31. He got up from the table he had claimed his and walked inside the fluorescent store to buy something to pass the time. Cigarettes? Jerky? It dawned on him he never had dinner (typical), so he picked up a couple of things from the refrigerated section. Upon his return to the desolate plastic chairs and his empty table, he made out a familiar figure walking up the road. 

He stared until he was certain. Sungjoon looked just the same. Tall. Skinny. Unattractive (some might beg to differ—not Tommy, though). Long ago, Sungjoon once inquired about the ways in which Tommy kept all those women. To which he replied, “Just look at me.” Sure.

“You’re kinda late, y’know?” Tommy said. The tone in his voice made it seem as if it were only a mere suggestion rather than an accusation. Baseless anyway since it had been ten minutes at best. He pulled out a chair and sat down again. He had invited Sungjoon out for a smoke and a drink. Or two. Or three. 

“I even bought you one.” In actuality he hadn’t but decided he should share anyway. What are bros for? He held up a packaged triangle kimbap before tossing it to him. With a deep sigh, he slumped in his seat, raising a hand only to drag it down his face. “Thanks for comin’ out.”

    So fuckin’ cold…

    He can’t feel his fingers as he holds a black cigarette to his lips, strikes at his lighter one, two, three times. When it catches, he inhales. Nicotine floods his system and he almost feels good... for a second.

    It’s later than he’d like, but it wasn’t like he was going to sleep much anyway. Must be a little after three in the morning. A quick glance at the glowing screen of his phone (a newer purchase: his old flip finally died and it wasn’t like he didn’t have the money to spare) confirms the suspicion. 3:16. He’s supposed to be done by 3:45, so he might be cutting it close, but it’s no skin off his back. The usual team works around him when they have to.

    The message icon catches his eye and on a whim, he taps. He doesn’t text much anymore; there’s not a lot of people that want to bother with him. He does have one familiar name saved, though. And the owner is probably still up, despite the hour.

    [ MSG: bsj ] need a fuckin vacation

    It’s quick - he doesn’t waste any more than a few seconds on it before stowing the whole thing away. Another drag, and then he grinds the end of the cigarette into the brick wall next to him. Just enough to get rid of the embers and put it out, and then he pops open the breast pocket of his jacket, pops it inside.

    And then he reaches into the waistband of his pants and pulls out his pistol. It’s hard to see the details in the halflight of the exit door, but he inspects it for detritus and makes sure that it’s loaded. As he pops the cartridge back in, he leans into the door and takes a step inside. While it closes behind him, he taps the brick he’d used to prop it open back into place with his foot.

    The whole shebang takes less time than he’d anticipated. The guy begs for his life, sure, but is smart enough to realize that it’s getting him nowhere. He quiets down for the last part - the part where SeLin reads him his list of transgressions and then puts the gun to his skull. The part where he pulls the trigger.

    The silence that follows is almost serene. Then the alarm on his phone goes off and he quiets that, too. The walk downstairs is short, interrupted only by a quick nod as a man and woman pass him in the hall. They’re wearing paper booties and gloves, each toting a black backpack over one shoulder.

    After he slips back out the door, he lights up again and starts walking. No need to hang around. In a rare moment of thought, he decides to send another message. It’s been such a long time since they’ve had the conversation, he isn’t so sure that his pal will remember it. It’s just a spark of interest, perhaps because of the mess he’s just made.

He can feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins, pulsing behind his temples.

He’s excited.

It’s been a while since he’s actually taken a step forward with his career. A week ago it seemed like a fleeting desire that he’d get to play in a band some day or eventually. Right now, holding a stack of flyers in his left hand and a staple gun hanging off his hip, he is putting things into motion.

And it’s all thanks to some guy that found him playing in the park on his day off. Ain’t life strange?

Said guy is accompanying him on his journey to canvas as many places as possible. In addition to putting their flyers up on telephone poles, they’re popping into local bars that do live performances at least once a month. As much as they’re looking for their third man, they’re also looking for places to play at.

Some of them are a little on the seedier side, but he’s not one to complain as long as they’re getting paid.

Getting paid for playing music has been his dream since he was a kid. This is a rush.

“Might need to take a minute to rest,” he says, “And not just because the shots are half price here for the next half hour.”

He tacks a piece of paper to the cork board near the door and turns to look at his most recent friend. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to wipe the smile off of his face.

                                                      »» prompt from ( HERE )

⌆ for a story about their family/home life ( HELENA or known back then as SOHEON )

The grand dining hall is alive with chatter. The long tablefilled with empty silver glasses, each situated in front of a chair occupied byabsolute beauty. Soheon’s at awe asshe walks in behind her father. To be surrounded by such regal creatures issomething she adores. Another thirty days have passed, and it’s time for herfather to host the monthly dinner with members of the council. All vampiricpurebloods seated, catching up with one another after what feels likecenturies. For some, it truly has been. Soheon’s steps are light,soundless, similar to her father’s as they take their seat near the head ofthe table. She’s the youngest there, and always had been. Her presence isn’tnew, but never is she called in this early. By the time she arrives, there’susually a cup filled to the brim, waiting for her. This time, fathersaid she was old enough to watch.

