- o u b l i e t t e -

[`treads the sidewalk at an easy, ambling pace, observing the bustling crowds and traffic around them with a detached sense of calm; it hardly would occur to him the other would find his demeanor unfamiliar, even suspect – blood too saturated with chemical numbness to be bothered by much of anything. At least, nothing that’s transpired yet.] Mm, ‘course. [` Think I got a head start though. He stops rather abruptly, blinking up at a sign overhead as if surprised they’ve arrived already.] Here we go. [`swings open the door and heads inside.]

Sleep hadn’t come easily. He doesn’t know how long he’d laid there, trying to will himself into unconsciousness, before his body finally burned itself out and obeyed. But once it did, he’d fallen into a sleep so deep and dreamless that his awakening is like being revived from the dead.

It’s a hand on his face that yanks him out of nothingness and into his body again. He draws in a breath, sharp and startled – his heart stops beating altogether until recognition places the figure (so, terrifyingly close) as one he knows. It’s nearly pitch-dark in the room, the only light from a single streetlamp across the street filtered through his blinds, but he’d know the sight of Soohyuk anywhere. He breathes out a sigh, and sits up, rubbing at his eyes. He must not have slept long. He somehow feels more tired than when he’d fallen asleep.

He’s too tired for this. Might as well get it over with.

“So I guess you saw.”

There’s no way he couldn’t have. Sungjoon didn’t even bother to clean up. He’d been so overcome with bitter disappointment he didn’t have it in him to do anything more than drag his sorry ass to bed. He didn’t expect anyone would drop by, especially without notice.

Some fucking timing. He laughs, an incredibly weary sound. He hasn’t looked up – doesn’t want to see Soohyuk’s reaction to him admitting defeat.

“Laugh it up, man. You always said I’d fuck up again. Never believed I could do it. Guess you were right after all, huh?”

The beat of silence stretches on too long. Something isn’t right. Slowly, he lifts his head, lets the hand fall.

He’s deathly quiet. Utterly still.

And Sungjoon doesn’t understand it, why looking at Soohyuk now turns his stomach. He’s confused by his body’s instinctual reaction. So he’s quiet, where he’d normally be a constant stream of chatter, loud and irreverent. So he’s still where he should be restless, a mess of tics and twitches and fidgets.

Why does it feel so wrong?

( – a hand like a vice around his arm, cutting off blood supply, holding him absolutely still – eyes like bottomless pits, absolutely riveted by the symbol marring his flesh – )

An involuntary chill passes through him. His voice is quiet, but it still sounds too loud in the deafening silence.

“What’s with you tonight?”

A dim, blue glow cast against his face. In this room, something is colliding: Soohyuk, legs bent, head cocked, eyes sitting low as he watches Sungjoon’s gradual awakening.

( they’re alone. )

All is quiet, all is still.

(IT) doesn’t respond. Taps Sungjoon’s cheek, mouth stretched into a crude smile. ( there’s a monster in the corner, breathing in his ears ) And when the man sits up, there they are - watching each other, as they’ve always been. Gaze locked, eyes searing through the lilted darkness.

“What’s with you tonight?”

Silence. ( yet, roaring by their necks, a hurricane comes rushing down. the sounds of screaming tear right past their throats, cutting through the thin atmosphere; an explosion swallowing their hearts whole; water filling in their ballooned lungs, heavy and swollen with nicotine; arms perforated with regret - with trauma - with obsession; punctuated with sharp breaths of air )

Vaguely, Soohyuk is thinkin’: “He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.”  

Someone is speaking. The voice crawls past his ears and talks to Sungjoon, but why the fuck is it talkin’ to Sungjoon? Who the fuck is talkin’ to Sungjoon? Is it that fuckin’ bastard?

“Nothing. Do I seem different to you?”

Someone is moving. A body made of bone, unfolding itself as it stands. And there, (IT) sees Sungjoon below, but who the fuck is movin’? Who else is lookin’?

( the letters start to fade. the name buries itself, deeper and deeper, until the tongue is once again foreign, and reduced to hushed static. the words knock their teeth in with each spit syllable )

“Ha. You’ve really come undone, haven’t you.” It’s spoken more as a declaration than a question. There’s amusement sprawled on his face, an expression of triumph. And while Soohyuk is jus’ itchin’ and itchin’ to laugh, he says nothing. And while Soohyuk is jus’ achin’ and achin’ to punch that motherfucker in the throat, he does nothing. And while Sungjoon is sitting there, vulnerable as a bird, and Soohyuk is just beggin’ and beggin’ to scoop his eyes out, drink his cheeks in ‘til they’re hollowed to the marrow, he feels nothing.

