Discards

“I wish to believe in immortality-I wish to live with you forever.”
                                                                                                                      ― John Keats

He passes by the statue everyday. The pale marble skin, the rose painted lips, the glassy eyes, the frozen tutu... she remains crystallized among the marketplace, unaffected by the changing humanity around her. People have grown accustomed to her presence. No one stops for a sight of her her now. She stands there, one arm outstretched by her side and one arm held out in front of her, as if inviting some invisible person to dance with her. Her dance will forever be incomplete, with one leg raised behind her, the other èn pointè, torso leaning forward in a frozen arabesque. She was beautiful, but years have dulled her looks, the marble graying with soot from the factory, the lips have faded, eyes stopped glistening, gems have been picked out of her bodice by thieving hands, a finger is missing on the side stretched arm, the result of a child with a careless stone, but, to him, she remains beautiful in all her imperfect glory.
He pauses to look at the life-sized statue of the marble ballerina each time he passes by on the way to the factory. Wide eyes trail over her lithe frame, a small smile curves the plump lips, red from the wintry chill, and he greets her in a wordless "morning", perhaps the only person ever to do so. It is more probable that he does it because he has no one to wish every morning and the statue looks at him with dull eyes that seem to say, "I know what it's like to be misused." He sees old men spit at her feet, children aim pebbles, making a sport of who can hit the diadem atop her head, women gossip at her base– but no one stops to admire her, mostly because the sooty marble filled with stains isn't aesthetically appealing anymore.
To him, she's more than just a centerpiece that has waned in appearance. She is being by her own rights; the smooth curve of her checks, the long tapering fingers the inexplicable sadness in her eyes and smile– she becomes more humane than any human he knows, certainly more than those who he works for.
He feels a a strange attraction towards her, one so powerful that he stumbles over to her, inebriated, depressed, and he sits on her pedestal, crying into his knees, the salty tears stinging the gash on his left cheek. He is ashamed of himself, his weakness, his submission and his inability to have retaliated when they landed the blows on him a while ago. He looks up, the statue looks straight ahead. He raises himself onto the pedestal and slowly meets the blue, glass, irises. He trails a finger over the jagged ends of the broken finger before closing his palm over hers. She is cold to the touch, but warmer than the machines he uses everyday.
The moonshine creates a dull glow in the marble. She awakens to life, wrapping her arms around his shoulder, burying her head into the crook of his neck, she is soft, delicate, smelling of the lily that is tucked behind her ear. She lifts her eyes to look at him, wiping away the drying tears and caking blood from his cheeks. He leans forward– the vision breaks with harsh calls of "thief" behind him. Two burly officers of the law lift him off of the pedestal as he thrashes in protest. Slurred tones in protests of innocence fade into the distance as he is dragged away. The marble girl silently screams in his defense– her cries remain unheard.
She stands as use always has, scanning the crown of uninterested people in hopes for the lone pair of eyes that have met hers on purpose. The beautiful doe eyes, tinged with pain and loneliness and yet a sense of comfort that seem to tell her, "I know what it's like to be forgotten." She longs for the only human touch she has felt in years, a touch that fills her marble coldness with warmth, though she doesn't think the other humans can be warm like him. Days turn into weeks which run into months, but he doesn't show himself. Little does she know he tries to catch a glimpse of her from his cell window each night and yells in frustration when he can't see her. She keeps waiting for him oblivious to the knowledge that might have offered some comfort. Then, one autumn afternoon, when the leaves from the tree overhead have turned golden from age, a man lifts himself up to her pedestal butt he isn't the one she is looking for. This stranger, with his rough hand removes the diadem from atop her head while she hears chiseling sounds at her feet. Two pairs of hands brusquely list her off of the pedestal that she has stood on since her creation– then come the people. They throng around her, eager hands jostling and lunging at her, trying to remove the gems that adorn her figure. The two holding her can battle the crowd no longer and she falls, breaking against the very pedestal that once held her. She lies helpless, as men, women and children wrench out the glittering stones from her shoes and dress; someone gouges the blue stone of her right eye and pockets it. With the other she has the satisfaction of spotting him in the distance before the other eye is ripped out too.
He came racing the moment he was released, hoping to smile up at his statue once more. Now, he sees filthy hands violating her, robbing her of anything valuable until the leave behind the naked marble. He tries to get closer, but the mob shoves him back until he hits his head on a lamp most and falls into the dirt. The crowd disperses eventually when there is nothing remaining except for the marble husk. He walks over to her, sitting upon the pedestal, looking into the hollow eyes and smiling mouth, that stabs his heart a hundred times over. Life resumes in the marketplace, no one spares her another glance. She lies there, shattered, fragmented, to be discarded in the morning by garbage collectors. Dusk casts a rosy glow over her cheeks. He picks up a broken lily petal, lying beside her severed head, and clasps it tightly in his palm, wondering how long before he meets the same fate.
______________________________________________________________

