instability

lee eunjae | 28 | mortician

[eunjaencdeac-blog]

the mortician, a mood board 

“‘in the dream,’ she said, ‘we pretend to ourselves that we are touching. the heart lies to itself because it must.’ “

[rebootera]

[eunjaencdeac-blog]

“I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

he’s a sight she recognizes, this scenario all-too familiar: here he stands, a tangible being, the devil she so often thinks of, and the soft glow of light streaming from behind her glints subtly off his smoldering gaze, highlighting a stare of defeat over triumph. although his cultivated charm does not shine as brilliantly, the defined line of his jaw worked with frustration rather than the attempted stifle of an amused grin, he is unmistakable, debonair in the way he is all sharp lines and smooth faces, a prism of deep forethought and the captivating manner he encompasses himself in. funny how she tries to look closer when she knows seunghyun even in darkness, the contours of his face, the tones of his body. 

too many memories resurface: the accidental bruises she’d kiss tenderly; his knuckles, smelling sometimes of soap or chopped celery, pressed against her cheek as she holds the other in her palms, worrying over how little he’d worn on a chilling day; his goofy smile when she says something sweet, hers that follows when she realizes how cheesy she sounds. she knows it all, and perhaps she remains the only retainer of those recollections, now gone and past, a mere afterthought of what they’d shared. damn – she can still identify the breakage of his voice when he’s upset, the wetness of his eyes when he tries to suppress the distinct biting prickle, the quiet whisper that follows when her gaze locks with his, uttering barely a word before she has him in her arms. 

yet in this moment she stands still, a universe of chemistry suspended in the small distance between them – inquisition and silent words swim in her eyes as she takes in his bedraggled state, something foreign about his presence and the way he looks back at her, leaving eunjae to wonder if she’s truly qualified to claim she knows him anymore. perhaps in this period of time they’ve become too different, severed ligaments of a conjoined being, beautiful but inglorious. 

eunjae, certainly, has changed since then. 

a year prior and she would’ve greeted his words with a smile, an exuberant giggle probably arisen on her lips as he’d scoop her up in two long strides, strong hands beneath a slight back, a soft kiss by way of greeting. one year before and her heart would’ve still been pounding rapidly until it’d begin melting; his effortless charisma, the slope of his nose brushed against hers, his deep, masculine voice she would’ve hushed with peppered kisses, only to pause mid-affection for him utter her name once more. and here they are: twelve months into what she’d thought was a clean break-off, only for him to appear again, as spontaneous as a limb that regenerates on a starfish – meaning, not as unsolicited after all. the sight of him burns her heart in an entirely unfamiliar way.

glasses frame the pensive sadness reflected in her eyes, and it’s instinct for a hand to push them up her nose until they settle once again in a position that gives her full access to the world around her. still, they’re much too big for her face – he’d told her that when she first got them, and if not for the situation, she would give a wry laugh. legs hidden under silk pants, she’s suddenly conscious of the plain t-shirt that hangs loosely around her body, bundled in the back with a hair elastic, hitched up slightly where it reveals the band of her pajamas. as if this is the time or place to feel embarrassment – he’s already acquainted with much of her, attractive or not. but the dry smile escapes this time, small enough that he does not notice when half her face is still shadowed. after twelve fucking months of missing him, of debating back and forth with an invisible manifestation of herself whether to delete or keep, of replacing everything replaceable when she’d noticed it still had the scent of him, he shows up now. twelve months and the last few of them had brewed bitterness, a heartbroken resentment, and now she’s become passive, she’s grown restless. she’s made peace with her feelings, a treaty for the weak to stay weak, a farewell to a life of vulnerability and innocence. 

but it is human nature to be taken by surprise; fingers still clasped around the doorknob, a stirring wind carrying into the apartment, she doesn’t break her stare with the man she once loved, and, eventually, learned to fall out of love with. anywhere else  ( stupidly, she wants to mention that she’s always been his anywhere else, the home outside of home, but that’s surely changed by now ) and she would’ve been less compromising, anywhere else and she would’ve called elsewhere a place for him to stay. 

yes, much has changed since then. but still, such tribulations cannot alter an emotion that’s deeply rooted inside her heart, a tenderness innate and precious, ingrained in her very veins. 

she nods, slowly, without questions. “come in,” comes a breathy whisper, a gesture of the hand. her bare feet pad against cold wooden floorboards, leading into a home that appears barely lived in. back then, she would’ve been desperate for sleep, longing for the the sweet pleasure of rest without dreams. pathetic how she knows she will disregard the necessity just to care for him tonight. a quiet boil erupts from the brewing tea on the stove, and steam begins to cloud up a sliver of the cold darkness.

