and those eyes, they're dark glass orbs; they're deep pools which go on forever and which see everything. all of man's sorrow is stolen and reflected back through them, breaking apart this kind boy.
{Go Sanggil -- 19 years -- Empath} ◐ ◐ ◐ ◐ ◐
The people inside him ask for him to do all sorts of things.
He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling: " die, die, die ", they tell him, their feelings hushed voices which whisper in his ears, scuttling across his skin like spiders with dainty movements, raising gooseflesh. He aches, but his heart is full of bright flowers and his limbs are made of glass.
It is strange to know the longing of a dead man, taken once before from the pulsing and breathing world, of his own volition -- he says there is nothing, that there is no one. Sanggil will be like this forever, and he will be alone.
Crowds are lonely when you have nothing to say for yourself but can feel everyone else's excitement so intensely; the world is lonely when you can feel the world experiencing itself around you, but have no one to share it with ( how could he possibly? there aren't enough worlds to describe the beauty and the horror ).
It's been so long since he was a teenager, ages since he slashed his wrists and cried uncle into the endless skies at night ( in hopes that the universe would hear him ). Still, Sanggil is the same.
"I hate you."
He buries his face into the sheets ( dirty, it's been too long since he last washed them -- little Sanggil, such an incapable mess ) and hides from them. But they are cruel; they taunt him, and he feels as if he is not strong enough. How could anyone be strong enough to survive this?
The empath tells him to die, that is there is nothing ( perhaps for some, but not for you who is destined to carry everyone's pain ). The shopowner tells him that he is disgusting, that he takes from others even what they are not willing to give. His mother loves him, but the light is dim and the colors are dulling and her body aches though she doesn't have one anymore.
Is this what it's like to be schizophrenic? There are no voices, no acts of violence or desperation or madness; there is no medication which can make his head stuffy but his mind blank and free and unknowning. But he can draw them ( messy portraits in crayon, like the little children in the instituations ); he can be driven to acts of madness and desperation ( slash his body with knives, jump off of buildings, throw himself in front of strangers in penance for the things he has done ).
He can button his shirt, tie tightly the laces of his shoes -- he can hold his breath and pretend they aren't there, watching. They may not be able to tell him things, but they can show him. They pull him into the bottom of the lake he has dug and filled for himself when the timing is right. They make him believe anything they desire, do anything that they dream up.
He's not sure which one has kept him from killing himself all of these long, dragging years.
I want you to know that in this world, there is a kind of beauty that comes from nowhere. it does not hold any meaning by itself, but it bears the human in you.
The day is dark and heavy and filled with clouds, and Sanggil knows this because it's raining in his head, too. He'd just barely forced himself out of the house this morning ( even though he knows it's the best thing for him on days like this -- when everyone inside of him is crying, trying to convince him that he wants to sleep forever, that it's better to die ), throwing on something disgusting and heading off to buy eggs and milk.
He's heading back now, thin fingers clutching tightly a cheap plastic bag from the grocery store a few blocks down from his apartment.
He knows something is wrong as soon as he approaches, before he can so much as reach to pull his keys from the pocket of his jacket.
There's someone else in his apartment, feelings other than the dull tiredness and contentment of his cat flowing through the cracks beneath the metal door. They're feelings of -- well, something, though Sanggil doesn't know what. He tries not to think of how new he still is to all this, of how there are still so many things he doesn't have names for, and cannot possibly put into words; for all of the information he's given, it is still so hard for him to understand. Meanwhile, something loud and twisted and violent and painful ( despite its distance ) continues to float towards Sanggil. He takes a breath, telling himself to stop stalling and just fucked live for once ( everyone is in pain anyway, always in so much pain ), and opens the door.
What greets him is a strange sight: an ugly ( or perhaps beautiful ) stranger sitting amidst the mess of Sanggil's apartment, flipping through one of his old journals. The other man is peculiar -- he has dark hair and dark eyes but pale skin; his face is oddly shaped, and his limbs are so gaunt it's almost disgusting.
"What the hell are you doing?" Sanggil asks, perhaps frightened and tentative ( as he always is ), but also curious and thrilled and reckless.
It has been a good day so far. Sanggil had woken up with a clear mind, an underlying melancholy to everything he does, but a sense of contentment ( of hope ) as well -- it's not often that he wakes up and thinks 'I can leave the house today' with conviction ( there's usually some forcing and some dragging and some incentive involved ).