This was inspired by John Keats' obsession with immortality ad crystallized existence and once again Kyungsoo invaded my head... so there you have it...

Listen To Me

Darkling I listen, and for many a time
            I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called him soft names in many a sweet rhyme,
            To take into the air my quiet breath"
                                                               -John Keats (Ode To A Nightingale)

He calls out to me often. It begins with soft whispers, that float on the quiet breezes, rising to a crescendo until it fades out once more into the ebony of the night. It is melodious, enchanting, and it catches me by surprise each time, throwing my emotions into a whirlwind of chaos and I can't see the eye of the storm– or maybe I don't wish to. Even the faintest wisps that I catch, quickens my heart, makes my nerves taut and my skin glisten with anticipation- because if his voice is in the air, I shall see him soon.
Sure enough I do. The first fleeting glimpse of him comes with the stench of humiliation of being fired. He's a fragrant breath of fresh air,smelling of the salty sea, exotic spices and freshly made pasta... of nostalgia, of home. Of course there isn't a way home from this foreign land. There are loans to be repaid, bills to be paid, then people die, people leave, more loads, bills upon bills and, at the end of it all, only thought of him fill my mind to the darkest crevices, lingering on till I'm left breathless in their wake– dangerous but not wholly unwelcome. So he sits opposite my couch at the end of everyday, smiling, and beckoning me over.
I'd be lying if I said I haven't thought of walking over to him, falling into his arms, lying in his cold embrace, looking into his eyes and kissing his frigid lips., leaving all the world and all my life behind; just to give into him and forget everything. He entices me like nothing and no one else, sitting there, calling out to me softly in that sinful voice, holding his out hand; and it comes as a sudden realization one evening– all I have to do is take it.
Its like sneaking into your fridge in the middle of the night to devour on melting dark chocolate until it finishes and you're left licking your fingers, relishing in the afterglow of a forbidden task. Only, thoughts of him are darker and giving into him will possibly result in no afterglow– but the allure, multiplied a hundred times over, is enough for me to dream of him night after night, only to start awake and stare, breathless, into the darkness.
He stares back, his pale skin and wine red hair visible in the the moonless night.  He is beautiful, so tantalisingly close that I only have to reach out an he'll pull  me in. My resolve slowly ebbs away and with each passing day he seems a step closer, until one day, I turn around, and he's right in front of me.
His presence bombards my senses with conflicting emotions– wanting him to disappear and wanting to draw him close– and intoxicates me, filling me with bubbling anticipation,giddy and excited all at once. Dark eyes bore into mine, slender fingers brush though my hair. I can feel his cold breath.
"Its very easy, you know?" He whispers against my lips. Longing crackles through every fibre of my being. "One, two, three, and then, oblivion." I roll my palms into fists in hopes of getting some semblance of cognition back. He presses his forehead against mine. Desire takes over my mind. I reach out to trail my fingers over the soft curve of his cheek to the firm jaw. Shivers pulsating through my body. There isn't any turning back now.
His smooth voice instructs me as feet find their way to the kitchen, wine glasses are filled and then back to the medicine cabinet for a bottle full of sleeping pills. Feverish hands mix the two substances and baleful eyes stare at the final concoction– is this what I want?
All intelligible thoughts disappear from my mind, as his smile presses against my lips; thoughts of him grow through my mind until there isn't room from anything else. I pull away, take a deep breath and put pen to paper.
He still sits in front of me, waiting for me to finish and he knows I'm almost there because he smiles in eager anticipation. It's a beautiful smile. I lace my finger through his. The wine glass with its content sits  in front of my eyes. I feel a gentle squeeze on my palm egging me on. A deep breath. He cups my cheeks. Another deep breath. I see nothing but the deep cesspools of his irises. The breaths are sharp, short gasps now. He kisses my parted lips. The wine glass sits ready on the table– so am I.
It'll be easy. Just one, two, three..... and then..... oblivion.
A/N: I really didn't intend for this to be a fanfic, just half way through Kyungsoo stated creeping into my mind and took over .____.