“i – it’s nice to see you.”

[eunjaencdeac-blog]

“You’re in a good mood today.”

cool hands against a warm heart, she works attentively, dabbing the open wound with a dampened cotton pad, eyes flitting to meet his when she senses hyunwoo’s suppressed wince, the subtle flinch of his body as the biting disinfectant grazes over the most sensitive portion of the cut. “it’s not too deep,” she says in response to his observation, peering back at the wound, traces of an apologetic smile gracing her lips. the distinct skim of wheels on polished vinyl flooring is the only noise that occupies the waxing space between them as eunjae pushes backward on a swivel chair, and scanning over the meticulously arranged selection of spotless ‘tools’, she, too, realizes the quiet hum of a nursery rhyme produced from her closed lips: a smooth cantata that echoes pleasantly, the vibration in her throat free of knots. 

perhaps if it isn’t the two of them alone, surrounded by the harsh shadows pitched against the walls, creeping in every crevice, a kaleidoscope of light clung leisurely to the ceiling arched above them, a chilling atmosphere of acrimony would underlie the implied interpretation of the song, the way venomous ambiance often hangs heavily on the anticipation of impending doom. but it is just the two of them – leaning slightly toward him, curled tips of her dark caramel hair which drapes over her shoulder in the form of a ponytail comes close to brushing against his abdomen; her face is eased from the last vestiges of malice ( funny how easily her demeanor changes around him ), eyebrows creased only with lines of concentration. she treats him with a gentleness unheard of, but perhaps such tenderness is what surfaces when she’s tending to a comrade who she has every intention of keeping alive – not that the laceration with minimal blooms of irritation can impose much harm anyway. “this might hurt – just a little,” comes her assurance, and she passes into his hands a cloth he can bite on before using forceps to pick up a suture needle from the metal tray, slender fingers looped delicately inside the rings.  

his statement isn’t far from the truth; as she makes small, uniform stitches along the cut, mending the edges of open skin closed, her hand barely hovers near his collarbone, and she realizes that such matters like mood are fickle things – precarious and often undefined, it is a fair gamble when deciphering whether her mood is dangerous or not ( or, in simpler terms, when she is happy and when she has an unsatisfied desire to inflict pain ). but yes, it is a day most would deem appropriate for some form of celebration – too bad she’s too much of a workaholic. 

while she finishes the suturing in a matter of minutes, if one hadn’t known the extent of her skill they would say she’s made too much haste, that she should check over her work just to ensure infections won’t come blossoming their way in later. she knows that is not the case – he knows it too, probably, and as she concludes by dressing his wound, wrapping a roll of gauze over his shoulder blade and around his chest, her bare hand brushes against his bare skin; for a fleeting second, it is electrifying. except she remembers who this is, how the contours of his face are quite different, the amusement in his expression more cordial than anything. “am i?” the last remnants of rapture fall from her lips, finding asylum in her words, and the room gradually darkens as the sun descends from its throne. she watches as hyunwoo pulls his shirt back over his body in one swift movement, and she thinks she hears a chuckle before it escapes into the rustle of fabric.

“ah – if only everyday were like today.” 

with a sly quirk of the mouth, she makes quick work of cleaning up. “…and how different do you think i’d be?” 