Now he's at the cafe, washing out and drying the large ceramic mugs they use for the cappuccinos. There had been a performance earlier that morning that he's been left to clean up after ( he'd been surprised to hear -- Sanggil didn't know that this place did live music ), but the people have mostly cleared out by now. It's only he and another quiet girl ( she is peaceful and thoughtful in a tragic sort of way ) managing the machines and register, but even that much is unnecessary.
Still, Sanggil keeps an eye on the front counter; every few minutes he'll find cause to abandon the sink and mugs and the drying rag he holds in his hand, instead tending to a customer.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a dark haired man standing idly at the counter, and stop what he's doing. He approaches to counter, trying to remember to paint a smile unto his face ( customer service, Sanggil! be a good employee! ) before he speaks.
Ki hears the shouting first and when he walks over he can see that nothing good is going to happen. He watched the whole thing go down from where he was and he had to say that the huge, ugly one had no right to be saying the rude words that he was saying so Ki decided to intervene. Taking on that huge one wouldn’t be a problem. Getting up on higher ground he had a grin on his face as he started to speak, “You know, all of us saw what happened here big guy and although a lot of people are afraid to say so we all know you’re wrong. It’s kind of cowardly of you to blame it on this person.” He knew that he shouldn’t be involved in other’s affairs, but this was just way too entertaining of an opportunity to pass up.
Sanggil doesn’t really know how to react when people yell at him. He had been walking along the city streets, mind elsewhere with his dark eyes focused on the sky overheard; in his head he hears the smooth hum of violins, and in his chest he feels the subdued chatter of the mid-afternoon ( the quiet optimism of his mother ).
He supposes he ought to pay attention to where he’s going -- he often does this, wandering about in some sort of futile attempt to fall in love with the world, with living and the way it all breathes. He’s wandered right into a neighborhood fit for some suspicion, the metal doors of warehouses gaping, the streets empty and filled with dust.
He supposes he ought to pay attention to where he’s going -- he soon finds himself crashing into a monster of a man; when they connect, he feels the anger ( it is wild and uncontrolled and explosive ).
“What the fuck at you looking at?” The man asks, shoving Sanggil roughly. He tries not to panic, tries not to become overwhelmed by the fury, but clenches his fists tightly. “Watch where the fuck you’re going!” Sanggil is torn, wanting to respond in his own shy and polite way, but the anger, it’s invigorating. He opens his mouth, perhaps just about to yell, when someone interrupts.
Some stern words are exchanged ( ’ You know, all of us saw what happened here... ‘ ) , and the man’s anger diffuses, Sanggil’s going with it. He eventually stalks off, disgruntled and muttering angrily.
Sanggil turns to the man who had, thankfully, stopped things before they’d gotten too out of hand.
“Thanks,” he mumbles, giving an uncomfortable of grin. “I had a feeling that might have gone badly. I’m not too strong, y’know?” He puffs out a laugh at the end ( probably because the other is calm, something like laughter coming easy to him ).
The strain on her coat told her that he was a ‘demon’, or far enough in his personal Hellhole that he couldn’t be far from one. But, as they stood upon the same earth and upon one another, she couldn’t bring herself to loathe him. He was a monstrosity of auras, a behemoth of both positive and negative energy, so many voices inside one person that he seemed to echo beyond time, but he was also very sad.
He smelled like rain and coffee, not rot. So she relaxed.
White knew he knew. He had brushed against the empath of the natural world, heard both Earth’s cries and its song. For the smallest of moments, in the most innocent of ways, but now he knew. She could not just leave him be; would not walk in the other direction, even if she wanted to. He saw everything but her wings in a raw flash of stolen emotions, stripped her bare before dozens of passersby, stood frozen in a respectable mid-step. And she saw him beneath the clutter, a soul swimming in the midst of many lives. Or drowning.
“Excuse me,” she muttered after some time. It was a start, since she was not a small woman and his shoulder must, surely, ache. Their proximity lessened, out of courtesy, but she tilted her head in expectation of his response.
When he touches her (a thing he tries his hardest not to do, not with anyone), he feels the whole world open and expand within him -- it is glorious and terrible and painful and like nothing he has ever experienced. The rush of pain is, at first, inevitable and expected (he's come to learn that all people are sad), but then grows. The breath is pulled from his lungs, the contraction of his lungs and the swift flow of his blood seeming to stop. He feels the rustling of the leaves on every tree, the crunching of the grass as it is trodden upon by people and ants and birds and dogs; he mourns the death of each flower as it is picked. It overwhelms him entirely, overtakes everything.