“You were never going to get out, Sungjoon. I don’t know why you keep trying.”

Soohyuk tilts his head back and a sharp bark of laughter pulls, hard, from his throat, as though someone had ripped it out with a string. And rather than the stream of giggles that usually finds itself bubbling past his lips, he looks down at Sungjoon and keeps the shitty grin on his face. His eyes are black. Predatory. He moves in, a leg kneeling on the bed and the rest of his body leaning forward. His hair brushes past his cheekbones, stark and stricken with light, as he once again reaches for Sungjoon’s face and holds his palm flush against his neck.

( the smell of pine; a wooden, musky scent, tangled with murmuring: these are the things he’s always been too afraid to say )

Under the hazy glow of the early morning light, (IT) rests on Sungjoon’s ridden body, mouth numb against his temple, and whispers: “You were never going to get away. Not from this. Not from me.”

And (IT) keeps moving, hand tracing Sungjoon’s taut skin; fingers tugging at the drooping shirt until the ink is angled where the light hits; lips slanted, breath hot. “Did you miss it? Did it feel good? Or did you realize it wasn’t enough?”

And, in a flash of anger, Soohyuk digs, and digs, and digs, nails thrust into the branded symbol; the raised flesh where the bullet had pierced into Sungjoon’s (no, that belongs to me) shoulder; eyes narrowed, teeth bared and grit.

But (IT) pulls back. Keeps some distance from the body. And Soohyuk wants to pull in closer, needs the warmth tight against his body. He’s blinded, stupid, desperate, always needing more - more - more -

But (IT) pulls back.

A lazy grin on his face. His weight dips into the bed, and his hands are cold as they return, controlled, to grip at Sungjoon’s collar, and press closer. This time, his eyes are gleaming.

( the smell of oak; a fallen tree in the woods, a house come crashing down: these are the things he’s never wanted to admit )

It started before he even woke up.

The dream felt real. The level of detail was uncanny, from the buildings lining the streets to the wind biting into his skin. He was walking somewhere, somewhere he hadn’t been in close to six years but that he still remembered exactly how to find. His old dealer lived in Daerim-dong, a short walk from the nearest subway station. A twenty minute ride from his old apartment. An agonizingly long time, to someone in full-blown withdrawals. And he could feel it in the dream. The cold sweat. The ache that reached down into his bones. By the time he climbed the staircase leading up to Taehwan’s apartment, his legs felt almost too weak to carry him. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Even inside, with Taehwan retreated into the next room to give him privacy, he couldn’t calm down enough to steady them.

He woke up the second the needle pierced his skin.

And it haunted him all day. Being denied that high – even just an echo of one, even just a memory. It would have been more than he’s had in months. It’s maddening, the slow trickle of chemicals he’s allowed. Methadone is fucking useless. He wants a high that will hit him like a tidal wave. He wants it to wreck him. He’s seething with it, and at the clinic he stares them all down, daring them to pick up on it. How close he is to disaster. But they only smile at him as they hand him his dose, vacant and impersonal, and send him on his way.

He doesn’t need a dealer anymore. He is the dealer. (And Taehwan is a corpse rotting somewhere, unidentified.) He has more than enough. Enough to kill him ten times over. No one would notice a little missing.

Only one thing standing in the way of his plan. Because it’s a plan now, one that began in the vapors of a dispelled dream and solidified into concrete steps by the tenth time that image intruded into his mind (Taehwan dead, unrecognizable). Because if he’s doing this, there’s only one way to do this.

Ten o'clock finds him breaking into a nervous sweat under the fluorescent lights of the pharmacy down the street. He’ll never be able to show his face in here again. He wants to tell the pharmacist he’s a diabetic, just to throw the accusation in his stare into doubt, but he can’t bring himself to speak. He checks out without a word.

Ten-thirty finds him in the midst of an old familiar ritual. He’s taken his time getting prepared. Dragging his feet. Summoning the nerve. He starts with a quarter-gram – conservative if he were still using, but now, he’s not so sure. He doesn’t know how high his tolerance is anymore. He doesn’t know enough about methadone to estimate the equivalent of his daily dose. But he’s come too far to back out now.

His heart is beating out of his chest. He can see his pulse through the skin, in the vein he zeroes in on. Even under the overhead light, he can barely see the old marks. They’ve almost disappeared and here he is making new ones. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the slow push of the plunger, slow and steady so it doesn’t hit him too hard. He waits. And waits.