[eunjaencdeac-blog]

“Admit it.”

the cacophonous howls still resonate inside her head, his voice a barely audible whisper that’s intermixed between discord and the ringing shrieks of a dead man. straight back, seemingly perfect composure, leather-gloved hands hanging coolly by her side, she radiates elegance and finely polished finesse, not even a mere fissure in that facade of hers. yet her gaze is feral, a madness storming in her eye, and as they’re moving further away from the desolate warehouse ( of which certainly by now may be considered a toolbox for bloodshed ), she’s examining the traces of the substance still glistening like stardust on her gloves, a sheen of copper on a midnight canvas. 

“what, that i finally crossed the line? that i’ve screwed up, or am i fucked up?” her tone is wry, the words bitter tasting, but that does not deny the truth of them. she knows morbidness on an intimate level ( how can she not when it is always her own maniacal laughter that resounds in the low light? ), hell–call her best friends with insanity. she’s everything mothers warn their children never to become, a variant of their nightmares, a psychopath in every sense of the term. she doesn’t check where bogum is at–perhaps he is behind or beside her, perhaps he’s so close in proximity that he’s able to hear her uneven breaths, feel the heat of her skin radiating off her ( and yet it is cool to the touch ). all she knows is that he’s near her, her company for the night, and at a certain moment when her vexation had taken the form of more than a few harsh punches, she could swear they were nothing more than “fucked up” individuals with the same affiliation, the same allegiance, merely conjoined to exercise their skill together. 

she takes killing to a personal level–it’s only a wonder how she’d allowed him to witness the true barbarity of her macabre nature when she’s been so careful to retain that innate cruelty from surfacing too often. most yuripa members know not even of the full extent of her sadism, and surely her image within the mob is only the glorified depiction of a woman who’s lost too much of her everything, including even the most basic sense of propriety. no–-in the twilight of these ungodly hours, she is a wildness unleashed, viciousness in human form. 

a pause, an adjustment to the cap that’s shadowing her face from any undetected surveillance. “you should know just as well as i do–-once you’ve chosen this life there’s no backing out, no playing pathetic. even with the shit they make you do,” she says quietly, almost softly, still an armored coating to her words. she speaks more to herself than him, and a part of her takes a twisted private pleasure at her own advice. the stench of blood still lingers on her clothes, a smear of red against her jaw, and too much intake of the scent brews a migraine, her state of acute awareness all of a sudden muddled. she’s eager to return, to drown out the remnants of their pleas and strident screams; the sharp split of bone breakage; the grotesque slip of flesh against flesh; the sunken eyes that will surely bore into her when she attempts sleep. 

her eyes gradually find his, vision blurry, perception of movement lagging behind each other, focusing more on their environment rather the figure she addresses. “i don’t enjoy these things as much as you think, bogum. sometimes…sometimes it just becomes a necessity.” one which cain resorted to out of his festering jealousy, it becomes the primal instinct of every living being: to survive. 

[eunjaencdeac-blog]

nightcallkrp:

MEME: NIGHTCALL STARTER/ONESHOT SENTENCES—

“I’ll stop if you tell me what I wanna know.” “You’re in a good mood today.” “You said you’d die for me. Now prove it.” “Personally, I’m glad they’re dead.” “I don’t want your money. I just want your pain.” “Run on me again, and I’ll break the other one.” “That pill was stronger than I thought.” “Go on, then. Pull the trigger.” “No one’s coming for you.” “I’m calling the police.” “Time to move on.” “Admit it.” “Should I pray?” “Time never stands still.” “How long have you been listening?” “I don’t have anywhere else to go.” “Got anything to eat?” “No kids.” “I’ll take care of this—you can go back.” “Don’t pull any funny business with me.” “Shit happens.” “Pretending to be senile won’t help you here.” “I want to see you beg.”

[eunjaencdeac-blog]

nothing lasts forever

[eunjaencdeac-blog]

ncseunghyun:

Time is a pressing notion and it’s not until now that it uncoils, adapts a certain kind of softness in the growing dark. In the confined space of his apartment, such tenderness couldn’t be more obvious: the lamps with their warm rose glow, the shadows traced onto the carpet, flung across walls, taking up space. Perhaps this is why he’s wide awake, rather than fast asleep: it’s only ever in the low light does it bear some semblance to a home.

It’s only ever in the low light that he’s truly alone here.