Masquerades

Silence.

Silence greets Jongin as he walks the dark, narrow, suffocating corridor towards the last room in the villa. Not a soul responds to his fervent calls. There is no electricity. There is a gale blowing outside. Yet, it pales in comparison to that in Jongin’s mind. He reaches the door at last. His hand hovers unsteadily over the doorknob. Images of what lay in the four previous rooms assault his mind. His throat feels like he’s swallowed sand. His heart is thumping, hard, in his chest, the dull, hollow sound ringing in his ears like a warning. He turns the knob. The click echoes through the empty corridors. Why did they agree to take this vacation?

Strange silhouettes and shapes stand out in the semi darkness. He can gauge the outline of two figures on the couch- one sitting, the other having fallen on the former’s lap. Visions return to Jongin’s mind.

Freshly raised out of a deep, almost drugged slumber, he had not seen anyone around in the darkness, nor had anyone responded to his calls. Kris and Tao’s room was the nearest and the door was unlocked. Two figures lay, sprawled, upon the bed. Jongin had leaned against the door frame, prepared to pass a witty comment. Then lightening flashed- thousands of volts of electric charge lighting the sky and the room-killing the words in Jongin’s throat. Tao had had his head on the elder’s shoulder, his hand clutching onto the fabric of the Kris’ shirt and Kris had one arm under Tao’s head and the other dangling off of the side of the bed… and then there was the blood. Blood that had flown from the two deep, fatal wounds- one in Tao’s abdomen and the other in Kris’s chest- and bathed the sheets red. Jongin had been too stunned to cry. He had wondered if they died trying to protect each other. But that did not matter. What mattered was that they were dead. Dead. Tao and Kris were dead.

Jongin steps further into the room. His shaky breathing the only sound in the air, barring the dull monotony of the rain on hard ground. He knows what waits for him inside.

Joonmyeon and Yixing’s room had seemed empty, the door to the bathroom left slightly ajar. Joonmyeon lay on the floor, limbs askew, eyes wide open- and lifeless- a far cry from the warm angelic looks that everyone was used to… but Jongin had wondered if “everyone” was alive to begin with. Then there was the blood, which ran small rivulets on the bathroom floor, flowing from a gash in Joonmyeon’s throat- flowing everywhere. The desperate urge to throw up had risen within Jongin as he backed out of the bathroom, only to trip and falter. Yixing, bleeding from a wound on the head, had been slumped against the wall. The wall itself had horizontal stains from the Chinese boy’s blood. Jongin had known Yixing had put up a fight. He was the type to put up a fight to the death. But the point was just that- death. Dead. Joonmyeon and Yixing, the angels, were dead.

 Jongin doesn’t need lightning to tell him that it’s Minseok who is sitting on the couch with his head thrown back, while Jongdae lies with his head on the elder’s lap. He doesn’t need lightning to tell them that they’re dead. They must be. Dead. Jongdae and Minseok were dead too.

He needs to breathe. A lump is blocking his throat. Tears are welling up in his eyes. He needs comfort. He needs support. He needs someone. So he raises his head and screams into the still air.

“Kyungsoo-hyung!”

The smell of alcohol had assaulted his nostrils as he entered Luhan and Sehun’s room. Luhan had been laying on the bed, dressed in a bathrobe, his hair still uncombed and askew. He looked like an angel, except for the lifeless eyes and the robe dyed red from blood- that reached the tips of his blond hair. A bottle of beer had rolled out of his hands and shattered on the floor. Among its tiny fragments, Sehun was sprawled out, the tiny crystalline shards dotting and piercing his pale skin. Jongin had not known where to turn. He stared at the two. His chest had begun to ache. Dead. How could Luhan and Sehun be dead?