The woman across the table, choking from the excessive jewelry adorning her slender neck, leans forward to address the Count. “Are you sure she’sready to be here while dinner is served?”

They were monsters. Every single one of them, but theirmanners were still humane. Vlad dismisses her question with a firm nod. Soheondoesn’t catch what he says under his breath so quick. Something along the linesof “she is a vampire, isn’t it?” The defensive response has pride bubbling inthe pit of her stomach. Pride and newfound anxiety. At the age of eight, she’sonly seen her father hunt once. It was a rather gruesome scene, but with verylittle shock factor. She’s never been hidden from who they are and what theydo. Her sense of morals were very differentfrom any typical young girl’s. It’s why she doesn’t flinch when the tied bodyof the butler is throw onto the center of the table.

One who had been by her side for the past year. Soheon’snever questioned where their help goes to. She’s always been under theassumption that they willing leave after a certain period of time. Never didshe think that they go from cooking dinner, to being dinner. Her eyes widen atthe sight, but a tap against her knee from her father’s knuckles has herdropping her head back down to her lap. Assimilate. Accept. Act. As a member ofthe vampiric community, she mustn’t question the norm. A motto Vlad had drilledinto her ever since she could remember. No matter what the townsfolk said. Nomatter what rumours she heard. No matter what the help whispered in the shadowswhen he wasn’t home. They didn’t understand.

They wouldn’t understand the way her eyes light up as bladeis brought down onto fresh skin of a bare neck. They wouldn’t understand thedelight coursing through her as she watches the writhing body rise towards theroof, ankles tied with a rope, the other end of the makeshift pulley being operated by a silently sobbingmaid. (She’s bound to be next.) Blood trickles down nose, eyes, forehead, past a shaved skull and intothe hungry glass below. The sound is music to her ears and like many others,she shuffles to the edge of her seat, salivating and clutching the wood of the table.Drip. Just before the cup can overfill, another is swiftly placed in its spot.Drip. There’s a meticulous elegance to the entire act, almost ritualistic.Drip, drip, drip.

Cups are filled, grins are placed on faces of demons andSoheon is filled with wonder she never had before in her kind. They werecareful, they were cruel, and above all else, they were powerful.

“So?” Her father turns to her, lips lightly tinted red, handon her knee as if to assure her that no answer of hers would be wrong at thispoint. (However, there was always a right answer.) Multiple eyes turn to her, greedy to know just how the Count’s favouritedaughter felt about her gradual integration into the community. “Does it makeit anymore delicious now?”

Maybe Yongsoo is just biased. He prefers to hear a story with the melodic strums that guide his relaxation. 

This isn’t a story.

But it could be.

He sits on the grass and listens for as long as he can bear before he decides that maybe, this could be a good opportunity. This guy may not get a ton of tips, but it can’t be his only gig. No way he’d be able to make it on this kind of income - it’s got to be a side job.

So he gets to his feet, gives the performer a nod. And he leaves, but doesn’t travel too far. Just far enough that he can keep an eye on the guitar player that’s caught his interest, if only barely.

With first year coming to a close, she should be writing applications for scholarships, or better yet – studying for exams early. Instead, she’s sitting with her legs crossed on a wooden bench that’s situated right across the man with the guitar. The pages of her notebook flutter in the wind, but she could care less about which exact page she was on. She’s too fascinated by the way his fingers run across the strings of the guitar, the melody coming from the acoustic instrument sending a chill down her spine. It’s not the first time she’s seen him in the park. Maybe the fifth. She’s kept count, but she doesn’t want to admit it. She’s wondering if he’s noticed his loyal audience, but maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

She likes to consider him a musical crush. Dissimilar to the crushes schoolgirls often had on boy bands. This one was more than that. There was nothing romantic, nor platonic between the two. She didn’t even know his name. However, he was an inspiration. To call him a role model would be pushing it, but he wasn’t extremely far from it. Almost a silent mentor. A mentor. Her eyes light up at the thought and she’s not sure why it hadn’t hit her before. Spitting the pen out from between her lips, she jumps up to her feet, not minding the way the way she tousled all the papers that were previously spread across her lap in a rather organized fashion.

“Hi,” It’s an awkward introduction, and she knows it. So she clears her throat as if it’ll fix things. “Uhm – I’m Jinri. I’ve been watching you for a while.” She’s cringing at how poorly that could be interpreted, but she’s quick to try and fix her second blunder. “I wanted to let you know that you’re an amazing musician. I’m surprised you haven’t been offered a stage to perform on, but then again, maybe the crowd of highschool kids that throw you a few coins aren’t the best crowd to get job connections from. So, why?” She looks up at the taller male, genuine curiosity overtaking her desire to ask him to teach her for a mere second.