With the curtains pulled back, it’s just him and the window sized view, the lit streets below and the skyline, rendered into a blinking outline in the distance. He remembers something he’d heard in the news this morning: how Seoul had been seeing some massive population growth in the span of merely a year—how it’d only continue to multiply well into the next few months. And yet as the days go by, dragging, dismal, with a deadweight-ache, he sees a landscape that’s caving into itself, divisions aplenty, a world that’s suddenly too small for even its own burdens. Suppose this is where the cynicism kicks in, only second nature to his becoming years: about time he’d learned this sooner. 

However, a reminder: it’s one thing to know it, another to truly come to terms with it completely. And as Seunghyun continues to look on through the glass, he can only find himself face to face with the mirrored image of such a realization: that he simply can’t bear the thought of that being all there is. Between half-empty and half-full, he’s neither one: meeting a dead-end before the first real steps are ever made and thinking too many lines have been crossed—it’s a paradox by the books, a sensation that sinks down into the marrow of his bones. There’s something to be said about the inevitable, unflinching nature of reflections: his surroundings are barren, hollowed out like a shell, the signs of abandonment apparent in the way what’s left behind is the harboring of ghosts, of what is no longer. It’s in that instant does the illusion disappear right before his eyes, like a flame blown out, the warmth gone, the saturation seeped through the cracks. An aftermath in ash and smoke that reveals nothing. Nothing considerable, nothing worthy of revelation, of nothingness. A testament to time itself, truly, and it’s all the more reason to avoid returning for the night at all. 

It’s still a possibility, Seunghyun thinksㅡhe hadn’t bothered with changing when he’d come back, and Half Past was only a ten minute walk away. But such considerations are put to rest at the abrupt buzzing of his phone. At first, he’s got half a mind to not really bother, let it go to voicemail until the morning comes, but it’s the name that lights up the screen which warrants otherwise. 

“Eunjaeㅡhey. ” His voice is suddenly soft, barely above a whisper. Somehow it feels unnatural, unspooling from his mouth (he knows softness, but it doesn’t know him like this), the distance that only grows with every word despite the unknown proximity. And yet at the same time it’s only terribly appropriate, given history.  Their history.

“Yeah, I’m here.” He turns instinctively to glance at the doorway, as though he can already sense her presence on the other side. “Everything okay?” Pause.

“Should I come get you?” 

eunjae–the way he voices her name, like a summer’s breeze sweeping past a cotton field, sends a tickle of warmth down her spine; if this were any other moment in, frankly, an ethereal moderation of the world they dwell in now, she would mistake such a sensation to be feelings, as that lingering something that often stubbornly festers in the deepest confines of man’s figurative interpretation of the heart. rather, her name from his lips resurfaces an aching memory with which she’d once regarded with bitter longing, serving as nothing but a reminder of how unsullied she used to be, how there had once been a time when a young woman faithfully and blindly believed in the essence of true happiness. god’s favourite before he plummeted from paradise. such a time is now a lost record in an archaic archive of misfortune and bad luck, and as silence barely settles on her end of the line, her eyes flutter closed, and it’s just her standing here, a door’s width separating his sight from hers, fingers poised to gently rapt on the door yet never quite making the sound. 

“things are okay, i just--” nothing is ever okay, not with the way she is living, but seunghyun doesn’t need to know that. no–she is too afraid for him to know, for him to discover how pathetic and repulsive she’s become since that fated day when whispers were exchanged, the wetness of tears slipping down her cheeks, the quivering prickliness of an overwhelming pain that had struck her heart; fuck, it is even pitiful how broken her voice had sounded when she’d uttered a simple “okay”, and just like that, perhaps in a span of days or weeks, she’d walked away. there’s the curiosity that still remains, a regret not of the time they shared but rather the time they’d spent apart, the question of who did what wrong for things to end on such a note. 

she’s always trying to read into those mistakes, the ones which, deep inside, she knows had been and will be irreversibly inevitable the moment she’d innocently ignited them. she knows that, and still she tries, almost to the point where her foolishness can be found: the belief that the circumstances will miraculously become different if she just tries to change, if she aligns her morals back with the righteous norm like her hands aren’t already stained, as if her compunction hasn’t already become irrevocably impaired. but the fault is that of in herself, and no matter how many times she thinks she’s able to blame it on the guiltless beauty of the stars above, ignorance can only go so far. 

