The Street Lamp
Title: The Street Lamp
Pairing: Joon centric, onesided! Joon/Seungho
Rating: NC-17
Lenght: Oneshot, 3,326
Summary: In this old, eerie alley a street lamp stands...
A/N: Beta-ed by the amazing kiccy
The street lamp
Broken bottles screaming of unfilled promises, plastic wrappers- millions of them- once colorful but now only dull, cats- as black as the night itself- with shining emerald eyes, and one street lamp.
In this god-forgotten place illuminated by the dim light he stands- until the sun rises again.
But until then he remembers- memories of what used to be and what will never be, memories of happiness that now only inflict bitter pain, the memories of his own personal sun.
Next to him on the ground another green broken bottle lays. It seems different from the rest with its dark rimmed edges and thick smell- a mix of old beer with maybe just a hint of something different. He starts gripping those edges again and the blood that floods over the thick glass easily mixes with the left-over alcohol.
In his eyes tears as salty as the ocean breeze sting. He raises his hand to his face- the silver patches of dried liquid still visible- and almost gently traces his cut lips.
His other arm remains numb over the pointy surface in which the most hated things to him seem to be- the reason for his brother’s death and the blood of the person who killed him.
The following morning the street lamp- unchanging, stoic like an old, rusty gravestone- is still casting its dim light in the eerie alley.
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Night after night- like a watchdog on guard waiting for somebody that wouldn’t show up- he’s there.
The alley stays the same, almost as if waiting for his arrival, he muses. But in his logical mind this is nothing but a quick delusion. That’s the way this place has been in years, he has to remind himself.
But the cold, hard surface, the scattered rubbish, and the smell of something- so bitterly sweet and intoxicating-, it’s like they awaiting him. And from the bottom of his being he knows that now- when all hope seems to have vanished- this could be his only home.
The cats that seem to be the only other occupants here don’t seem to mind him much. And almost after a month of careful observation, he can tell that not all of them are as jet black as he though. There’s gray, white, there are scars, unseeing eyes- there’s a difference in every single one of them.
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He thinks it was about time for him to lose his mind. First off, he starts hearing things- among the few hushed purrs and car honks- there are voices, there are always voices- haunting him, seducing him, telling him secrets and lies that were never meant to exist.
Then come the shadows- trailing behind bodies that were never there- strange, sometimes even without a particular form, they too start to cloud his mind.
The more he's here, the less he sees- now even the dim light of the street lamp is lost to him.
The only things that remain are the darkness and the voices. The more he hears them- the more they seem like memories- distant, forgotten memories of a past life- but he knows he wants to remember- now more than any other time.
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The place in question is just about 2 hours away from the main bustling streets of Seoul. It’s in the outskirts of the capital, surrounded by a few run-down stores, grass and sky.
Joon looks up in wonder. In the big city you just know the stars are there, but the lights of the ever-busy nightlife blind you. Here, where you’re surrounded by the rough wind of forgotten summer nights, and you feel like the grass beneath your feet is turning into a green, moving sea, it’s a whole different deal. The stars suddenly turn into something more than pretty pictures and scientific explanations. For maybe the first time in his life, the police officer feels like he can touch them if he just stretches his hand. And then he remembers a humid night from years ago, and those same stars, and dreams and laughter. He remembers smiles and grins, games and scraped knees- he remembers a world much bigger than his own is right now.
The wind has become softer and it brings a certain scent- of something fresh, cold, almost heavenly. Along with that, it brings hushed cries and suddenly everything seems to be collapsing.
Joon realizes that there’s nothing beyond those fields, nothing but a wail and a road. A road that everybody takes, but none of them really wants to.
The house stands as perfectly tiny and old and surrounded by small trees as do the others. But while in most of them there’s no light, here the windows -opened and welcoming - emit a soft glow.
He slowly trudges along a narrow road. His black shoes soon get covered with dust; his perfectly ironed uniform now looks as if he hadn’t changed it for days. He feels young, irresponsible and wild. And somewhere in between he feels like the person who he’s always wanted to be.
