deconstructing
He flinched.
But ever aware of his surroundings and all that attention on him, he inhaled so slightly, you could barely see his shoulders rise.
One…
Two…
He willed his hands to stop shaking, his body to control the shudder which seemed insistent on coursing through him.
Three…
Four…
It took all of his self-restraint not to immediately grab for his sleeve. Instead, with a smile, more to hide the fear tearing at him than to patronize the cameras and many faces, he quietly unfurled the sleeve by just an inch, to cover that spot.
No one noticed how his fingers shook, as he unrolled the sleeve once.
Now, it was marked, so he knew where to scrub extra hard when he reached home later.
No one noticed how the knuckles on the other hand were white, plain white, as he gripped the sharpie.
Filthy. He felt filthy.
Now, his reaction would not be connected with the act.
That strange, foreign act.
He made a note to tell, no, warn the manager, once this whole façade was over, to never, never let anyone touch him like that again.
-
On the way back, he was uncharacteristically quiet.
When someone prodded him and gave him an enquiring look, he looked up, strained smile, faraway look…
-
Once the lift door opened, he led the way to their apartment, keys already in his hands. As they were 5 minutes into the car ride, 40 minutes before they reached the lobby of the apartment.
Fumbling for a moment, no one noticed how his fingers shook again, too caught up in their jokes and ribbing.
He could not take off his shoes fast enough.
Head bowed, he walked straight to the bathroom.
The rest merely followed behind.
No one noticed.
-
Scrub scrub scrub.
The whole bathroom smelt of the lily fragrance he adored.
Somewhere in the furthest corner of his mind, he barely registered that he had used up half the bottle of his favourite soap. The one he paid a premium for and saved only for special days or when he needed that extra perking up. Even then, just one pump.
Today, it didn’t matter.
That spot still felt so grimy.
The skin was red, but it might as well have been a monstrous, diseased-looking patch covered in green algae like in those ponds, because it was still dirty.
So dirty.
He felt grease, a never-ending stream of grease, leaking, flowing through those pores.
So dirty, he wanted to cry.
Scrub, scrub, scrub.
No one said to stop scrubbing.
Scrub, scrub, scrub.
It had to go away. It had to go away eventually.
Or his skin could break for all he cared.
Scrub.
Somewhere in between, he realized he was crying.
From the disgust at the filth.
From the pain, because that patch of skin was showing signs of breaking, many, many, angry, tiny spots of red dotting the previously pale skin.
Scrub, scrub, scrub.
Through the tears, he continued scrubbing. An arm rose momentarily to swipe at those angry, stinging tears. And it was back to scrubbing.
He could barely see through the tears, but still, he continued rubbing, chaffing at the skin, channeling whatever little self-control he had left in a bid to muffle his sniffles.
Because he couldn’t stop.
Break.
Now, he just wanted the skin to break. Tear.
He didn’t care.
As long as it all went away.
-
That night, he tossed in his sleep.
He felt a remote tingling, burning, each time he moved and his long-sleeved cotton shirt brushed against the abused skin.
He regretted, ever so slightly, that the skin didn’t break.
-
An hour, it must have been an hour later, he heard the door creak open.
He pretended to be asleep, but instinctively, his hand reached to grip the area on his arm. It burnt.
He must have moved too slowly… he was certain the other had seen.
He didn’t say anything, pretending he was asleep, though he knew, he knew both of them knew he was not.
He felt someone slide under the covers, and in his mind, he screamed, go AWAY! Go away! Go. Away.
That voice murmured his name.
He felt those tears sting beneath his lids.
It was so soothing. So safe.
All he wanted to do was to turn and hug him and cry, cry, cry, until the sun rose.
But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
He heard the other sigh, so softly, so sadly…
Do you feel my pain? How is it you feel my pain too?
An arm drapped quietly over his elbow. When it met no resistance, it began shifting downwards, quietly, cautiously, as though asking for his permission…
Why is it you feel my pain too?
That large hand, those long fingers, they moved so lightly, so carefully, as though afraid to hurt…
Afraid to hurt something already so hurt, broken, irreparable.
The hand rose a little when it met his hand, still clutching at that spot, and he could feel it brush softly against.. ghosting over his cramping knuckles.
Then it came to a stop, lying entirely, perfectly above his own hand. The pads of a thumb stroked at the back of his palm, as though saying, easy… easy…
It was calloused, calloused but gentle. And in his mind, it was soft.
It was just like how the same hand had rubbed his back when he cried, when he wanted to empty the contents of his stomach because he hadn’t been able to scrub another spot clean.
Easy… easy…
The same, deep, sad sigh.
It seemed to say, one day, one day Kibum… it’ll be okay… it will be okay.
And somewhere in between, he drifted to sleep, not before shuffling imperceptibly towards the other warm body, while the thumb continued its soft caressing of his wrist. Easy… easy… it didn’t stop, not even when he eased his death grip on that spot… easy… easy… one day…
-
The next morning, he woke. And as always, there was an empty spot beside him; a faint, barely-there imprint on the bed, beneath where his arm rested, the only hint of the night’s memory…
-
Cause I’d rather hurt than feel nothing at all…
That’s what she sang.
Lies.
Or the bitch just never hurt enough.
-
But maybe… one day…
web counter
-
it started as something really short but very much spiralled out of control somewhere in the middle. this is to make up for the almost-minkey earlier. =p once again, comments would be appreciated! =)
But ever aware of his surroundings and all that attention on him, he inhaled so slightly, you could barely see his shoulders rise.