her back is leaned against his door and she’s staring at the ceiling, the coolness of her phone still pressed against her ear, and for a moment she wonders whether he’s able to hear her voice physically rather than through a network of radio waves and electrical signals. she’s not shy from seeing him ( frankly, she is anything but ), and perhaps if she weren’t so greedy she’d be satisfied with just hearing his voice. instead it seems that every time she finds herself seeking him, nothing starts intentionally: without motives, without reasoning, without even the proper measures to meet someone who she’d once been so emotionally and physically intimate with, an exchange of sweet nothings and butterfly kisses barely a fraction of what they’d shared. it just…happens. and she never knows what runs through his mind when he’s greeted by the image of her, when she calls him in ways much similar to now, three am heys and goodbyes at first light. 

“no, i’m…close. i brought dinner?” phrased as a question, only because she doesn’t think it deserves to be sounded as more than a mere implication, a suggestion. “you probably already ate but it’s good–trust me.” she doesn’t have much of an appetite herself, and anyone even remotely aware of their health would strongly advise against eating four hours past midnight. really, she knows it’s only an excuse ( a weak one at that ), and she’s developed a habitual liking to excuses–when it comes to him, she realizes she isn’t just some good ol’ friend who drops by time to time; there’s too much sentiment involved, but all the same, she can sense the awkwardness and hung up words that sometimes accompanies her already-unconventional visits. to see his face is a bliss she shouldn’t enjoy ( nonetheless think of ), to stand in his presence is practically inviting unspoken unease to potentially settle in the space between them. she’s barely a breath away from entering his apartment, and yet she’s still quiet ( -er than usual ), words leaving her lips only after a little while ( time of which she can pretend was spent ‘walking’ to his home ). 

“want to let me in?” 

[eunjaencdeac-blog]

bittersweet symphony

[eunjaencdeac-blog]

ncjoo:

the truth is paper thin, and at times literally.

it’s the first instinct that has him contemplating, pondering; the thoughts thereafter don’t quite matter just yet. logic works in the strangest of ways in which sense is a malleable concept, at times twisted and bent to fit, other times it’s straightened out cleanly –– whichever speaks to the person involved really. the side of his thumb is caught in between his teeth, brows pulled taut while he subconsciously gnaws at the dead skin ( a horrible habit he really ought to rid himself of, but couldn’t care less of in the moment ). it’s only when he reaches nerves and flesh does he stop altogether and all too abruptly, wincing in response before his gaze lands on the red that pools and spills. the minor bite is tended to with a simple wipe and a bandaid, but he’s glancing across the lab on the piece of paper he’s left on his table several moments ago, and the brown envelope that it’s come with.

not the results he’s expecting.

then again, he hasn’t been expecting her in this situation ( or in any similar situations ) at all. there is no likely explanation, yet regardless of his own tedious reasoning, doubts find their way through the cracks and he’s left unravelled and bare. it’s back to square one. the suspicions shackle him down by the ankles with guilt, shoulders slanted and this time he works on his other thumb, unknowingly yet intently. he goes through the test results again and again, wishing for a different outcome each time he does, as though something he’s missed out in between could be the game changer; but nothing, absolutely nothing. this can’t be right.

but righteousness is defined in many ways, and for four years he’s been told repeatedly that his stand is always with the law –– rules that dictate and rules that govern. it’s the only right he’s been taught, except he’s learned otherwise to know better. by the time he has the piece of paper in his hands again, there’s an extra bandaid on the other thumb.

