#spinecollection

furious before, but now that he’s calmed down, wooseok gets up, dusting his knees with one hand.

“maybe just a little.”

he shouldn’t have stared too long, anything longer than three seconds, by social standards, register under impolite. makes the other party uncomfortable and conflicts will occur.

however.

the prolonged stare gives him the chance to observe, to study. the boy. ( young man? )

( no, boy. ) synonymous with young(er than he is ), youthful, an innocence yet to have bloomed into bitter cynicism of a grown man.

wooseok has always been fond of children.

perhaps that’s why he still chooses to smile, despite all the blood. besides, the boy doesn’t seem to be too shaken up.

“i’m sorry,” he offers, palms open to reveal bloody fingers that are drenched all the way to his wrist, dropping the small tactical knife onto the ground. “don’t worry about this, i’ll make sure the mess is cleared after you leave. no trace. no trace at all. we’re both innocent until one of us snitches.”

wooseok steps forward.

“i didn’t know one of my…employees was dependent. had to see for myself. i’m patient but i don’t tolerate this kind of behavior. ruins my reputation, you see. can’t afford to give second chances. addicts are difficult to handle,” by this rate he’s mumbling to himself rather than talking to him, and wooseok finally stops before smiling even wider in an attempt to normalize their current situation.

“but anyway, this shouldn’t concern you since this is an internal affair. didn’t scare you too much, did it? you wouldn’t happen to know who our friend over there contacted for the drugs…?”

“sorry ? hah. nice.”

the boy couldn’t imagine a time in which somebody has apologized to him sincerely, genuinely, with all their being and their heart and their spirit. he could not. nobody with such compassion existed, not even himself. he’s a boy that depends upon his own kindness rather than the kindness of others, yet, he’s a boy that lies through his teeth even when it makes his jaw ache. 

compassion, compassion-- God, who the fuck even has that anymore ?

though he stands firm with both his feet planted to the ground, and his spine straightened to show the length of his body, his hands still tremble when they tighten their hold around the straps of his bag. he lets go, chucks them into his pockets. he’ll forget about them for the moment. forget about the numbers too. he’s started counting in french around a week ago. 

tired of repetition, with days that seemed the same but had different names.

he only listens. there isn’t much for him to say. he’s only wondering if the devil exists in this man’s body, or maybe, he’s using the devil as an excuse to live. “hm.” the boy looks down at his shoes. never at the body. never at the stranger’s hands. never at the stranger. he only ever looks at his shoes, his jeans, the split light that spills in between them both but never fills the space that exists amongst them.

“uh-- God. I dunno.” he’s looking back up, somewhere behind the stranger’s head. jungkook isn’t sure about what he feels anymore. fright ? anxiety ? or perhaps, some stupid bravery, some kind of childish confidence, some alien feeling of relaxation. he doesn’t know. he doesn’t ever seem to know anything.

the spirit of children differ than that of man -- the world can not process the pain of someone who does not understand it, seldom ever deserves it. rather than the throaty rasp of woes and anguish, they place images in her head. after living amongst children for the past couple of years, she’s grown sensitive to the unique messages. she sees the fear and stumble of a fighting spirit, sees the image of two somber faces where her heart blossoms with affection for. their parents, the child misses their parents. she wanders until the connection was vivid, seeing vague depictions of frightening men kidnapping him into the night. children’s views are less in touch with logic and more connected to a pathos approach. half of it was repressed but she knew too well what had happened. 

he appears friendly and it pains her that the thought entered her mind. a lax smile, a vaguely apathetic demeanor, he looked like nothing but a kind uncle telling stories to a child. she looks at the little one’s eyes, sees the distress muting any life from them. 

“i’ve been here for...a while,” she’s thinking of a way to steal the child back. he doesn’t know it but he’s begging her for help in his mind. she must respond. it would be unjust if she were to ignore it. what is stopping her is her lack of a plan for after their successful escape. where were she to bring the child? his parents are more than likely long gone, and she herself has nowhere to go. would it be better to leave him here or subject him to the horrors she face?