Joon stops in front of the small green gate, and outstretches his hands. The metal- old, rusty with its paint chipping slowly- moves beckoned by his push. He expects to hear a creak, but the night remains as quiet and as mysterious as it ever was.
His steps are muted by the soft grass that seems to have made its way in between the old pavement stones leading to the door. When he finally reaches it, Joon hesitates for a moment before raising his hand and lightly scraping his knuckles against the rough wooden surface. Almost no sound is emitted, but the next second the house- once peaceful and quiet- seems to have erupted into a sea of shouts, hurried footsteps, breaking glass and creaking floors.
The door is thrown open by a woman.
For a few seconds everything is a blur to him- the limp figure, the desperate eyes, the hushed cries and hidden tears. Then, as if on cue, everything seems to have calmed down. The mother of the boys, he assumes, is being held back by a man- massive and calm. In his eyes Joon sees emotions no different than the ones of the woman. But between the two parents there’s a big contrast. While one gives away to her feelings, the other tries to hide them.
“I hope you excuse my wife’s behavior” his voice is deep, rich, but somehow hollow.
Joon just murmurs a never mind and obediently follows the two retreating figures into the house.
It’s a small but well-taken care of home. The plain walls are decorated with paintings, sketches, portrays- in one of them he barely recognizes the desperate mother. Joon discreetly tries to glance between the two as if playing a sick game of finding the differences.
The hair that was once pulled up in a loose bun is now scattered over lithe shoulders. Cheeks rosy and with a hint of chubbiness now seem to have lost all color. Eyes- all happiness and life and just a little bit of worries- now stare at him like a black hole or a blank canvas- waiting for his next words to paint the emotions for them.
He doesn’t know what to say or how to act.
Outside the roar of the wind seems to be getting stronger and stronger, and Joon shivers. All the windows in the house are closed, and multiply candles cast their soft light across the walls- creating shadows that seem somehow eerie in this quiet, desperate atmosphere.
He remembers the speech he’s supposed to say. A speech used and re-used- full of hopes, reassurances, kindness. In other words, a speech full of lies. He’s new to this job, but he has listened to a lot of stories told by the “old dogs”. He can still vividly recall those few sentences in his mind - they didn’t quite strike him at that moment. Like a scene from a movie watched hundreds and hundreds of times, like a cliché that everybody knows- that’s how they sounded.
“A time comes when a puzzle around us seems to finally come together- it’s just a mix of small details perfectly pinned together. But when it does - we feel- and when the years of desperation we’ve come across come crashing on us together- then words are just useless.”
Joon finally learns why clichés are actually clichés- they’re true.
He does what he’s supposed to do anyways. His own voice sounds like somebody else’s, and for the first time he actually cares, means what he’s saying. But lies are lies exactly because they were never meant to be the truth.
Outside and inside- of this house, of his own existence- a storm is roaming. Joon’s body is motionless except for his mouth- who continues telling false words- and his eyes- who convey the sad truth.
“Hope is something fragile, yet strong, something old, yet new- hope has been, no is- everything to us. But “everything” is a wide range of contrasts.”
Joon thinks that this is almost philosophic- but on the other hand, he’s never been that smart. He chokes out the last words of his speech, and lowers his eyes.
The storm is awaiting him, and he knows that no tricks would be able to keep him dry through it.
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Forgetting has always been easy.
He doesn’t know who he is, what he’s doing here, he doesn’t even know where this here is. Darkness and voices, voices and darkness, and when a ray of light breaks through, maybe a purr or two. He feels empty, and the pleasure that brings him is enormous though he doesn’t know why. He forgot why he wanted to forget.
His sore throat still manages to make out a sound- a chuckle or a wail- it doesn’t matter anymore.
