304

Ye shall not surely die.

[sickanduglyangels-deactivated20]

[seidkonaz]

— Donatien Alphonse François, Marquis de Sade

[tethered-heartstrings]

"stress" by yoan capote - made of bronze and concrete

[loveisdumb]

What have you done?

STRANGERS FROM HELL (2019)

[fiveteeth]

JONGWOO  DOESN’T  MIND  HIS  HANDS  GETTING  DIRTY,  so  he  does  nothing  to  shield  himself  from  the  blood  and  saliva  that  drip  from  their  captive’s  chin.  he  uses  his  thumb  to  pull  away  his  swollen,  trembling  bottom  lip,  revealing  the  half  completed  row  of  teeth  and  the  fleshy  craters  left  behind  after  his  shadow  has  his  own  fun.  jongwoo’s  own  lips  part.  it  doesn’t  take  him  too  long  before  he  does,  in  fact,  recognize  him, and  before  he  can  realize  it,  the  fear  he  had  been  wearing  is  all  but  gone.  his  death  will  be  written  long,  painful,  and  brutal.  his  death  will  be  written  to  make  the  reader  squirm.

“  he  can  barely  speak.  what  did  you  do  to  his  tongue?  ”        he  looks  at  their  captive,  but  he  speaks  to  his  shadow.  his  eyes  follow  the  swollen  contours  of  their  victims  face,  waxing  poetic  in  the  safety  of  his  mind  —  he  should  have  a  pen  and  paper.  maybe  he  should  ask  his  shadow  to  go  fetch  some  for  him.  or  has  he  already  thought  of  that?  has  he  already  brought  one  for  him?       “  …  you  could  have  waited,  you  know.  ”       you  never  wait  for  me  to  see  you  work.

large,  wide  eyes  flicker  up  to  his  shadows  face,  pale  and  ghostly,  serene.  it  puts  him  at  ease  as  much  as  it  makes  his  insides  writhe  like  a  snake.  it’s  a  brief  glance  —  a  silent  plea  for  validation,  for  permission.  but  why  is  he  doing  that?

he’s  the  one  in  control  right  now,  anyways.

to  their  captive:        “  you  don’t  like  my  pianist?  ”       jongwoo  gestures  with  a  nod.  he  can  feel  his  shadow’s  eyes  drilling  holes  into  the  side  of  his  head.  he  wants  to  shiver,       “  still  too  unrealistic?  ”       his  grip  on  the  hammer's  wooden  handle  turns  his  knuckles  white. 

[genesis304]

His grin is like the rot on the walls, dark and sick. How easily you melt into your truest self. Only moments ago you wailed and shuddered with ecstatic horror; now you chastise him the way boys your age often do when they flirt: Without me?  

It was always just foreplay, that good boy act. In your hands you hold a weapon; his are empty. He is open and unguarded. But your attention stays on the gift he’s given you. He can see the poetry in your eyes: another story brewing. In the story, the hero will do the right thing so that you are permitted to do as you please. 

Our work is shaking his head and weeping. There is nothing he can do. He is going to die here alone and afraid. It finally happened; he said the wrong thing to the wrong person. Now he realizes his mistake, and he prays for a miracle that will not come. Please, God, he begs in his mind, open now to any and all belief that might save him. Please, God, I will never do wrong again, just don’t let me die this way. 

          “He doesn’t stand by his own opinions, actually,”          your shadow intones with flat amusement.          “Not much of a critic.”

[wickdcreatures]

“  i  could  be  a  friend.  ”      or  something  more.  he  is  in  the  market  for  another  emotionally  unavailable  lover,  after  all.

jun  brings  the  coffee  to  his  lips  but  never  takes  his  eyes  off  the  tall,  dark  and  handsome  stranger  that  bought  it  for  him.  he  knows  that  look,  he’s  seen  it  on  others  before.  he  doesn’t  imagine  he’s  an  easy  person  to  read  –  at  first.  he’ll  learn him  in  time,  like  everyone  does.  still,  jun  appreciates  being  mysterious  for  once.  it  makes  him  interesting.  it  makes  people  curious,  makes  them  want  to  know  more.  allows  him  time  to  really  sink  his  claws  in  before  they  can  get  away.