and of all times, she decides to show up today –– right now, just as he steps out of the lab. the familiar flush of warmth that supposedly sets him at ease is no longer; instead there’s anxiety brewing from the ( almost ) certainty and it gnaws at him. the smile comes a tad belatedly, and he veils the rigidity by reaching for both cups of coffee in her hands, an attempt to shift his ( her ) focus onto the drinks. “ah –– patients aren’t usually allowed here but seeing as you’re a fellow doctor and you brought coffee, i’ll indulge.” he breathes a quiet laugh and eye contact is brief, “sounds serious, think you have to take the last resort by forcing it into a habit. i volunteer as tribute?” the words don’t quite seem to come off as the intended but the attempt in a light banter is made nonetheless, his tone softening as a result. perhaps he needs truth in the form of coffee-stained smiles.

a thrill is presented in the challenge of reading people: like discerning the uniformly created spaces between lines as hidden script or comprehending the inspiration behind unique strokes of ink soaked into the soft fibers of fine parchment, such is a tedious process, one she finds unavoidably necessary. perhaps she may be considered quite skilled in the ‘ability’ ( to whichever ignoramus who actually refers to it with that ), spotting fleeting emotion the way she can pick out a speck of dust on a midnight coat, but people reading is nothing but a man-made concept; they regard themselves divine, this domineering population of theirs, claiming every tribulation or jubilation may be perceived by a simple dart of the eye, a flick of the tongue. yes, perhaps her percipience is sharp, a razor with ridged teeth, but she is not beyond modesty to affirm so ( she enjoys watching the weak crumble apart however, exposing the obvious nakedness of feelings and sentiment, too inexperienced to know how cruel the world was to the primitive human nature ). 

she does not bother with trying to figure out his thoughts, the habit of assuming whatever he wishes to say, he will tell her, taking over--though his seeming daze is noted, then pushed into the back of her mind. relinquishing both drinks into his grasp, it’s easy to drop her guard whenever they’re together; a wolf who even sleeps still in a state of alert, it is unnatural--worrisome, almost--how easily her defense unravels in his company, how quick she is to believe joohwan will never turn on her. out the plethora of reasons that would send anyone away howling with their tail caught between their legs, she’s been certain and meticulously careful that he’s to never find out, subjecting herself to the most petty of excuses, painting herself as a clumsy fool who can’t get her shit together. it’s a fair trade for what she’s bargaining for, though every passing day is a gamble; all-too aware of every telltale action that he may pick up, she is glad to think nothing has changed. even now her neatly trimmed nails press against the hem of her sleeve, bundling the excess material in her palms, conscious of the bleeding cut she’s yet to tend to. perhaps later.

yet there is still something that unsettles her, a taste of a sensation that she cannot put a name to, and after a while, it becomes tiring to be in a constant state of vigilance. her posture is straight, free of tension, makeup impeccably touched up that no newcomer could stand a chance against her: the essence of classy refinement, all graceful composure and glorious brilliance. however her flaws are much too hideous, a distorted mirror of her inner nature, and even the devil would hesitate when dragging her into his abode. is she such a terrible being? yes--even she believes it wholeheartedly herself, and it’s almost ironic how her talents are her shortcomings, her interest becoming her demise. 

she breathes out a yawn, unable to conceal the insistent fatigue that will surely plague the rest of her evening ( and yet insomnia serves as another plight in the darkness of the night ), and her movements are not as quick, awareness far from its usual keenness. she’s got her hands stuffed in her pockets, rocking slightly on her feet, keeping her thoughts and movements active even during this brief moment of standing still. others say she is too paranoid that her walls will be breached and penetrated, but she labels herself as merely cautious. “you better--brewed with love and joy, it’s totally worth the full five thousand won,” comes a familiar tone of jest. “ah, good. i was just searching for a subject, forgive me if the testing goes awry.” a close-lipped smile is directed his way, all jokes now pushed aside. “how’s your day? been cooped up in the lab since i last saw you?” a light exchange of pleasantries and the assurance that he’s okay is what she seeks before she’s forced back into the o.r., unable to see even the sky for the next several hours.