Deep inside of him, Seungho’s hidden- so deep that it’s impossible to bring him back again. But why would he want that? Seungho’s not alone- along with him there’s a kaleidoscope of emotions- and he knows that the few that have stayed with him (whoever he is) forbid him to get the others back.
Fear, Hunger, Thirst- they are his only rulers. The most basic of the basic- they help him survive.
Survive for who, what, why- those are questions that he has never asked himself. He’s living just because he can- it’s as simple as that.
He doesn’t know what he eats- as long as Hunger’s satisfied. He doesn’t know what he drinks- as long as Thirst is happy. He never goes against what Fear tells him- and that’s how he lives- for nothing, because nothing has now become the word to him.
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Joon’s the one leading the search party.
They go about it the usual way. People, questions- until they reach a hint. This time they have luck- or so the others say- but if you ask the young police officer- it’s one of the slowest cases he’s had since the beginning of his career.
The others laugh, joke around, and he’s still staring at that picture.
The guy is older than him by a few years. His name is Seungho, and he’d been majoring in Arts. His brother Chulyong is still pretty young.
They find him dead in an alley not too far away from the last club the siblings were spotted at. Long, auburn hair is plastered over the smashed skull- there’s so much blood Joon wonders how it hasn’t reached the nearby street too. It’s probably a case of drunken violence- that’s really common these days. The culprits are yet to be found, but they spot the long metal rod easily- or at least the others do.
Joon thinks that it’s not really different from the rest of the alley- it’s soaked in blood- rusty, disgusting, reeking blood. It reminds him of that pair of old, moth-eaten, satin curtains his ex-girlfriend wanted him to buy- the same color of roses- classical red roses, but maybe with just an accent of rain- because the colors are just so striking and vivid even in this dark alley and he just…
Joon chuckles- the past has never been forgiving to him- or at least the people involved in. He remembers what he dreamed of then- a long time ago- he dreamed of spotlight, screams and people shouting his name in ecstasy. He dreamed of fame, glory, glamour. He dreamed of golden castles, dazzling princesses and dragons weak enough to be defeated.
“So stupid”
She was the director’s daughter.
Joon thinks he can still sense the bitter laugh that was coming out of his mouth then- a long time ago.
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It’s been over a month since they found Chulyong.
A lot of things have been going on- funerals, tries of suicide, arrests, cases (lost but that didn’t really concern the police), the search was still active too.
The 1st of February- it has been exactly 4 months since both brothers went missing. Seungho’s still somewhere in this town. Or so they think- they made some efforts to block roads, airports- his case had been gathering a lot of media attention after all.
He’s a best-seller- Joon laughs bitterly. It’s ironic, really- people think this is called pity- well, he may as well correct them- it’s called making money. Seungho’s not the first nor will he be the last. This is how the world rolls- it’s all about being successful; being kind- it’s all about following a set stereotype. Feelings have become an art.
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
“As You Like It” William Shakespeare
That’s his quote of the month according to his horoscope.
“Bullshit, really.”
But chicks dig horoscopes and all of those false and honey-laced stuff- that vow about past lovers and soul mates and star-crossed lovers. Joon swears he shall never read, watch or in any way lay his eyes on Romeo and Juliet.
The shrill sound of the telephone startles him out of his delusions ( because when he was young, there were these porno comic books his friend’s older brother had- and they were fairy-tale themed or some crap like that, but- heck, he thinks the Romeo and Juliet one was gay.)
He laughs out loud- nothing like some good, old childhood memories. For a moment he’s stricken with the thought that this was it with his vow- well, not that he cared- vows and promises were like rules- meant to be broken.
That was the phone call. The one that he (the journalists) had been waiting months for. Seungho was found.
And this was the end of yet another tragic story that fortunately had a happy ending. The people of Seoul are feeling relieved that their police is so fast and compassionate. They feel joy, but sadness too, because this is the end of the case that the capital of South Korea and probably a large portion of the nation had been following with bated breath.
It’s a new day, and a new story arises. This time it’s in Busan, so the Seoul cops don’t really care. Just another case of murder after rape. It’s common these days.