Jongin’s cry dies out in the darkness. There is no response. The oppressive silence returns once more. He fears the worst. There is no way Kyungsoo could have survived this. Not his innocent and defenseless hyung. Tears are falling, thick and fast, down his dusky skin. He raises his head to shriek again.

“Kyungsoo hyung!”

Chanyeol and Baekhyun’s room had been locked. Jongin had not thought twice before breaking the door and entering. The wood had given in after a few tries. Then, he had stopped in horror. Every visible surface had been splattered with blood- the walls, the carpeting, and the furniture. In the center of the room, Chanyeol had been curled up, with Baekhyun against his chest, arms and legs a tangled mess and every inch of their skin covered in deep gashes, shirts torn to ribbons, hair matted with blood. Anger had bubbled within Jongin. They had ben butchered. Butchered and then left to bleed to their deaths. Dead…. How could the very signs of vitality, Chanyeol and Baekhyun be dead?

“Jongin-ah.”

There is a soft voice behind. Jongin’s heart leaps to his mouth he knows that voice all too well. His body acts of its own accord as he pivots around and engulfs the shorter male in a bone-crushing hug. First he laughs in relief, which then turn to choked sobs, which evolve into ear piercing shrieks of anguish. For all his mature looks, Jongin is still a nineteen year old boy. Kyungsoo is oddly calm as he rocks Jongin back and forth on the balls of his feet. He lets the younger cry himself to exhaustion till the only sounds coming are quiet sniffles, muffled by his face in Kyungsoo’s hair. Jongin feels selfishly glad he isn’t alone. He inhales deeply to calm his shaking nerves. The smell of spices and kimchi, that is forever a part of Kyungsoo, calms his rattled nerves. He memorises the feel of the small elfin body between his hands. The smile on his face.They are the only ones left. Then- a flash of lighning, a glint of steel, a quick scuffle, a decisive stab, a hot flash of pain and a whiplash of thunder that drowns Jongin’s scream. There’s another flash. Kyungsoo has just enough time to note the meat cleaver sticking out from Jongin’s back, before the dancer’s dead weight causes his knees to buckle and he toples backwards, under Jongin’s weight, and crashes into the side table behind. There is darkness for both boys. One, unconscious, the other dead. Yes… dead… he may know it, he may not, but Jongin too is dead.

………………………

“Something doesn’t feel right…” says Cho Kyuhyun, staring at the bright screen of his laptop, the lights casting odd shadows under his eyes. “Something does not feel right.” He says again. Sungmin stares at him in the dimly lit dorm room. He knows what the maknae is talking about. A few months and a thousand articles later, no one has reached the end of the bloodbath that has been dubbed the “Jeju Island Getaway Mystery”- that had left eleven boys massacred and one unconscious. “How did Kyungsoo survive?”

“Are you saying he should have died too? They found him unconscious under Jongin… the killer must have thought he was dead too…” Sungmin sighed.

“All this while and the only explanation is ‘anits’ or ‘sasaengs’? I don’t get is… there must be something that no one is looking at.”

“There isn’t anything in there… all that there is, are the boys’ fingerprints… and that is normal!”

“There was that one report that said the fingerprints on the cleaver that killed them was weird…”

“Kyuhyun-ah! That was a rumor… let things be… anti-fans are a good bet.”

“Even if it was them... how do people do such things…?” he shivers. Sungmin places a calming hand on his shoulder.

“No one ever knows what lies beyond a person’s face… even the sweetest smiles hold the darkest secrets…” Sungmin’s words cast an image into Kyuhyun’s mind- a pair of large, round eyes and a sweet heart-shaped smile. Could it be…..? He shakes his head and looks at the half-empty bottle. No, the wine must be getting to his head.

I am very aware of what I implied at the end.... and I take no pleasure in doing that....
Oppa, jjincha, jeongmal, jeongmal, nomu mianhamida. Saranghamida (^.^)
I finally discovered my Exo muse.... oh boy...

Imagine- D.O. and Kyuhyun

(1960s)

.

.

.

