Countdown -- 7
Measure it out in inches; Jinki/Minho; PG-13
note: In case anybody is wondering, Minho will have an important role in this... Just not quite yet. And how many cliches have I covered now? I'm not keeping track. But diary-keeping is definitely a huge one. Don't try this at home. And go ahead and read into the descriptions/word choices/images.
prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7
Chapter seven
Everything from then on was different.
I took sick leave from my job and I locked myself inside my bedroom for two whole days.
In that time, I read through each and every entry in each and every diary of mine from beginning to end, three times. In that time, I cried my heart out, until I had no more tears left in me.
On the night of the second day, I wrote my last entry.
It fit perfectly on the inside back cover of the last of the notebooks.
The blue ink contrasted again the black that I had used exclusively before.
Then with the help of a chair, I took out the batteries from the smoke detectors in my apartment. To be on the safe side, I also stuff the crack under my front door with a towel. Finally I checked the windows-I didn't want my neighbors smelling anything in case they were out on their balconies.
Satisfied with the setup and armed with a cigarette lighter, I moved all my diaries into the kitchen.
I carefully disassembled the pages. The pages that were filled to the margin with my own handwriting, filled to the brim with feelings that will never reach and with things that will never be. And a few at a time, I silently fed them to the flames. The sight of the fire eating up the paper was hypnotic; I couldn't tear my eyes away. The air became choked with smoke and each shallow breath I drew fell far short of being enough to satisfy the cravings of my body. I felt a little sick to my stomach and my heart was racing.
One of my hands briefly rested over my chest. Ah, I am alive, I thought.
When I was halfway through my second last notebook, for a moment, I was concerned. Not about whether I could die from smoke inhalation but how I could get rid of the smell. I worried my bottom lip for a while before I decided to open a crack in the living room window. Maybe having some ongoing air exchange was a better idea.
By the time I got back to the sink, the small fire in it had died out.
I wasted no time restarting my bizarre ritual.
Page after page, page after page...
Watching the last pieces of white paper blacken and shrivel into ash, I suddenly realized that all along, I'd always been so incredibly lonely. It wasn't much of a leap of logic though. Living and waiting all by myself, of course it was a lonely thing.
Except I never stopped playing hide and seek with myself.
I never saw the things that I did not want to see.
I ran cold water over the formless contents of my sink to cool them off. Without the fire, there was only the moonlight to see by. Working rhythmically, I scooped out the wet ash and threw it into the garbage can. It formed a thick homogeneous cake. Washing my hands clean, I picked up the lighter from the counter. Eying it for a moment, I then tossed it into the garbage can as well.
The lighter was something I had bought because of that person.
He was forgetful and lost things far more often than he found them. And so it was nothing out of the ordinary to see him standing there with an unlit cigarette in his mouth, rummaging through all his pockets for a lighter and coming up empty. After witnessing his frequent frustration, I went to the convenience store around the corner and bought a lighter. From that day onward, I carried it with me wherever I went. I didn't smoke myself-if anything, I was against smoking-but this way, whenever he couldn't find his, I could help him out, so long as I was there with him.
It was my way of making him rely on me a little without anyone knowing. My way of giving myself a small sense of satisfaction. For being able to turn his frown upside down. For earning a single thank you from his lips.
After he left, I didn't change the habit of bringing the lighter around all the time. There wasn't much of a reason as to why. And I never did offer to light another person's cigarette.
Now, there was no use keeping the thing. There wasn't much butane left anyway.
Gazing at the cheap disposable lighter lying on its bed of ashes, I smiled fondly before closing the lid of the garbage can.
......
chapter 8
note: In case anybody is wondering, Minho will have an important role in this... Just not quite yet. And how many cliches have I covered now? I'm not keeping track. But diary-keeping is definitely a huge one. Don't try this at home. And go ahead and read into the descriptions/word choices/images.
prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7
Chapter seven
Everything from then on was different.
I took sick leave from my job and I locked myself inside my bedroom for two whole days.
In that time, I read through each and every entry in each and every diary of mine from beginning to end, three times. In that time, I cried my heart out, until I had no more tears left in me.
On the night of the second day, I wrote my last entry.
It fit perfectly on the inside back cover of the last of the notebooks.
The blue ink contrasted again the black that I had used exclusively before.
Then with the help of a chair, I took out the batteries from the smoke detectors in my apartment. To be on the safe side, I also stuff the crack under my front door with a towel. Finally I checked the windows-I didn't want my neighbors smelling anything in case they were out on their balconies.
Satisfied with the setup and armed with a cigarette lighter, I moved all my diaries into the kitchen.
I carefully disassembled the pages. The pages that were filled to the margin with my own handwriting, filled to the brim with feelings that will never reach and with things that will never be. And a few at a time, I silently fed them to the flames. The sight of the fire eating up the paper was hypnotic; I couldn't tear my eyes away. The air became choked with smoke and each shallow breath I drew fell far short of being enough to satisfy the cravings of my body. I felt a little sick to my stomach and my heart was racing.
One of my hands briefly rested over my chest. Ah, I am alive, I thought.
When I was halfway through my second last notebook, for a moment, I was concerned. Not about whether I could die from smoke inhalation but how I could get rid of the smell. I worried my bottom lip for a while before I decided to open a crack in the living room window. Maybe having some ongoing air exchange was a better idea.
By the time I got back to the sink, the small fire in it had died out.
I wasted no time restarting my bizarre ritual.
Page after page, page after page...
Watching the last pieces of white paper blacken and shrivel into ash, I suddenly realized that all along, I'd always been so incredibly lonely. It wasn't much of a leap of logic though. Living and waiting all by myself, of course it was a lonely thing.
Except I never stopped playing hide and seek with myself.
I never saw the things that I did not want to see.
I ran cold water over the formless contents of my sink to cool them off. Without the fire, there was only the moonlight to see by. Working rhythmically, I scooped out the wet ash and threw it into the garbage can. It formed a thick homogeneous cake. Washing my hands clean, I picked up the lighter from the counter. Eying it for a moment, I then tossed it into the garbage can as well.
The lighter was something I had bought because of that person.
He was forgetful and lost things far more often than he found them. And so it was nothing out of the ordinary to see him standing there with an unlit cigarette in his mouth, rummaging through all his pockets for a lighter and coming up empty. After witnessing his frequent frustration, I went to the convenience store around the corner and bought a lighter. From that day onward, I carried it with me wherever I went. I didn't smoke myself-if anything, I was against smoking-but this way, whenever he couldn't find his, I could help him out, so long as I was there with him.
It was my way of making him rely on me a little without anyone knowing. My way of giving myself a small sense of satisfaction. For being able to turn his frown upside down. For earning a single thank you from his lips.
After he left, I didn't change the habit of bringing the lighter around all the time. There wasn't much of a reason as to why. And I never did offer to light another person's cigarette.
Now, there was no use keeping the thing. There wasn't much butane left anyway.
Gazing at the cheap disposable lighter lying on its bed of ashes, I smiled fondly before closing the lid of the garbage can.
......
chapter 8