Seungho’s long forgotten by everybody. Everybody except for Joon.
Because he was the person who found (not exactly) that battered body- broken, immobile, but still breathing. He remembers the people around him shedding tears and speaking compassionate words.
There’s an ungodly stench after all, and the media’s still there. Though even they don’t dare show the boy- people want a happy ending and they will get one.
How truly happy it is? That’s another question.
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It’s been 6 months since Seungho was found. Joon still can’t forget.
So he visits the hospital every other day, and the parents are happy, oh so happy, that he shows their son such attention.
The scene to the smallest detail is still vivid in his mind. Every time he’s met with Seungho’s eyes- there’s no hope, the doctors say- it strikes him again. They say Seungho’s blind- Joon just thinks he’s not- it’s just that Seungho’s eyes seem to project only one image.
In conclusion, Joon thinks Seungho’s sick- and it’s contagious.
“You’re here again?”
It’s one of the moments when he’s “conscious” - at least that’s the term the doctors use.
“You remember me?”
Joon’s a policeman. He doesn’t answer questions- he gives them.
Those blank eyes are looking out towards the distance, so Joon gets surprised at their speed and accuracy when they meet his own. It’s one of those moments in which he refuses to believe Seungho’s that much different than him, but these days have become more and more rare.
Joon thinks he’s sick.
Because it’s on late nights like these when he wakes up in his own bed, sweat rolling down his face, and the only thing he sees is darkness, darkness, darkness. He hears cats and hushed whispers, and he thinks he’s going crazy. The one image that always remains behind his lids though is the intelligent blank face of the ex-Art student.
“You’re becoming obsessed”
People tell him that, and he thinks that they’re right. Because when he goes to the hospital he’s wet usually met with the emotional wreck that was once Seungho.
Giving up, forgetting is easy. That’s what Seungho tells him with a smirk. But Joon sees what Seungho’s turning into when he’s forgotten everything- and it’s scary.
Joon knows how cruel the past can be- he knows maybe even better than your average person, and he opts to feel the pain. Because he knows that the pain is the thing that makes Seungho Seungho.
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It’s amusing, really.
He doesn’t know how long he has been here. He opts to sleep instead of being lulled by the quietness of the sterile room with its white walls that remind him of clouds and God and Heaven. Every time he falls asleep with the hope to open his eyes and see Hell.
He on the other side is almost the same. His masters are too.
Seungho overhears the doctors’ concerns. Because when he’s awake, he doesn’t eat or drink, but when he’s awake, he doesn’t talk or think.
Seungho knows that having a double-personality was some sort of sickness, but he can’t quite recall its name right now. And who cares either way?
That mindless fuck who saved him (him too) still comes to visit. Well, Seungho chuckles -Joon’s the one that needs help.
He knows it won’t be too long. Seungho’s selfish, and he doesn’t care about them, him, or the stupid police officer.
They think he doesn’t see, but the truth is that he doesn’t see.
This world is a lie anyways- one never-ending lie. Before he goes though, he decides.
His last farewell shall be a masterpiece.
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Joon wakes up to the sound of the telephone, and for a split second he’s reminded of another scene from months ago. He knows it’s time to visit that alley again.
It’s almost the same, really. Trash, broken bottles, cats and Seungho’s body. This time around though, he has to use a torch, because that old street lamp has finally broken down.
Joon thinks Seungho died like a true artist- illuminated by the spotlight ‘till his last moment.
He laughs at his own cruel joke and reminds himself of the last part of that old man’s speech.
“But don’t worry too much. Moments like these come and go. You’ll forget soon enough, and the magic will be broken. The puzzle never remains assembled for too long”
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The parents are mourning. All of the pictures and sketches are now taken off of the walls- all except for one. It’s black and white and red- bloody red. It shows…
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In that old, god-forgotten alley filled with promises and pain and grief, the lamp still stands. And if you look at it long enough, you might just uncover the stories that it has to tell.