And then she separates from him, and it is gone.
He can still hardly pull the oxygen from the air, gasping as his dark eyes come to meet hers. He looks at them, and sees his own frame reflected back in those little mirrors (rationally, he knows the eyes of everyone he meets hold this image). He knows the tinge of nervousness which causes her heart to speed up slightly -- he'd be nervous too, nervous for someone to know about this (oh, but it is still so glorious).
The most curious thing is the calmness that now comes, clear and smoothing over the pain of the world like new paint over the crack in an ailing wall. He wonders how she can carry on this way when she has the entire world living inside of her.
He hears her say something polite, something like 'excuse me'. He wants to answer, wants to do the thing that is correct and expected, that he has been taught.
"How?" He asks instead, the only thing he can manage; he's breathless and curious, though the dread of pain and grief still lie underneath. He'd been sure for the longest time that was a curse which belonged to him alone. Still, this is different, so very different. Somehow, this is so much bigger.
Holding her hand out she shook the males hand with a bright smile. “It’s nice to meet you as well Sanggil,” she said nodding her head and letting go of his hand, “How are you doing on this lovely day?”
When he touches the skin of her hand, the sunlight all at once goes stronger -- it’s a faint and pleasant glow, always reminding him why he bothers with people at all. “I’m alright,” he responds to her question, “it’s really cold out today.” He’s not too thrilling of a conversationalist, but he does his best. “How’re you?”
“Sanggil,” he answers with a small smile, reflecting the feeling of kindness he feels in his chest – it’s like a small burst of sunshine. In that moment, he makes a decision and holds out a hand, intending for the other to shake it. “Nice to meet you.“
If you die in the prescence of an empath, you will live on ( inside of them, tucked into the crevices of their soul ) forever. Your feelings -- the silly things you wanted to be when you grew up, the trivial love you hold for fresh notebooks and new pens, the first line of your favorite poem -- they will be etched into the empath's soul. The last thing you felt before you died will stay with them until the flow of their own blood slows, becoming thick, and their narrow veins stiffen and constrict.
Go Sanggil must have horrible luck, because by the age of twenty-three, he has witnessed death thrice.
He remembers a fair day when he is sixteen years old, walking to school amongst the buildings and the bustling city which streches up ( seemingly endless ) towards the sky. He remembers noticing something, a dark cloud of a man, standing at the edge of the roof of a nearby skyscraper -- the precipice of life. Now Sanggil had always been an average boy, cheerful and playful and kind, if a bit small. Still, he knows about these things. He knows the reason that the man is standing there, eyes distant and firm as he gazes over the ledge.
Sanggil wants to say something, to move or to help, but his limbs are stiff like the motionless branches of a tree, shaking with the fear of wind; his dark eyes are wide and full of curiosity, full of horror and the prospect of childhood innocence soon lost forever. He wishes to look away.
He swears that the man glances at him, endless gaze meeting Sanggil's own just before he jumps.
Though he doesn't know it now, the man ( an empath ) gives Sanggil a feeling of his own when he hits the ground. The man gives Sanggil his Empathy.
The rest happens quickly, an old VHS tape on fast forward ( everything is hurried and crowded and unintelligible ). Sanggil is overcome with remorse, at first -- a great sorrow and guilt and regret which brings him to his knees and forces tears from his eyes ( though he can hardly feel them anymore ). It echoes throughout his head, saying: "I am so sorry for what I've done to you, for the curse I've given you." Sanggil is confused; these thoughts and these feelings aren't his -- what does he have to be sorry for?
The pain comes next, and it overwhelms him. It is a great heaviness, a crippling sorrow that fills his chest and makes him wish to die with every heaving breath he takes into his lungs. And the pain of it continues, radiates in waves underneath a new rush of feelings -- this is crowded and confused and fearful, like a herd of cattle stamping in fear of a wolf. It feels as if there are a great many people inside him, their souls crying within his own, and it is too much. He loses consciousness in the busy street. Needless to say, he doesn't go to school that day, or for many after.
After that, it's difficult to get back into the rhythm of living. Sanggil is in and out of the hospital, and they're sure he's schizophrenic ( after all, he hears something not quite like voices ). They put him on a dosage of antipsychotic meds so high that he can hardly feel his own hands when he holds them in front of himself, and he can hardly keep himself awake. Still, he feels them within him; the empath's guilt and hopelessness call to him whenever he wakes, and he screams each time his mother enters the room ( the worry and pain of a mother overwhelms him ). The only thing that keeps him sane is the soothing calmness and apathy of the nurses and psychiatrists.