“  i  like  the  way  you  move  through  the  world  like  a  ghost.  and  the  boy  you  haunt  is  very  pretty.  are  you  in  love?  ”       elbow  rested  on  the  table,  chin  rested  in  his  hand  —  it’s  jun’s  turn  to  dig  deeper.  he  loses  the  plot  quickly,  though,  too  distracted  by  the  intensity  of  those  dark  eyes,  the  perfect  curve  of  those  lips.  his  eyes  shamelessly  linger  there  for  a  moment  before  he  speaks  again.

“  kim  junmin,  to  answer  your  question.  you  still  haven’t  answered  mine.  ” 

[genesis304]

The stranger’s forwardness is familiar, a recognizable trait of the insane. Of course, there are many types of insanity, or at least what the wider world would refer to as insanity. Some forms are more refined than others. Some hold more value. It is hard to tell quite yet whether he’s dealing with a raving lunatic or something more interesting.

When he looks into his eyes, though, he does see an intriguing simmer. It is enough to keep him interested. Enough to keep him sitting here.

          “Kim Junmin. Yes, we can eat together if you like.”          Affable. Polite. He even offers the cordial, serene smile usually reserved for the dentist’s office.

He does not say more. The other question is too cheap to answer, love too frivolous a word. What he and ‘the boy’ share transcends language, transcends emotion; they are made of the same stuff, existentially woven together. They are the same black, blood-smeared soul, forced to live in separate bodies. And even that description is not enough.

[fiveteeth]

JONGWOO  SEARCHES  FOR  SOMETHING  IN  304’S  EYES  —         but  what  he’s  looking  for  he  isn’t  entirely  sure  of.  words  of  encouragement  feels  so  foreign  to  him  these  days.  they  are  simple  words  but  he  laps  them  up  like  a  man  drinks  water  in  the  desert;  so  desperate  for  validation  he  forgets  himself  —  he  blooms  like  a  flower.  jongwoo’s  smile  is  small  and  he  does  try  to  hide  it  with  a  small,  thankful  bow,  but  it’s  there.  validating.  reassuring.

“  thank  you,  i  will.  ”       a  masterpiece?  304  seems  more  confident  in  his  abilities  than  even  he  is.

how  is  it  that  he  got  here?  a  near  perfect  stranger,  nestled  into  the  same  cramped,  moldy  apartment  with  creeps  and  freaks  is  the  one  that  seems  to  care  the  most  about  his  creative  expression.  he’s  the  one  that  asks  about  it  most,  he  is  the  one  that  encourages  him  to  pursue  it.  he’s  the  one  that  inspires  him.  it’s  strange  —  when  jongwoo  first  put  pen  to  paper,  first  began  crafting  his  perfect  story  book  killer,  he  has  an  amorphous  face,  ever-shifting.  now,  however,  when  he  sits  down  to  write,  when  he  lets  himself  drift  into  that  place  he  writes,  his  killer  pianist  has  a  face  obscured  in  shadow.  and  sometimes,  every  great  once  in  a  while,  jongwoo  swears  he  can  see  his  killer’s  smile  on  304.

“  anyways,  so,  ”       jongwoo  needs  to  write  later.  he  has  a  fire  lit  under  him  now  —  but  he  also  needs  the material  to  write,        “  would  you  like  to  get  a  beer?  ”

[genesis304]

He thought you’d never ask.

The expression on his face is relaxed, serene, but his heart skips a beat, or maybe two, fluttering in his chest like the wings of a caged bird. So often you deny him. So often you dodge him as though he disgusts you. And surely he does, at least to some degree—but you can only ever be as disgusted by him as you are by your own desire, your own self. Still, the invitation takes him by surprise: he was expecting to extend it to you, the way he often does, and—quite frankly—to be rejected.

          “Alright,”          he says coolly, though the midnight spark in his eyes gives him away.          “I’m free. That sounds nice.”

He closes the first aid kit and deposits it back in its rightful place, where it very well may never be touched again. Then he looms behind you for a moment, admiring the back of your head, the tender vulnerability of your skull, before placing himself in your line of sight once more. 