Nothing.

It’s something very close to panic making his hands fumble to cook up more. Filling the same needle over again, because it doesn’t matter if it hurts going in. All that matters is the rush he’s been dwelling on all day.

He’s slammed an entire gram by the time he decides it’s a lost cause.

Fucking methadone.

He could go look it up, but he doesn’t bother. It’s the only thing that makes sense. He remembers what they told him, before officially registering him as a patient at the clinic. About using while in the program. Don’t even try. He’d taken it for a general warning against relapse, a threat it’d get him kicked out. He never would have thought they meant It’s a waste of heroin.

Eleven o'clock finds him retreating to bed, completely defeated. He’s failed twice – failed in his sobriety, and failed to make it worth it. Start to finish, this day has been Hell. He’s done.

2014.

his lips are stained with blood.

SOOHYUK: ( silence )

SOOHYUK: Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my fucking Jesus fucking CHRIST

SOOHYUK: Heroin overdose. Overdose. Cocaine overdose, opium, charcoal, ipecac, narcan, naloxone…naloxone. That’s narcan. Narcan. Narcan.

SOOHYUK: Please work oh my God oh my God you can’t die Sungjoon you can’t fucking die -

his ribcage is clattering. he shakes, he trembles, his whole body is clumsy as he scrambles to the sprawled body on the floor. that’s Sungjoon. that’s Sungjoon. that’s SUNGJOON, for FUCK’S sake, wake the FUCK UP, please, please, please... - please, please, please... -

he watches the needle plunge through cold, pallid flesh. watches the blued veins rush eagerly to the surface, the subtle twitch of his pulse, counting down to the last goddamn millisecond for Sungjoon to open his eyes. please, please, please…- please… his breath hitches and he jerks back when the body doesn’t move. that’s just a body. it’s just a body. no, that’s SUNGJOON. that’s SUNGJOON, you FUCK, you crawling piece of SHIT, he’s DYING and you can’t even HELP him - please, please, please…- please… please, please…-

he folds into himself, small, terrified, looking wide-eyed at the man: he’s still. so, so still. and he’s so scared, he’s so scared. Sungjoon can’t die. Sungjoon can’t die. Sungjoon can’t die. not him, not him - fuck - not him. anyone but him. the apologies run through his lips like a babbling stream as he rocks back and forth, fingers tight against his skin, seized by such pure, unadulterated terror. cries falling from his open mouth.

SOOHYUK: Please, please, please, please, please…- please… please…- please… -

[ you just let him die, man! he’s dead! he’s dead! dead! dead! dead! dead! dead! dead! dEAD! DEAD! DEAD! DEAD! HE’S DEAD! SUNGJOON IS DEAD! SUNGJOON IS DEAD! SUNGJOON IS DEAD! that’s just a body, that’s just a BODY! a BODY! HE’S DEAD! SUNGJOON, OH MAN! HE’S FINALLY FUCKIN’ DEAD, BABY! ]

SOOHYUK: Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please - please -

END

.

a curtain drops.

10:36am.

A good hour for mischief.

2017.

(IT) knows where to go. These footsteps are automatic, but they’re not his. With his hands in his pockets, a cheerful tune drawling through his parted lips, Soohyuk (but it’s not him. it’s not. it’s - ) takes casual strolls towards the apartment his body is most familiar with. A building he’s kept watch of for so, so long, that even its address is an old nursery rhyme he’s repeated to himself at night to help him sleep. A mantra, a spell for comfort. Watching for that motherfucker -

He (IT) clears his throat. Among all things, it’s most important to stay calm. To stay steady. To stay stable. Otherwise he’ll find himself trying to drag out that bastard’s vocal chords with his own bloody fuckin’ teeth - the anger, oh it burns so, so slowly. His name sears in his throat, imprinting itself in bold, thick strokes: a brand -

KIM

[ i’m going to fucking KILL that bastard. i’m going to rip out his eyes by their sockets, make him choke on them, piss all over his GODDAMN face and slash his gut fuckin’ wide OPEN, i’m going to chew him up and spit him out. he’s going to KNOW my name, KNOW who the FUCK he should never have crossed, know that Sungjoon is MINE - he’s MINE - he’s MINE - ]

Among all things, it’s most important to stay calm. To stay steady. To stay stable.