Pairing: Joon centric, onesided! Joon/Seungho
Rating: NC-17
Lenght: Oneshot, 3,326
Summary: In this old, eerie alley a street lamp stands...
A/N: Beta-ed by the amazing kiccy
The street lamp
Broken bottles screaming of unfilled promises, plastic wrappers- millions of them- once colorful but now only dull, cats- as black as the night itself- with shining emerald eyes, and one street lamp.
In this god-forgotten place illuminated by the dim light he stands- until the sun rises again.
But until then he remembers- memories of what used to be and what will never be, memories of happiness that now only inflict bitter pain, the memories of his own personal sun.
Next to him on the ground another green broken bottle lays. It seems different from the rest with its dark rimmed edges and thick smell- a mix of old beer with maybe just a hint of something different. He starts gripping those edges again and the blood that floods over the thick glass easily mixes with the left-over alcohol.
In his eyes tears as salty as the ocean breeze sting. He raises his hand to his face- the silver patches of dried liquid still visible- and almost gently traces his cut lips.
His other arm remains numb over the pointy surface in which the most hated things to him seem to be- the reason for his brother’s death and the blood of the person who killed him.
The following morning the street lamp- unchanging, stoic like an old, rusty gravestone- is still casting its dim light in the eerie alley.
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Night after night- like a watchdog on guard waiting for somebody that wouldn’t show up- he’s there.
The alley stays the same, almost as if waiting for his arrival, he muses. But in his logical mind this is nothing but a quick delusion. That’s the way this place has been in years, he has to remind himself.
But the cold, hard surface, the scattered rubbish, and the smell of something- so bitterly sweet and intoxicating-, it’s like they awaiting him. And from the bottom of his being he knows that now- when all hope seems to have vanished- this could be his only home.
The cats that seem to be the only other occupants here don’t seem to mind him much. And almost after a month of careful observation, he can tell that not all of them are as jet black as he though. There’s gray, white, there are scars, unseeing eyes- there’s a difference in every single one of them.
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He thinks it was about time for him to lose his mind. First off, he starts hearing things- among the few hushed purrs and car honks- there are voices, there are always voices- haunting him, seducing him, telling him secrets and lies that were never meant to exist.
Then come the shadows- trailing behind bodies that were never there- strange, sometimes even without a particular form, they too start to cloud his mind.
The more he's here, the less he sees- now even the dim light of the street lamp is lost to him.
The only things that remain are the darkness and the voices. The more he hears them- the more they seem like memories- distant, forgotten memories of a past life- but he knows he wants to remember- now more than any other time.
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The place in question is just about 2 hours away from the main bustling streets of Seoul. It’s in the outskirts of the capital, surrounded by a few run-down stores, grass and sky.
Joon looks up in wonder. In the big city you just know the stars are there, but the lights of the ever-busy nightlife blind you. Here, where you’re surrounded by the rough wind of forgotten summer nights, and you feel like the grass beneath your feet is turning into a green, moving sea, it’s a whole different deal. The stars suddenly turn into something more than pretty pictures and scientific explanations. For maybe the first time in his life, the police officer feels like he can touch them if he just stretches his hand. And then he remembers a humid night from years ago, and those same stars, and dreams and laughter. He remembers smiles and grins, games and scraped knees- he remembers a world much bigger than his own is right now.
The wind has become softer and it brings a certain scent- of something fresh, cold, almost heavenly. Along with that, it brings hushed cries and suddenly everything seems to be collapsing.
Joon realizes that there’s nothing beyond those fields, nothing but a wail and a road. A road that everybody takes, but none of them really wants to.
The house stands as perfectly tiny and old and surrounded by small trees as do the others. But while in most of them there’s no light, here the windows -opened and welcoming - emit a soft glow.
He slowly trudges along a narrow road. His black shoes soon get covered with dust; his perfectly ironed uniform now looks as if he hadn’t changed it for days. He feels young, irresponsible and wild. And somewhere in between he feels like the person who he’s always wanted to be.