          “Did you want to go to a bar, or grab some cans to bring home?”

He knows how much you hate it here, but the roof has its romance; he won’t rule it out until you do.

[swagvo1d]

[darth-thotticus]

Strangers From Hell x Jane Eyre

(Part 4)

[nemfrog]

“Ligation of the superior thyroid vessels.” Local and regional anesthesia. 1914. Internet Archive

[iamheavymeta-lll]

[wickdcreatures]

he  had  first  seen  him  when  he  was  playing  shadow  to  someone  else  —  a  smaller,  angrier  man,  beautiful  like  a  painting,  imbued  with  the  wrath  of  god.  jun  thought  of  following  him  too,  of  seeing  what  was  so  interesting  about  him  that  made  him  worth  following.  his  shadow,  however,  was  the  one  that  ultimately  caught  jun’s  eye.  a  ghost  of  a  man,  as  beautiful  as  he  is  plain,  despite  his  perfect  hair  and  striking  eyes  he  so  easily  melts  into  the  landscape  around  him.  is  he  even  human?  is  he  like  him?

the  desire  radiates  off  him  in  waves  and  jun  just  wants  a  taste.  he  wants  to  see  those  eyes  up  close  —  are  they  really  as  deep  and  dark  as  they  look  from  afar?  is  he  like  him?  mild  curiosity  turns  to  obsession  fast.  obsession  fuels  his  casual  stalking.  and  when  he  is  finally  noticed,  his  heart  skips  a  beat.

oh,  finally!  you  want  see  me?

jun  emerges  from  the  shadows,  tamping  his  cigarette  out  first  and  tossing  the  butt  before  he  nestles  down  in  his  chair.  he  wears  a  sweet  smile  —  the  same  one  hyuntae  claims  looks  just  a  little  too  insidious  to  be  taken  seriously.

“  thank  you  for  the  coffee,  ”       he  holds  the  takeaway  cup  in  his  hands  but  does  not  take  a  sip.  not  until  he  sees  him  take  a  sip,       “  can  i  pay  you  back  by  getting  you  dinner?  ”

[genesis304]

That’s bold.

His first thought is that the boy is some sort of baby-faced private investigator. If that’s the case, his methodology is certainly unique. His overt friendliness is akin to that of a used car salesman, or perhaps a scammer. The sort of friendliness that triggers alarm bells. 

He’s going to have to try harder. Moonjo stares at him from across the table, smiling faintly, but otherwise unresponsive. He takes a sip of coffee, still watching him. Digging with his eyes. Try as he might, though, he cannot descend into this stranger’s depths—which, admittedly, makes him curious. 

And cautious. Moonjo can handle it, of course, but if he’s more than an investigator, the body he leaves behind might have value. Someone might come looking. The police might weasel their way back into his life. Moonjo doesn’t want that. He’s worked hard for this life. He’s made sacrifices. He'd rather not make more.

          “Who are you?”          he asks plainly, for now ignoring the   (flirtation?)   invitation.

[fiveteeth]

HIS  LIFE  HAS  FELT  LIKE  A  MERRY-GO-ROUND  SINCE  EDEN  —  the  world  around  him  spins  on  and  on,  leaving  him  dizzy  and  clutching  to  whatever  he  can  to  keep  himself  upright.  he  feels  off-kilter  and  unsteady,  and  only  truly  stable  thing,  the  only  constant  in  his  life  since  the  great  upheaval  is  —

if  i  were  to  kill  you,  who  would  i  write  about?  if  i  were  to  kill  you,  who  could  i  blame  this  all  on?  if  i  were  to  kill  you,  you  would  be  dead,  and  this  would  be  all  over.         that  thought  on  its  own  is  more  dizzying  than  anything  else.  his  shadow  is  the  manifestation  of  everything  that  has  happened.  he  is  the  only  thing  that  reminds  him  that  it  was  all  real  at  all.