The feelings and echoes don't go away, but he learns to deal with them. Eventually, he adapts ( just barely holding on ) and has them all fooled -- they're convinced he's recovering -- and they send him off to school with a plastic bag of colorful pills ( just like candy, but Sanggil hates them, starts flushing them down the toilet as soon as he can ) and a sense of self-satisfaction.
He's been gone months, and the kids don't really treat him the same afterwards.
The second time he witnesses death, Sanggil is a bit older ( just past eighteen ), but still a mess of a person. While his own emotions haunt him, the feelings of other abuse him: they pull at his hair and crowd his thoughts and make it impossible to do anything other than fall apart ( over and over, each day ). The hidden, quiet corners of the large building in which he goes to school have become his solace; he cuts class frequently, sitting in narrow corners with thin legs tucked against his chest, trying to get his heart to slow and the grief to leave him ( if only for a minute ).
He becomes his own bad influence -- he's just barely passing school, wasting away the days smoking and scribbling musings of teen angst in journals. He steals things from the corner store, despite the fact that he has spending money ( despite that fact that he doesn't need these things ). It's his own way of exacting control, -- control over his wild, fucked up life -- he supposes.
That is, until he gets caught in his deliquency.
In hindsight, it was cruel of him to steal from a small store run by a simple, middle aged couple; there was no need to make life harder for them than it already was. He gets caught one day, -- he's placing plastic lighters in his pocket when the woman steals a glance at him, recognizes him -- and he runs. He runs, but the husband becomes furious and gives chase, and the emotions ringing inside Sanggil signal that he'll be dead when he's caught, that he'll be taken to jail.
Sanggil is terrified, running as he's never run before, and the fear ( an emotion of his very own ) brings him to life, making his head spin and his breath come out in shorts huffs. He bolts across a busy intersection just as the stoplight changes and the cars come rushing towards him, horns blaring. He's sure he's safe, but then he hears the sound of a car colliding with something heavy, the sound of tires screeching; he feels the pain. He turns to look behind him and finds that the man had tried to follow him across the intersection, blinded by his rage. And he feels it, that hatred -- hatred for Sanggil, the stupid actions of a teenager causing a life to go to waste.
The man promptly dies ( but leaves the hatred behind ), dooming Sanggil to despise his own existence, to blame himself for this death forever.
It makes him sick ( acidic bile rising to his throat ) to think of what became of the man's wife.
It becomes hard ( once again ) for Sanggil to hang onto the shreds of his sanity. He lies in bed with the lights turn off; the feelings in his chest ring out, and he hates himself, hates the world. He wants to die. He doesn't return to highschool, nor does he even bother applying to college. His parents bribe his teachers to pass him so that he can graduate.
Sanggil stands still, but the world keeps moving around him. His parents gets divorced, he and his mother moving away from his subdued father and going to live in their own small apartment.
His mother is a brilliant woman with a light that shines like the glow of a warm candle. She has compassion, giving Sanggil his space and doing simple, kind things to brighten his day. Somehow, she understands -- she knows things are hard and lets him breathe without accusing him of laziness, without calling him crazy. And with her help, Sanggil starts to become a person again. Gradually, he ventures more and more into the world, getting a job at a cafe and going in when he feels up to it. He learns to talk to people, how to ignore the incessant chatter of feelings that he receives when in a crowd.
He learns to have compassion for others, for all of them; it's hard to hate someone when you know their thoughts and motivations so intimately.
It's then, of course, that things go wrong in the most dramatic of ways. He's twenty-two when his mother falls ill with some sort of terminal illness or another ( cancer? heart disease? it's all the same ). He loves her, hardly knows how to go on.
And so he doesn't. He keeps vigil by her bedside in the hospital, feels her pain and her desperation and sorrow. He feels her dreams for him, and her hope, but falls deeper and deeper into the depression and the grief. He's holding her hand when she goes, once feeling nothing and hearing nothing except for her, but in one moment she is gone. She is gone, but the desperation and the grief -- it stays.
It's been a year since then, and he's keeping on better than he thought he would, in all honesty. He likes the peaceful, near-silence of living alone. He likes the dull ripple of the customers within the cafe, and the small kitten he's adopted to keep him company ( the simplicity of her emotions are refreshing ). Still, the light has gone out, and he is alone. At this point, he's afraid he'll never recover it.