[eunjaencdeac-blog]

bittersweet symphony

@ncjoo

there used to be times when she’d felt a sense of heroism after successful surgeries, encased in the virtuous honor that so many now pride themselves with, but such was only a case when she still had been yet to mature out of her naivety, and now--well, she no longer finds such an exuberant feeling of accomplishment, nor does she deliberately go searching for one. six long hours in the operating room has drained what little zest she’d had in the morn completely out of her, and all she wishes is to rest; yet she knows she cannot return home ( and to the pill case that finds itself constantly being restocked and rearranged, though never leaving its position on a black marble counter ) anytime soon, and it’s enough to make her appear irritable--an expression that goes well to her advantage when she doesn’t wish to be bothered. she’s to head an operation for a team of observers, and that barely leaves enough time to run all the errands she knows she’ll only be pestered with in the near future. 

she’s exhausted, of course she is--she’s running on two hours of sleep, three if she gets lucky later tonight, and the sights she has seen today are not exactly prime for building up an appetite. it’s pointless to change, though as soon as she throws her coat over dark navy scrubs, she feels a warm liquid spreading against her arm, the sleeve of the newly washed lab coat catching slightly on the stickiness. the bandage she had hastily wrapped before the surgery is pushed back to reveal the irritated edges of a freshly inflicted gash ( nothing too serious, she thinks; it only seems bad because she hasn’t had the time to stitch herself up yet ), uneven and messy, the deepest part still concealed by the soiled gauze. 

it’s not hard to recall the story behind this one: a struggle that’s gotten too physical, a blow on the head and a cut behind the knee, the glistening silver of army knives and the bared teeth of a woman as she slaughters a man and his companion, like a lioness bored of toying with her prey, finally gnawing into the poor creature’s throat and feasting on what’s been hers from the moment she’d lain eyes on it. perhaps eunjae can be compared to such ferocity when the wildness in her eyes still glows, and it’s almost amusing how oblivious most everyone she’s come across is. do they never tire from revering and praising her surgical prowess and “never-failing” morality? oh--how they’d snarl in disgust if they knew her true nature, if they knew how ecstatic she became not when saving lives, but rather crippling them ( morals are a fickle thing ). 

although her destination appears to be her office ( the director seems to think shiny things and pretty spaces can appease that ambition of hers ), she stops by the cafeteria, purchasing a strong, flavorful coffee for herself, but after a moment of hesitation, she ends up walking out with two drinks in her hand, one lighter and sweeter, the color of caramel compared to dark cocoa. she figures she’ll just deliver this to the hard worker she has in mind, simply greet him and be on her way--but as her eyes finally settle on the sight of him and she’s walking stealthily towards his direction, she feels her lips curl into a pleasant smile. “dr. kang, i’m feeling a little nauseous at my generosity. got any remedies?” 

[eunjaencdeac-blog]

nothing lasts forever

@ncseunghyun

it’s odd how she can have such conflicts even over the way the age of the night is often compared to that of a beauteous flower in the midst of its bloom--young in the sense that it is still shy in exposing its starlight freckles, a curtain of twilight frequently draped bashfully over its midnight skin. instead, she finds that she faces a night that is old and worn, which hangs over city skylines like a weak and feeble elder, leaning against the trunks of trees and yawning at what grand spectacles unfold before it’s omniscient stare ( surely if the night had been watching her, she would have put on a more appealing show ), too wary to do much more than settling in cold silence. after her ‘duties’, eunjae is often greeted by such a sky; walking beneath its foggy whiskers and cooling breath, perhaps if loneliness had not become her companion from the onset of a youthful age, her thoughts and emotions would consistently have been less cluttered than now. 

she appears to be all the ordinary, a seemingly well-composed woman who’s been drained by work, darkened under-eyes and a few rebellious strands of hair slipping from her loose bun--a typical citizen, almost, the sound of her steps echoing leisurely on the devoid streets ( it’s a pleasant aspect of four am ‘strolls’ ). yet there is still a certain air that surrounds her, almost like a breathy whisper of warning, a slight scent of danger lying under the spritz of perfume she’s hastily applied. perhaps what’s a little unnerving are the tiny flecks of blood stubbornly staining her fingertips, or the copper tang that’s emitting from the jacket bundled in her arms. ( white and stark against the airy night, she’s annoyed that she must bring it with her, but even her more...sinister activities are not spared from the penchant to keep things in pristine condition ). 

