( CRASH COURSE )
an introduction to jung soojung must start with how her spine is made of smelted steel, and her ribcage is spun out of topographic dreams. everything in between speaks in whispers, except her tongue, resting under her palate like a head under a halo. arteries send slivers of nebula across the body while the veins imbibe the sinned particles. and she might seem to be an architecture of bird bones; and sometimes, she can mimic that. a thrashing sparrow. a pair of clipped wings.
but she is king, mouth wet with blood of hurdles.
mechanically, she could be the princess, all velvet dress and slithering smiles. mechanically, all woven system wrought by none other than mother’s hands, inserting pins and needles into the walls of her throat. ( and she is over it, over the pain and penitence. )
and now, with her loose ropes and unstitched mouth, she’s called names. ( what a bitch. )
it hurts at first. it hurts at second. it hurts at third. and twelfth; then she swallowed lessons and sutured society into a close. what cannot touch her cannot hurt her.
but she is not a bitch.
what happens this morning is simply an exception. jung soojung is everything and nothing at once, a complexion knitted out of past and present, but lacking mannerism is not one on the list. an exception; an exception she would later rain with gratitude, but an exception nonetheless.
she murmurs an apology in her hurry when she bumps against someone halfway through; half-running with her 120mm louboutin on. and when she hears the call, comes a halt and a pint of impatience. stopped in her track, she rolls her eyes, before turning around. ( and being called “hey you!” is not a favored happenstance, in any circumstance. )
she should’ve been showing regrets, but at the sight of this haughty man that seems to bring himself with such overdosed poise, she mirrors the rising anger instead. she approaches him back, footfalls enunciating the tacit annoyance.
“i said sorry,” she says, looking up to the towering piece of arrogance. “and i was running with stilettos on. thought it would’ve crossed your mind that i was in such a hurry. i’ll pay for the laundry of your—“checks out what he’s wearing, “—last season of hermes shirt.”
ferocity in the form of beauty has now formed a curiosity in him. (though, he has never been introduced to such complexities till now) - as they say, in a daunting manner ‘beauty is terror, and whatever is beautiful, we shudder before it’. such words, oh sehun will learn to accept them slowly.
it swallows hard like a pill, but nevertheless interesting.
she turns around and almost like they do in movies his mind drifts to something along the lines of: ‘boy does she look like a goddess’. and indeed she does, he has a hunch that perhaps she knows. (even though she very much isn’t a goddess, her skin icy, tongue sharp.) but he has never been affronted by such self-confidence as this, his ego roused.
beauty is terror, sehun sees terror for now. “do you really think ‘sorry’ is going to cut it-” blurting and baffled, the wasted coffee seeping into the fibres of his shirt, baffled at the words she used. (’last season of hermes shirt?’) “excuse me?” anger arises, either swirling in his stomach or bubbling in his chest, it’s too busy around him to tell. voice brash still, curt and harsh against his throat and tongue.
his chest pounds wildly. (is this how the heart truly pounds?)
he doesn’t lash out on those who don’t deserve a breath.
glaring at her, the sinews of his spine and the nerves that course down trembles lightly. (’whatever is beautiful, we shudder before it’)
his brain buzzing at such disrespect from such a woman, buzzing of the body infested seoul, buzzing off the heat, his dripping shirt.
“that shouldn’t matter to you, i’ve got a casting and no patience to waste my time on your insolence.” tongue drawn, nose scrunched. you would’ve thought seoul’s up and coming trendy model would deliver the poise and grace of an ideal handsome perfecta of a man.
but then again, isn’t beauty followed by some terror?