You sit at the Regent Club lounge, waiting for your husband. You're the only single female there, mostly because your husband is the only husband who would leave a woman like this. But then, he's not your husband, is he? You're just the impostor, who looks just like his runaway American wife, brought in to save his public image from shame. You can almost understand why she ran, to begin with. He has eyes for nothing but his work. The senator lives in the limelight, and nothing of that which is his private life, is private. You of course should not mind. The man really isn't your husband. You're an actor, playing a part and very convincingly so.

"She's my bae~~~by."

Your eyes wander across the room, to the small stage across the room from the bar. The music is slow, sultry and drawn out, not uncommon for lounge-bars. There are two microphones. There are two men on them, dressed immaculately, in rented suits, no doubt, from head to toe, complete with felt hats, you can’t see their eyes, only the lower half of their face.

“Nuga beolin choco~late."

You’re walking in through my door…”

The word chocolate makes you gulp. Not so much as the word itself as the way it was said.  Husky, accented slightly, leaving you breathless for a moment, before you catch yourself. You’re the wife of a senator, it would not do you good to be caught drooling over a bar singer. His heavy breathing into the microphone has left you slightly heated around the collar of your dress. The song picks up in pace, the other singer joins in, but you can still hear the huskiness of the first one, against the others.

“Don’t be too la~~ate.”

He steps away from the microphone with a smirk (never mind what it does to your heart). The other singer takes over in another oriental language (Chinese you assume). This one’s voice has none of the hint of the huskiness. It’s clear, nothing very unusual. The first singer joins in again and then, to your massive disappointment, the song ends. The two singers take of their hats and bow. When they stand, you’re surprised at how young they are. The taller one, the one that sang in Chinese, looks very lean but the most surprising is the face of the shorter one, the one you've been staring at. Now that his doe shaped eyes are showing, and he’s not smirking, but smiling brightly, his face radiates innocence. You snap back to the counter, with a jerk. You ask, in a well-bred voice, that you've trained yourself to in all circumstances, the barman for another sherry and slip in a casual question while accepting the said sherry.

“Who were the men singing just a while ago?”

“They’re locals here,” said the bartender with extreme deference. The American wife of a half American senator must be treated so. You nod in acceptance, afraid to ask anymore. Since your husband came into the office, more and more of his native country have been residing in the States. You know what they all say about him, in hushed, reverent whispers, treating him akin to the Lord. The first half American to become a senator. You suppose you should be proud, but you wonder if his real wife ever was. Your thoughts are broken by a husky, voice, with the English just slightly accented with a touch of the orient,

“One Scotch-on-the-rocks please.” The bartender gives it to him, with not an inch of the politeness that he’d shown to you, but this man just flashes him a bright smile and hands him the money. Only then does he notice you. He nearly blinds you with his smile and bows deeply, as is the custom in the orient. “Such an honor to meet you Madam.” You will never get used to the way you’re treated like a queen (you’re an impostor with a crown) but you almost smile coyly at this man, catching yourself in the last moment, instead giving him a tight lipped smile and offering your hand.

“How do you do? It was a pleasure listening to your singing.” It’s very, polite, matter-of-factly, and you’re very proud of your self-control at this very moment.

“You heard us?” His hand flies back to his neck as he rubs it in embarrassment. You nod politely, only reminding yourself that an extremely girlish, vigorous nod would seem out of character (for a while you wish you weren't playing this damned one). “Aish! How embarrassing!” He says.

“Not at all, you were both good.” Actually, you’re thinking that his partner was good, he was better than brilliant. You’re outlook towards “chocolate” has been changed for life, thanks to him. He blushes like a schoolboy and looks at his feet momentarily before thanking you and he looks adorable doing it.

“If I may ask, where is the Senator?” You take a sip of your drink; your throat has dried up considerably, before answering.

“He will be here shortly,” you say while wishing the Senator didn't exist. He smiles at you (there goes your heart again) and says,

“I don’t suppose the Senator himself has time to come to such places, though having Your Ladyship makes up for it more than enough.” You nearly blush beet red at that. He shuffles his feet for a second before asking, “I wonder if it would be impertinent of me to join you.”

“Please do.” You can’t be rude, after all to your husband’s countrymen (but that’s merely the excuse). He sits down next to you and asks.