Joon stops in front of the small green gate, and outstretches his hands. The metal- old, rusty with its paint chipping slowly- moves beckoned by his push. He expects to hear a creak, but the night remains as quiet and as mysterious as it ever was.
His steps are muted by the soft grass that seems to have made its way in between the old pavement stones leading to the door. When he finally reaches it, Joon hesitates for a moment before raising his hand and lightly scraping his knuckles against the rough wooden surface. Almost no sound is emitted, but the next second the house- once peaceful and quiet- seems to have erupted into a sea of shouts, hurried footsteps, breaking glass and creaking floors.
The door is thrown open by a woman.
For a few seconds everything is a blur to him- the limp figure, the desperate eyes, the hushed cries and hidden tears. Then, as if on cue, everything seems to have calmed down. The mother of the boys, he assumes, is being held back by a man- massive and calm. In his eyes Joon sees emotions no different than the ones of the woman. But between the two parents there’s a big contrast. While one gives away to her feelings, the other tries to hide them.
“I hope you excuse my wife’s behavior” his voice is deep, rich, but somehow hollow.
Joon just murmurs a never mind and obediently follows the two retreating figures into the house.
It’s a small but well-taken care of home. The plain walls are decorated with paintings, sketches, portrays- in one of them he barely recognizes the desperate mother. Joon discreetly tries to glance between the two as if playing a sick game of finding the differences.
The hair that was once pulled up in a loose bun is now scattered over lithe shoulders. Cheeks rosy and with a hint of chubbiness now seem to have lost all color. Eyes- all happiness and life and just a little bit of worries- now stare at him like a black hole or a blank canvas- waiting for his next words to paint the emotions for them.
He doesn’t know what to say or how to act.
Outside the roar of the wind seems to be getting stronger and stronger, and Joon shivers. All the windows in the house are closed, and multiply candles cast their soft light across the walls- creating shadows that seem somehow eerie in this quiet, desperate atmosphere.
He remembers the speech he’s supposed to say. A speech used and re-used- full of hopes, reassurances, kindness. In other words, a speech full of lies. He’s new to this job, but he has listened to a lot of stories told by the “old dogs”. He can still vividly recall those few sentences in his mind - they didn’t quite strike him at that moment. Like a scene from a movie watched hundreds and hundreds of times, like a cliché that everybody knows- that’s how they sounded.
“A time comes when a puzzle around us seems to finally come together- it’s just a mix of small details perfectly pinned together. But when it does - we feel- and when the years of desperation we’ve come across come crashing on us together- then words are just useless.”
Joon finally learns why clichés are actually clichés- they’re true.
He does what he’s supposed to do anyways. His own voice sounds like somebody else’s, and for the first time he actually cares, means what he’s saying. But lies are lies exactly because they were never meant to be the truth.
Outside and inside- of this house, of his own existence- a storm is roaming. Joon’s body is motionless except for his mouth- who continues telling false words- and his eyes- who convey the sad truth.
“Hope is something fragile, yet strong, something old, yet new- hope has been, no is- everything to us. But “everything” is a wide range of contrasts.”
Joon thinks that this is almost philosophic- but on the other hand, he’s never been that smart. He chokes out the last words of his speech, and lowers his eyes.
The storm is awaiting him, and he knows that no tricks would be able to keep him dry through it.
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Forgetting has always been easy.
He doesn’t know who he is, what he’s doing here, he doesn’t even know where this here is. Darkness and voices, voices and darkness, and when a ray of light breaks through, maybe a purr or two. He feels empty, and the pleasure that brings him is enormous though he doesn’t know why. He forgot why he wanted to forget.
His sore throat still manages to make out a sound- a chuckle or a wail- it doesn’t matter anymore.
Deep inside of him, Seungho’s hidden- so deep that it’s impossible to bring him back again. But why would he want that? Seungho’s not alone- along with him there’s a kaleidoscope of emotions- and he knows that the few that have stayed with him (whoever he is) forbid him to get the others back.