his  head  is  pounding,  a  vein  on  his  temple  pulsing  with  every  quickened  heartbeat.  the  calm,  steady  footsteps  of  his  shadow  help  keep  him  from  floating  away  entirely,  so  too  does  the  cool,  soft  hand  that  guides  him.

he  can’t  yet  face  what  it  means  about  himself  to  follow  his  shadow  on  his  own,  so  he  decides  now  that  he  will  change  the  story  —  tweak  the  narrative  to  write  himself  in  a  better  light,  as  the  protagonist  in  his  own  story.  i'm  being  coerced,  dragged  along.  the  weapon  is  placed  in  my  hand,  i  did  not  grab  it.  i  feel  nothing  but  disgust  and  horror  when  i  look  upon  the  boy  tied  up.  it  is  His  heart  that  flutters  at  the  sight.

jongwoo  lowers  himself  into  a  chair  positioned  right  before  their  sacrifice,  his  saint  and  savior's  shadow  blocking  heaven's  light  from  reaching  him.       “  who  is  he?  ”

[genesis304]

Your shadow is in his element. The smile that looks so alien out in the light of day is right at home here, easy, almost relaxed.          “You don’t recognize him?”

It would be difficult for anyone to place him now. His face is swollen and bloody, mouth a gaping wound. Several teeth have been taken and his tongue is damaged. When he pleads for your help, what comes out sounds less like words and more like choking. His eyes are desperate, incoherent, animal—but resigned, too. He recognizes you, and he knows the end.

          “He doesn’t look exactly like his profile picture.”          With the snap of a glove, a spidery hand reaches out to grab the victim’s face, turning it toward the light.         “But he was giving you quite a bit of trouble.”

Arguing with strangers online isn’t your best look, but then again, it isn’t your sparring partner’s, either. And the things he said were far more offensive. It was all fun and games at first; he was righteous, preaching against the obscenity of your work, wringing his hands over such vile depictions of depravity. He questioned your motives, your morals, and accused you of the fetishization of violence. Clearly that horrible thing that happened to you broke you, he said, and you need help, not a platform. This, of course, did not sit right with you, and you refused to sit down and take it. You pointed out each and every flaw in his argument, and you called him an idiot. In turn, he called you a sensationalist prick and pathetic for engaging with him in the first place. You called him a masturbatory shut-in and an incel, at which point he decided slurs were necessary, which was awfully ironic considering the moralistic posturing he was doing earlier. You pointed this out too, of course. He called you more slurs, said you “deserved to be killed with hammers,” threatened to “find you,” and then started going on a diatribe about Kim Jong Un.

It was easy to find him. Even easier to subdue him. So much for all those threats.

Your shadow has provided you with some hammers, ever the comedian.

[paperclip6]

[fiveteeth]

THERE  ARE  TWO  QUESTIONS  HE  HATES  THE  MOST  WHEN  HE  TELLS  PEOPLE  THAT  HE  IS  A  WRITER.          the  first,  and  most  obvious  one,  is  when  someone  asks  him  what  his  novel  is  about.  their  face  journey  usually  tells  him  all  he  needs  to  know  —  dark  topics  such  as  deception  and  murder  are  best  left  to  the  shadowy,  faceless  writers.  someone  with  a  pretty  face  like  him  should  not  concern  himself  with  something  so  morbid  —  it  makes  others  uncomfortable.

his  second  most  hated  question  has  to  be  when  someone  has  the  audacity  to  ask  him  how  it’s  going.  it’s  always  horrible,  don’t  they  know?  it’s  horrible,  even  when  the  words  are  coming  naturally  to  him.  even  when  he  has  been  sitting  in  front  of  his  screen  and  writing  until  the  wee  hours  of  the  morning.  even  when  he  wakes  up  the  next  day  and  the  words  still  resonate  and  he  realizes  he  really  made  something  of  them  —  it  will  always  loom  in  the  back  of  his  head  that  nothing  will  ever  come  of  this.

but,  most  importantly…

jongwoo  sighs,  pinches  the  bridge  of  his  nose  between  his  thumb  and  forefinger.  usually  he  wouldn’t  be  compelled  to  confess  his  woes  about  his  art  —  but  something  tells  him  that  304  will  understand.       “  something  feels…  missing.  the  words  are  there  and  they  feel  and  sound  good  but  there  is  some  secret  something  that  is  missing  from  the  meat  of  it.  ”

[genesis304]

The meat is exactly what’s missing. He smiles patiently, watching you the way one might watch a child struggling to take its first steps. You’re on the cusp of getting it—so very close—but not quite there yet. It’s charming. Cute. The way your brow furrows inspires in him the same teeth-grinding adoration the twins must feel with those cats.