“It must be wonderful to travel so much.” The accent is very attractive to your ears. You lose yourself in it so much that your control breaks as you sigh and say,

“Are you kidding me?” Your eyes widen in shock as you realize what you've just uttered and look around swiftly, and frantically, to check no one’s heard your slip. He on the other hand laughs.

“Yes I suppose that is a rather silly question to ask.” You wonder if he’s actually understood the implications of your words. He doesn't show any signs so you relax your tensed body (of course just enough to still seem proud and upright). “I've never traveled anywhere but from home to America.”

“What is it like there?” You ask curiously. He furrows his eyebrows rather adorably and shakes his head.

“I don’t remember much of it… but it was very different from here,” there is a sort of faraway look in his eyes and you allow yourself you glance over his features carefully. His milky white skin, the round doe-like eyes, the dazzling smile, the gentle curve of his jawline, you become aware of his voice once more as he talks again, “I was six when I came here, but I remember enough of home to know there was a large garden, that was my favorite part of the house, my grandfather’s fruit trees at one end, his flowers at the other and green grass rolling in between. That I miss here, climbing the trees in summer to eat frits with my cousins, hearing the birds singing at dawn and dusk….  once, I remember, I fell out of a tree and mother-“He stops short of finishing and laughs, the enchantment of his words broken. “I am sorry, I must be boring you.”

“Not the least bit,” you say with abstract politeness. In actuality you could listen to his voice forever. Suddenly he rises from his seat and bows, but you realize his gaze his directed towards someone behind you.

“There you are,” says a smooth, well-bred voice. You can hardly stand to smile at the man who proposes to be your husband. “I hope my wife has not been troubling you Mr.….?” You realize you don’t know his name either.

“Do Kyungsoo,” he bows deeply once more, “it’s a pleasure to meet you Senator Cho.”

“Likewise,” says Cho Kyuhyun and shakes hands. You rise and say,

“It was nice speaking, Do Kyungsoo ssi,” He looks mildly surprised at your knowledge of Korean honorifics but bows deeply and shakes your proffered hand.

“The pleasure was all mine,” he says and you almost curse out loud when your posing husband leads you away.

As you take your coat (and Cho helps you into it, you are in public after all) your eyes wander back to the inside of the bar, where Do Kyungsoo and his fellow singer are lounging in the chairs. Your face heats up rapidly and you turn back to Cho Kyuhyun slightly breathless and walk with him out the door. He looks at you in mild surprise and you wonder if for the first time, the Senator has understood what you feel.

Too bad you’re stuck living this lie, you think you he leads you to the car. Too bad you can’t go back to your old one. Too bad you can’t go back to the club either. Too bad you can’t go back to Do Kyungsoo.

As you sit in the car, you sneak a glance as the man whose wife you claim to be. The honey coloured hair, the Asian eyes, the pink lips that curl into a smirk very easily, the sharp jawline, the pale skin…. Yes, Senator Cho Kyuhyun could very easily be called handsome, very handsome, and very understandably women stared at him as he passed them by, but too bad he couldn't care any less about his looks. Too bad he didn't care about much other than his work.

You're lying on a firm chest, someone is stroking your hair gently and humming the words of a familiar song. You gently open your eyes and lift yourself up, the other person does the same. Suddenly you're too close, your lips are too close. You're shocked-

So shocked that you snap out of your dreams. You know the man from your dreams....
You grudgingly walk down to for breakfast, find your husband seated there and curtly nod at each other. 
"Your face is red." He says, over his news paper. You already know that.
"It's my face," you retort. He shakes his head and returns to the paper. This is your usual form of exchange.
You hide yourself behind a newspaper too, and wait for a few moments before peering across the table. Cho Kyuhyun is handsome, very handsome. Too bad he's not more humane...
But mostly too bad he's not Do Kyungsoo...

Yes too bad.

Your "husband" the Senator....

Or your fleeting acquaintance the bar singer....?

.

.

.

For... no one in particular,

I just had to get this one out of my system! Miya, don't you tease me about this!

And please forgive me Kyu~! You still are my ultimate bias!!!

This is the song DO and Chen were singing in the lounge-bar.