Fear, Hunger, Thirst- they are his only rulers. The most basic of the basic- they help him survive.
Survive for who, what, why- those are questions that he has never asked himself. He’s living just because he can- it’s as simple as that.
He doesn’t know what he eats- as long as Hunger’s satisfied. He doesn’t know what he drinks- as long as Thirst is happy. He never goes against what Fear tells him- and that’s how he lives- for nothing, because nothing has now become the word to him.
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Joon’s the one leading the search party.
They go about it the usual way. People, questions- until they reach a hint. This time they have luck- or so the others say- but if you ask the young police officer- it’s one of the slowest cases he’s had since the beginning of his career.
The others laugh, joke around, and he’s still staring at that picture.
The guy is older than him by a few years. His name is Seungho, and he’d been majoring in Arts. His brother Chulyong is still pretty young.
They find him dead in an alley not too far away from the last club the siblings were spotted at. Long, auburn hair is plastered over the smashed skull- there’s so much blood Joon wonders how it hasn’t reached the nearby street too. It’s probably a case of drunken violence- that’s really common these days. The culprits are yet to be found, but they spot the long metal rod easily- or at least the others do.
Joon thinks that it’s not really different from the rest of the alley- it’s soaked in blood- rusty, disgusting, reeking blood. It reminds him of that pair of old, moth-eaten, satin curtains his ex-girlfriend wanted him to buy- the same color of roses- classical red roses, but maybe with just an accent of rain- because the colors are just so striking and vivid even in this dark alley and he just…
Joon chuckles- the past has never been forgiving to him- or at least the people involved in. He remembers what he dreamed of then- a long time ago- he dreamed of spotlight, screams and people shouting his name in ecstasy. He dreamed of fame, glory, glamour. He dreamed of golden castles, dazzling princesses and dragons weak enough to be defeated.
“So stupid”
She was the director’s daughter.
Joon thinks he can still sense the bitter laugh that was coming out of his mouth then- a long time ago.
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It’s been over a month since they found Chulyong.
A lot of things have been going on- funerals, tries of suicide, arrests, cases (lost but that didn’t really concern the police), the search was still active too.
The 1st of February- it has been exactly 4 months since both brothers went missing. Seungho’s still somewhere in this town. Or so they think- they made some efforts to block roads, airports- his case had been gathering a lot of media attention after all.
He’s a best-seller- Joon laughs bitterly. It’s ironic, really- people think this is called pity- well, he may as well correct them- it’s called making money. Seungho’s not the first nor will he be the last. This is how the world rolls- it’s all about being successful; being kind- it’s all about following a set stereotype. Feelings have become an art.
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
“As You Like It” William Shakespeare
That’s his quote of the month according to his horoscope.
“Bullshit, really.”
But chicks dig horoscopes and all of those false and honey-laced stuff- that vow about past lovers and soul mates and star-crossed lovers. Joon swears he shall never read, watch or in any way lay his eyes on Romeo and Juliet.
The shrill sound of the telephone startles him out of his delusions ( because when he was young, there were these porno comic books his friend’s older brother had- and they were fairy-tale themed or some crap like that, but- heck, he thinks the Romeo and Juliet one was gay.)
He laughs out loud- nothing like some good, old childhood memories. For a moment he’s stricken with the thought that this was it with his vow- well, not that he cared- vows and promises were like rules- meant to be broken.
That was the phone call. The one that he (the journalists) had been waiting months for. Seungho was found.
And this was the end of yet another tragic story that fortunately had a happy ending. The people of Seoul are feeling relieved that their police is so fast and compassionate. They feel joy, but sadness too, because this is the end of the case that the capital of South Korea and probably a large portion of the nation had been following with bated breath.
It’s a new day, and a new story arises. This time it’s in Busan, so the Seoul cops don’t really care. Just another case of murder after rape. It’s common these days.