One…
Two…
He willed his hands to stop shaking, his body to control the shudder which seemed insistent on coursing through him.
Three…
Four…
It took all of his self-restraint not to immediately grab for his sleeve. Instead, with a smile, more to hide the fear tearing at him than to patronize the cameras and many faces, he quietly unfurled the sleeve by just an inch, to cover that spot.
No one noticed how his fingers shook, as he unrolled the sleeve once.
Now, it was marked, so he knew where to scrub extra hard when he reached home later.
No one noticed how the knuckles on the other hand were white, plain white, as he gripped the sharpie.
Filthy. He felt filthy.
Now, his reaction would not be connected with the act.
That strange, foreign act.
He made a note to tell, no, warn the manager, once this whole façade was over, to never, never let anyone touch him like that again.
-
On the way back, he was uncharacteristically quiet.
When someone prodded him and gave him an enquiring look, he looked up, strained smile, faraway look…
-
Once the lift door opened, he led the way to their apartment, keys already in his hands. As they were 5 minutes into the car ride, 40 minutes before they reached the lobby of the apartment.
Fumbling for a moment, no one noticed how his fingers shook again, too caught up in their jokes and ribbing.
He could not take off his shoes fast enough.
Head bowed, he walked straight to the bathroom.
The rest merely followed behind.
No one noticed.
-
Scrub scrub scrub.
The whole bathroom smelt of the lily fragrance he adored.
Somewhere in the furthest corner of his mind, he barely registered that he had used up half the bottle of his favourite soap. The one he paid a premium for and saved only for special days or when he needed that extra perking up. Even then, just one pump.
Today, it didn’t matter.
That spot still felt so grimy.
The skin was red, but it might as well have been a monstrous, diseased-looking patch covered in green algae like in those ponds, because it was still dirty.
So dirty.
He felt grease, a never-ending stream of grease, leaking, flowing through those pores.
So dirty, he wanted to cry.
Scrub, scrub, scrub.
No one said to stop scrubbing.
Scrub, scrub, scrub.
It had to go away. It had to go away eventually.
Or his skin could break for all he cared.
Scrub.
Somewhere in between, he realized he was crying.
From the disgust at the filth.
From the pain, because that patch of skin was showing signs of breaking, many, many, angry, tiny spots of red dotting the previously pale skin.
Scrub, scrub, scrub.
Through the tears, he continued scrubbing. An arm rose momentarily to swipe at those angry, stinging tears. And it was back to scrubbing.
He could barely see through the tears, but still, he continued rubbing, chaffing at the skin, channeling whatever little self-control he had left in a bid to muffle his sniffles.
Because he couldn’t stop.
Break.
Now, he just wanted the skin to break. Tear.
He didn’t care.
As long as it all went away.
-
That night, he tossed in his sleep.
He felt a remote tingling, burning, each time he moved and his long-sleeved cotton shirt brushed against the abused skin.
He regretted, ever so slightly, that the skin didn’t break.
-
An hour, it must have been an hour later, he heard the door creak open.
He pretended to be asleep, but instinctively, his hand reached to grip the area on his arm. It burnt.
He must have moved too slowly… he was certain the other had seen.
He didn’t say anything, pretending he was asleep, though he knew, he knew both of them knew he was not.
He felt someone slide under the covers, and in his mind, he screamed, go AWAY! Go away! Go. Away.
That voice murmured his name.
He felt those tears sting beneath his lids.
It was so soothing. So safe.
All he wanted to do was to turn and hug him and cry, cry, cry, until the sun rose.
But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
He heard the other sigh, so softly, so sadly…
Do you feel my pain? How is it you feel my pain too?
An arm drapped quietly over his elbow. When it met no resistance, it began shifting downwards, quietly, cautiously, as though asking for his permission…
Why is it you feel my pain too?
That large hand, those long fingers, they moved so lightly, so carefully, as though afraid to hurt…
Afraid to hurt something already so hurt, broken, irreparable.
The hand rose a little when it met his hand, still clutching at that spot, and he could feel it brush softly against.. ghosting over his cramping knuckles.
Then it came to a stop, lying entirely, perfectly above his own hand. The pads of a thumb stroked at the back of his palm, as though saying, easy… easy…
It was calloused, calloused but gentle. And in his mind, it was soft.
It was just like how the same hand had rubbed his back when he cried, when he wanted to empty the contents of his stomach because he hadn’t been able to scrub another spot clean.
Easy… easy…
The same, deep, sad sigh.
It seemed to say, one day, one day Kibum… it’ll be okay… it will be okay.
And somewhere in between, he drifted to sleep, not before shuffling imperceptibly towards the other warm body, while the thumb continued its soft caressing of his wrist. Easy… easy… it didn’t stop, not even when he eased his death grip on that spot… easy… easy… one day…
-
The next morning, he woke. And as always, there was an empty spot beside him; a faint, barely-there imprint on the bed, beneath where his arm rested, the only hint of the night’s memory…
-
Cause I’d rather hurt than feel nothing at all…
That’s what she sang.
Lies.
Or the bitch just never hurt enough.
-
But maybe… one day…
web counter
-
it started as something really short but very much spiralled out of control somewhere in the middle. this is to make up for the almost-minkey earlier. =p once again, comments would be appreciated! =)