He’s done it again. They say you learn from mistakes but Taehyun never does, the gift card wedged between his fingers and his index fingers trace the edges. When he slides down to rest his cheek against the table top, the sole image that surfaces in his mind is that of the bassist’s. He found another place to sink his teeth in, claw his way through flesh and leave wounds to be remembered by. Donning sheep skin doesn’t make you into one, he’s still the creature of his middle school years.
"I already caught you, so, … I’ll go,"
He’s tried once, asking the other to stay but it was shoved off - he’s not going to try again. At least, that’s what he tells himself, outstretched fingers curling in upon themselves because words that can’t be uttered refuse to be put into action either. It is sand slipping through fingers, at a rate too fast for his tastes, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Once again, he’s the one who created the rift except he has no inkling about how to patch it up.
Insecurities surmount ; the irony lies in a history of abandonment that has him abandoning others, mirroring footsteps he once swore never to follow. It’s the same philosophy to delivering punches - hurt or be hurt. So despite sporting an appearance seemingly as gentle as a rose, he learns to grow thorns. A permanent self-defence mechanism that only pruning will remove (and that means to cut and scar and repeat). Can’t bring himself to leave or even attempt an apology through texts.
Tears are reserved for when no one can see him. No people to pity him because that’s the last the he wants in life, he wishes to say. But who is left to listen except the shadows of those you have driven away? One hand isn’t enough to count the number of individuals.
Which deadly sin has he not succumbed to yet? muses as he lets himself sober up to the dancing tunes, clinking glasses, and excessive chatter ; his fingers still clutched around the token of gratitude.
When he’s ready, Boreas is his only companion, even Selene turns her head away as he’s greeted by the early morning chill.
His flat is empty as usual, an echo of his own emotions. Even Dalbong’s presence has no effect on him spare for a half-forced smile as he crouches to pat her on the head. He makes his way to the bathroom and listens to the sound of water filling up the tub.
To those nights where misery was your only companion, where solace was found in amber liquid and the future of liver failure, where haven was with a crowd of strangers so your heart wouldn’t be at stake. To those nights where you yearned for a companion ; an eternal promise because you are only human. To those nights where you gripped the toilet bowl and purged our the contents of your stomach as if trying to rid your heart in the process. To those nights the memories of her was tangible and you conversed with her through the night on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. To those nights where drowning is more than a temptation, the bathtub is more than half way filled, and you can’t quite tell if the water soaking your cheeks are tears or bath water. To those nights you contemplated adding color to water - dying it red with your essence and wondered if the scars marring your wrists can act as compensation or retribution.
To this night as water started to reach his hips and his phone was just within reach - silent. He should at least send a text saying I’m sorry or leave a voice mail. Taehyun can’t bring himself to. Splash of water and the subsequent ripples where his hand plunged through the surface as it drowned out the broken sob that slipped past lips. He begins to evaluate his life. Wonders if it is just persistence and jealousy - constant reminder that he is not good enough. Not just in terms of looks but also because Taehyun’s personality is rotten to the core: unpolished language, inclination for violence, and behaviour laced with apathy. Learned to make himself into a weapon and forgotten how to dissemble it. Pathetic at how he realized not only too late but to the extent he allowed this bitterness to brew.
Knees drawn to his chest as the back of his hand covers his lips. Drip. Tears or regular water? He slides down, allowing his entire body to be submerged as if stopped breath can stop a heart too.
What mattered wasn’t who came but the fact that he did. That makes all the difference.
A lotus only grows in the mud and Taehyun uses his hand to demonstrate the blossoming as he slowly reveals his open palm. (The fact is he’s not even good enough to be likened to such a pure flower.) He emerges from the water a heartbeat later, glancing down at his drenched clothes, sliding to the side where he places his elbows. The florist’s chin rests upon his arm as he cups his phone with both hands. It’s not a mistake this time when he picks the right contact.
Like a good boy listening to instructions, he wept.
Thank you seems inadequate, sorry doesn’t seem sincere enough, so
scratched his mind raw to find the right words. He doubts it will change anything but he’s learning - gathering wood before building his bridge.