Seungho’s long forgotten by everybody. Everybody except for Joon.
Because he was the person who found (not exactly) that battered body- broken, immobile, but still breathing. He remembers the people around him shedding tears and speaking compassionate words.
There’s an ungodly stench after all, and the media’s still there. Though even they don’t dare show the boy- people want a happy ending and they will get one.
How truly happy it is? That’s another question.
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It’s been 6 months since Seungho was found. Joon still can’t forget.
So he visits the hospital every other day, and the parents are happy, oh so happy, that he shows their son such attention.
The scene to the smallest detail is still vivid in his mind. Every time he’s met with Seungho’s eyes- there’s no hope, the doctors say- it strikes him again. They say Seungho’s blind- Joon just thinks he’s not- it’s just that Seungho’s eyes seem to project only one image.
In conclusion, Joon thinks Seungho’s sick- and it’s contagious.
“You’re here again?”
It’s one of the moments when he’s “conscious” - at least that’s the term the doctors use.
“You remember me?”
Joon’s a policeman. He doesn’t answer questions- he gives them.
Those blank eyes are looking out towards the distance, so Joon gets surprised at their speed and accuracy when they meet his own. It’s one of those moments in which he refuses to believe Seungho’s that much different than him, but these days have become more and more rare.
Joon thinks he’s sick.
Because it’s on late nights like these when he wakes up in his own bed, sweat rolling down his face, and the only thing he sees is darkness, darkness, darkness. He hears cats and hushed whispers, and he thinks he’s going crazy. The one image that always remains behind his lids though is the intelligent blank face of the ex-Art student.
“You’re becoming obsessed”
People tell him that, and he thinks that they’re right. Because when he goes to the hospital he’s wet usually met with the emotional wreck that was once Seungho.
Giving up, forgetting is easy. That’s what Seungho tells him with a smirk. But Joon sees what Seungho’s turning into when he’s forgotten everything- and it’s scary.
Joon knows how cruel the past can be- he knows maybe even better than your average person, and he opts to feel the pain. Because he knows that the pain is the thing that makes Seungho Seungho.
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It’s amusing, really.
He doesn’t know how long he has been here. He opts to sleep instead of being lulled by the quietness of the sterile room with its white walls that remind him of clouds and God and Heaven. Every time he falls asleep with the hope to open his eyes and see Hell.
He on the other side is almost the same. His masters are too.
Seungho overhears the doctors’ concerns. Because when he’s awake, he doesn’t eat or drink, but when he’s awake, he doesn’t talk or think.
Seungho knows that having a double-personality was some sort of sickness, but he can’t quite recall its name right now. And who cares either way?
That mindless fuck who saved him (him too) still comes to visit. Well, Seungho chuckles -Joon’s the one that needs help.
He knows it won’t be too long. Seungho’s selfish, and he doesn’t care about them, him, or the stupid police officer.
They think he doesn’t see, but the truth is that he doesn’t see.
This world is a lie anyways- one never-ending lie. Before he goes though, he decides.
His last farewell shall be a masterpiece.
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Joon wakes up to the sound of the telephone, and for a split second he’s reminded of another scene from months ago. He knows it’s time to visit that alley again.
It’s almost the same, really. Trash, broken bottles, cats and Seungho’s body. This time around though, he has to use a torch, because that old street lamp has finally broken down.
Joon thinks Seungho died like a true artist- illuminated by the spotlight ‘till his last moment.
He laughs at his own cruel joke and reminds himself of the last part of that old man’s speech.
“But don’t worry too much. Moments like these come and go. You’ll forget soon enough, and the magic will be broken. The puzzle never remains assembled for too long”
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The parents are mourning. All of the pictures and sketches are now taken off of the walls- all except for one. It’s black and white and red- bloody red. It shows…
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In that old, god-forgotten alley filled with promises and pain and grief, the lamp still stands. And if you look at it long enough, you might just uncover the stories that it has to tell.