There’s new shoes on his feet. He walks with patterned taps - up the stairs, hand trailing along the railing - turn left at this corridor. A few stories up. The echoes bounce around the walls and spiral downwards as he’s ascending, the ring on his fourth finger rough against the rotting wood. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Clink, slide, tap. Tap. Tap. Clink, slide. Tap. Tap. Tap.

The door. It’s locked, but he knows the way in. He brushes the debris from his fingers, clinging to each line on his palm as he steps into the room.

There’s a part of him that panics, instantly - spilled traces of powder on the floor, a lighter - a spoon, liquid on the floor - a syringe, pulled half-way. Bubbling. A ripped bag.

[ he’s dead, isn’t he - he’s dead, isn’t he - he’s dead, dead, dead, - DEAD, - oh my GOD he’s DEAD isn’t he he’s DEAD, he’s DEAD, he’s DEAD, ISN’T HE? ]

Among all things, it’s most important to stay calm. To stay steady. To stay stable.

Something in him (not him - just, this weak, quivering body) aches. It’s begging him, screaming for him to - to what? Check up on him? Make sure he’s not - DEAD? And if he’s dead, whose fault would it be?

[ it’s YOUR fault, it’s YOURS, he is YOUR responsibility - ]

SUNG

[ that FUCKER is DEAD ]

Soohyuk bends down and wipes some of the powder with his fingertips. He rubs it against his thumb, lips slightly pursed. His heart is beating quickly, and somewhere in his mind there’s shrieking - but he’s calm. He’s steady. He’s stable. (Not him, IT.) He puts his hands back into his pockets as he walks past the hallway, to a door he’s thrown open before. A room he’s torn apart in a frenzy, looking for -

Heroin overdose. Overdose. Cocaine overdose, opium, charcoal, ipecac, narcan, naloxone…naloxone. That’s narcan. Narcan. Narcan.

oh my God you can’t die Sungjoon you can’t fucking die

And there he is, face white as snow. Pale as it’s ever been, slight beads of sweat drawn against his hollow cheeks. His eyes are sunken in. It’s been so long, but his lips ajar and the clothes he’s wearing are loose. And -

[ that FUCKING BRAND - the FUCKING BULLET]

“Sungjoon,” Soohyuk (no. it’s not him. it’s not him.) says. His voice is low, drawled, ghostly. He crouches next to the bed, mouth half-cocked, a few inches from his face.

“Sungjoon,” he repeats. A hand reaches out to gently touch the man’s face, fingers pressed against gaunt bone. “You look like absolute shit.”

PSYCHOTIC

100% fully fledged pedigree nutcase. The impulses you get are tainted and need to be controlled. Professional help is what you need!

i exist 

pls write with me 

i saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked. // tyger tyger, burning bright // i have done it again. // do not go gentle into that good night. // the sea is calm to-night. // let us go then, you and i, // april is the cruelest month. // pretty women wonder where my secret lies. // there is a place where the sidewalk ends. // i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart) // two roads diverged in a yellow wood. // whose woods these are i think i know, // let us twain walk aside from the rest. // once upon a midnight dreary, while i pondered, weak and weary, // i taught myself to live simply and wisely. // it so happens i am sick of being a man // i wandered lonely as a cloud // does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? // o my love is like a red, red rose. // o captain! my captain! our fearful trip is done; // out of the night that covers me // it was many and many a year ago // you may write me down in history // do not stand at my grave and weep // some say the world will end in fire // some say in ice. // hope is the thing with feathers // the wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, // no man is an island, // remember me when i am gone away, // i met a traveler from an antique land // ‘twas brillig, and the slithy toves // this is thy hour o soul, // when we wear the mask that grins and lies, // death be not proud, // and death shall have no dominion. // laugh, and the world laughs with you; // the art of losing isn’t hard to master; // to see a world in a grain of sand // is there anybody there? said the traveller // nobody heard him, the dead man, // that crazed girl improvising her music.// come to me in the silence of the night; //where the mind is without fear and the head is held high // when you are old and grey and full of sleep, // in flanders’ fields the poppies blow // i thought of you and how you love this beauty // life, believe, is not a dream // it may be misery not to sing at all, // if tarry space no limit knows // come live with me and be my love, //had we but world enough and time, // my heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense // bright star, would i were stedfast as thou art- // thou still unravish’d bride of quietness // how do i love thee? let me count the ways. //heaven is what i cannot reach! // my dear, my dear, i know // in visions of the dark night // shall i compare thee to a summers day? // break, break, break // she walks in beauty, // i had a dream, which was not at all a dream. // he clasps the ring with crooked hands.

tagged by: @lithified ily <3