if she focuses enough on the nature of her thoughts, a part of her is still recalling the trilling screams, the grotesquely twisted contours of a poor fool’s face as she’s crushing his arm just as painfully. she can still remember the warmth of his body slowly draining out from him, the way she’s often relentless and reckless all at once, how almost no one ever dares to prevent her from venting out all that anger onto an unfortunate soul. there are even days when the morbidity of her actions bring great pleasure, but tonight she has acted purely on frustration--too provoked by a simple slip of the man’s tongue to stand still--and this is the aftermath, the destruction that’s left behind from an evening of being too driven by emotion to heed the boundaries of reason ( though isn’t everyone in yuripa at least a little bit insane? ).

she pops a mint onto her tongue, trying to freshen away the taste of the bile that has left her body just minutes ago ( they claim it’s merely a side effect ), and she’s taking all the time in the world, the tired muscles in her body pushing her forward step by step, click by click. eunjae is never truly spontaneous--rather, she always acts with justification, on logical reasoning, but tonight she is not sure where her motives lie. tonight--well, perhaps it had been a decision made purely on whim, because she finds herself not in front of the hospital, nor her own home--hell, not even half past. she’s facing the entrance of his apartment, a place she’s only visited once or twice ( a time she wishes not to remember ), and while her slender fingers wrap around her phone, she’s still deliberating whether this is a smart idea ( though she realizes that in the end none of this would even matter if he’s not here in the first place ). eventually dialing a contact listed simply as choi, she speaks softly, regardless of whether it’s gone to voicemail or not. “hey, it’s me. are you home?” 

[eunjaencdeac-blog]

point blank

@ncjackson

there is something precarious to being in a state of urgency: deadpan stare, irritation in a locked jaw, the restless agitation to fix the problem at hand--oh, but there’s a wait. eunjae is never usual urgent, but one may call her impatient; she taps her finger against the cheap plastic of a clipboard, barely nodding her head ever-so-often in the direction of the higher ups ( funny how this hierarchy works, isn’t it? the superiors are never really the best ), too vexed to give note to all the emergencies happening around her. her colleagues are surely in a different state of urgency, but the woman is not too compromising nor compassionate to care. 

she runs on a personal schedule, and there is a task in every time slot: do rounds at four, get off at six, deal with the more nettlesome matters by ten, have fun ‘till midnight. the minutes tick meticulously in her mind, but the incessant stroke of midnight is always the interruption. it’s the soil of her enjoyment, that one rotten setback to a night of pleasure and ‘games’. though she deals with it like she does many other things--begrudgingly, with silent complaint--but in the end, such annoyances are tolerated. like the hospital she has grown to hate. 

tonight the agenda is simple: slip in, slip out. she prays she does not have to deal with foot soldiers, that they’ll be wise enough on their own not to approach her. no violence, no blood, and certainly the crazed expression in her eyes will not see the twilight sky tonight. after all, it’s a day to reorganize her stock, clean off the drippings on the tables, and possibly scrub the sink of all the grime that’s accumulated the past week. she always sets aside everything to clean--if she must slice open flesh and perform the most medically unadvised surgeries, the conditions must at least remain sanitary.  

the line soon diminishes, and she hands in the charts for the day--this is the only time she’s seen without a stark white doctor’s coat, slender hands out of the unexpectedly comfortable pockets she keeps a few trinkets in. “call the security department, won’t you? director’s got something coming in for him in an hour or so, doesn’t want a thing getting traced back to him. the ones by the entrance will do,” she lies, knowing the receptionist wags her tail too much to the superiors to question orders. ( eunjae can’t get caught, after all--no one ordinary ever leaves the hospital with a box of antiseptics and disinfectants, never mind the empty syringe needles for just in case ).

before she’s across the waiting room a figure catches her fleeting attention, somehow more notable than everyone else, and she narrows her eyes just slightly before passing him. she’s not one to get suspicious too easily ( there’s a certain air surrounding the ones she’s cautious of ), and the quick glimpse of his face allows her to think she has perhaps seen him around, probably a subordinate to the hierophant herself. 

[withwondergirls]

Yeeun for magazine