          “It will come to you.”         His conviction is calm, matter-of-fact. There is no doubt in his mind.          “You can’t rush a masterpiece.” 

Lately it seems everyone needs reminding of this. The others are eager to move on, away from Eden. They don’t like how long this is taking and they don’t like you. They don’t understand the artistry in this, the meticulous process of crafting something beautiful and true. They don’t understand what we share. 

         “Inspiration can be so fickle,”          he goes on, sighing his way through the sentence.          “I understand the frustration. But keep going.”

Others will tell you to give up, grow up, leave behind the reason you breathe for the sake of a steady paycheck. The real world, they keep saying, as if you’ve been living somewhere else all your life. As if you are less real than they are. Laughable, when they are so choked by artifice, consumed entirely by the performance of their roles in this so-called ‘real world’ that they wouldn’t know truth if it ripped the molars out of their empty, worthless skulls. 

Never stop writing, Jongwoo. And never bend the knee.

[wickdcreatures]

some  days,  salem  likes  to  hide  in  the  shadow  of  trees,  painting  those  who  enjoy  the  sunshine  and  fresh  air  —  those  that  come  out  to  be  creative,  just  like  him,  unaware  of  his  presence.  pure  and  authentically  them.  it’s  in  this  hidden  state,  a  ghost  in  the  company  of  others,  that  salem  feels  like  he  does  his  best  work.

his  muse  today  sits  with  a  notebook  spread  out  in  his  lap,  crosslegged  in  the  grass  as  the  springtime  sun  playfully  peaks  and  dips  back  into  the  clouds.  he  looks  so  enthralled,  so  focused  —  salem  tries  to  capture  his  likeness  on  his  canvas,  tries  to  replicate  the  scrapes  in  his  knuckles,  the  rosiness  of  his  lips.  a  prick  on  the  tip  of  his  finger,  a  paintbrush  dipped  in  the  bloom  —  the  color  is  almost  perfect,  and  once  it  oxidizes,  it  should  be  perfect  —

salem  doesn’t  notice  his  muse’s  shadow  watching  him  —  he’s  learned  to  tune  out  the  feeling  of  eyes  on  his  back  a  long  time  ago.  it  can’t,  however,  be  ignored  when  he  feels  the  warmth  of  another  body  over  his  shoulder.  he  knows  his  works  is  being  appraised.  he  raises  sheepish  eyes  up  at  @genesis304.

“  it’s  not  done  yet.  ”       that  much  is  obvious,  but  the  lingering  silence  makes  his  skin  crawl.  this  guy,  kinda…  makes  his  skin  crawl.

[genesis304]

It isn’t that he’s threatened. There is nothing even remotely threatening about a boy like this. But he’s been watching Jongwoo for an awfully long time, and that’s notable. Moonjo has taken note. He makes no effort to hide it, either: there is satisfaction to be found in the stranger’s shimmering anxiety at being watched. The very air around him seems to vibrate with it. 

He is reminded of someone else. Nervous, friendly, eyes begging for validation. Artistic. A demeanor like a kicked puppy, stumbling over its feet to be kicked again. Jongwoo liked that dog. He liked that dog a little too much. Shame it had to be put down. 

A smile like winter—deceptively bright but cold. Unrelenting. Most don’t care to notice it doesn’t reach his eyes; they are too charmed by the welcoming shape of his lips. He takes a step forward, gesturing toward the details of the piece with a measured hand:          “The veins in his hands are thinner. And his eyes are darker. Like he has a secret. But you capture his likeness well.”

[softasadove]

(seriously unwell) don't you think he'd look nice in the garden of eden shamefully covering himself with leaves