Hyun's Story

And yet again, like this post about half a year back, I speak in third person. These are the times when I want to step back and figure out if something is seriously wrong with me. It would seem like it doesn't do much good, and at the same time, there is little else I could do about it (save for ingesting more coffee)... but yes, I write a story.

I couldn't remember looking at a mirror which was intact. In some ways, there was always some crack or chip, and the image becomes distorted. Little fragments fall off and I try to pick them up, seeing how my eyes look at that particular piece, and how different it stares back at me from the other pieces. I feel like I don't know myself sometimes. So yes, I write stories.

They say when you look at a mirror, and look through it, and you see your eyes staring back at you... you see Despair. Well then. From that gaze, I weave an unfinished portrait of Despair -- of someone named Hyun...

--

Hyun walked to the door staggering. Hypersensitivity assaulted his senses in his state of half-drunkenness. Silence was supposed to be blanketing the whole night, but it seemed even the slightest midnight breeze made a sort of un-musical sound in his ears. Hyun didn’t find it unpleasant at all. He didn’t mean to, but a chuckle escaped from the confines of his mouth. And it evoked the most exhilarating feeling.

He found himself in front of the door a few uneasy steps after. He couldn’t feel the keys on his hand, but he definitely knew he was holding it since the jangling reverberated around the sides of his face like a mad aura scrambling to his ear. Leaning on the door, struggling to put the keys into the keyhole, he let out a chuckle again. He licked his lips, letting the aftertaste of gin (or was it vodka) fill his senses again...

And then he stopped. And the wind stopped. And the crickets. And it seemed the like the only thing the whole cosmos focused on was his breathing. He didn’t even notice the keys falling from his sweaty hand. Didn’t even hear it fall.

He tasted the bitter ghost of gin on his lips. And he remembered the intermingling vodka aftertaste was Michael’s kiss.

Michael. Little Mikey. They’d been best friends since they were little and it seemed he only heard the name now. The usual nickname even felt alien to his ears, to his brain. Even the face was different… And this time he wanted to chuckle but his mouth wouldn’t let one out.

He decided not to go in the house first. He knew if he did, he wouldn’t have time anymore to think about what he has to think about. He wouldn’t have time anymore to close what it was he needed to close.

He looked down and caught the glint of his keys. He picked it up and put it on his pocket. He sat down on the wooden floor. And then he let the alcohol do its work on his memory...

(cont'd...)