Shaky hands grab at the sheets, profane organ pumping poison furiously into his body, acid running its course through his vein, little canals of what used to make hope blossom.
A sighs falls off his lips as he swings his legs over the edge of his bed— rather small for a man his height but never was he one to complain too much as long as there was a rooftop over his head to welcome him back whenever everything got too hard to handle— and grabs the pack of cigarettes on the night table, putting on his slippers.
He steps in the balcony, shivering as the wind slams against his body, wife beater doing nothing to cover his skin from its teeth.
With ghastly pale finger, he brings the cigarette up, letting it pass past his lips, immediately taking in a deep drag from it, lungs and throat protesting against it, but giving up a few seconds later as muscles relax, thoughts slipping away from him.
It was rather rushed, his decision to suddenly go away that is, no note or phone call, only an empty apartment left behind and a pissed as fuck family searching for his pathetic ass, for his oh so pity worthy ass that continues to weep because of a heartbreak.
But he had nothing more to be broken.
It didn't matter. In the end, pain always finds something to destroy, to distort, to punish someone for.
Hangil sighs, leaning over the rail of his balcony, left arm pressed against his chest to sustain his weight as the other takes care of the dose of death, eyes looking a the bottom, admiring the gentle sway of a boat in the water, calm, calm, calm.
He's become a bottled storm, all the anger he has harbored for so long finally showing its scars.
The wolf may change its teeth but never his nature, he's sure of it. Running the fuck away from everything wasn't exactly the most graceful of plans, but it was a plan god fucking damn it. It was the only thing stopping him from going the fuck back and breaking their fucking teeth, and really, he'd rather go away with his tail between his legs and head held high than to know their fucking blood, infected and oh so impure, touched his fucking knuckles.
It's funny, really. He was as unmovable as a fucking mountain, he was strong, he was indifferent and here he is, months later, in a fucking country he speaks little of its language, at three fucking am in the morning, tasting his heart breaking on the tip of his tongue yet again.
He shouldn't have been the one to go away. They should be the ones going the fuck away from him, from his wrath. Since when does a king run from the weak?
Hangil runs his fingers through his hair, quickly lightning up another stick of cancer, frustrated, hurt, confused.
Love is just another name for suicide
He knew that, he knew that all too well, he repeated it for years in his mind like a mantra, said it before sleep and in coffee shops, in libraries and in church, he said it whenever he ached for human presence and here he was, here he fucking was, still in love and broken, not much different from other times.
Only this time, he was weaker. Oh yes, he lowered the walls of crushed bones and broken teeth more than before, let him enter in the depths of his soul, let him go further than everyone has ever been and this is the price he has to pay.
There is a pause, as he watches with curious eyes the lights going on, curtains drawn back and suddenly there's a figure standing in front of the window, head titled.
There's a wave of a hand, a slight smile dancing on her lips before she's gone. She's no one he's familiar with or acquaintance, but she's the only person he can recognize the face of in Venice. She's the girl who first offered him a cup of coffee, patting his back, whispering that he has runaway written on his lips.
He doesn't return the gesture, but there's a ghost of a smile on his lips, and really, there's more than enough to put him to sleep.
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