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【 ♡ there’s a crack in everything — 001.

( TW: mentions of anxiety, depression, drugs and blood. )

"[…]I will rise

After a thousand years lipping flowers And set my teeth in the silver of the moon” — E.E. Cumming

A U R U M

pure lineage should never be tainted — so the song family remained untouched and untouchable for centuries with no end. oblivion was not an option, so they ruled in the most subtle and unsubtle ways possible. they are marbles floor and heavy curtains, thick persian rugs and detailed painting dating from years prior, ones of immeasurable value. they are those of prestige and, of course, years of accumulated wealth; practically bred for greatness, the song family had moved from south korea with rumors of being part of the chinese song dynasty -- for simply one of royal blood could have the midas touch, to london -- where their ascension would only continue. where to? heaven was to be conquered, for the mortal realm already belonged to them.

but what they say of love not seeing faces only heart, for the string of fate not choosing those who are to be entangled by its mischievous thread, it’s all true. they also say that every once in a while a song finds themselves in a rupture point -- where they are held captive by the owners of their heart; and so it’s been seen, it’s also all true. marcus song had graduated from st. adrews with honors, and as he was one promised for greatness, he soon occupied his place and fulfilled his dream -- a transference, the start of a new life, the new member of the embassy in south korea.

but life doesn’t rule over the heart, idle meetings and blind dates — various threats concealed in form of a simple suggestion, all of that didn’t matter, didn’t weigh over his shoulder. nothing else mattered but the dimple on her chin every time she smiled, the way she tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear, chewed the cap of her pen, took his order with a little pout. they say it’s a family curse — one often avoided, one very much feared. the song are fated to love, too much, at once.

park soyeon didn’t own much but a bicycle and a couple of overdue bills on her name. she still lived with her parents, and she struggled with the debts of an unfinished university — there she stood, in the family’s restaurant without money and without a diploma. there she stood in front of the man who bought the same meal every day, with the same foolish eyes and strong accent. the one out of her reach — she knew.

life was no tv drama that she watched, crying in secrecy, wishful thinking. she was surprised when he once waited until they were closing and offered to help, in which she dubiously looked at him — in his tailored suit, well trimmed hair, golden watch. and she was surprised when she found him on his knees, a ring on her finger worth more than anything she had ever held in her life

“ be mine forever. ”

and forever has no price, because the only two things his money couldn’t buy was her time and her love.

( he didn’t have to. )

yes.

A R G E N T U M

she was born during a hot summer; and her mother’s tears mixed with the sweat that prickled her skin. her father paced outside, so absorbed in his concern that barely noticed when his own father waltzed into the room, his noble eyes looking down on those he believed weren’t fit to be his son’s family. there was tension and then, there was relief, even if it was momentary — because for them, their most precious jewel has come.

because of her name they expected her to be the best there was — the most precious, the one people fought over; and because of her name people already believed she was destined to it. she was one of exceptional beauty — that type of beauty that struck you and spread on you, with a smile that lit up hazel hues and depend the dimples that people liked to dote on. gemma song was a graceful kid, who carried her mother’s eyes and her father’s nose; and his name, and the crown that maybe was too heavy for such small shoulders.

she was treated with extreme care and in a world surrounded by duality. she choked on silver spoons but whipped her mouth with the back of her hands. she was threaded in the finest linen, but stood on bare feet. she was aware of her privilege and how everything was prone to continuously grow — but she was also aware of everything she could lose in a blink of an eye.

but her childish mind wondered if that wasn’t simply a far fetched fairytale, one told to keep her grounded, one told to keep her humble, one told to keep her real. how were they going to deny anything from the princess of an entire empire woven all to herself?

much was expected from her — everybody knew it and no one could do a thing about it. at seven, her toes were calloused and slip due hours of practice on pointed shoes. her head hurt from reading partitures and her fingers hovered with uncertainty over ivory keys, too afraid to actually listen to the notes she was playing, flinching when the raspid voice of her instructor commanded her to start again. she learned not to cry in front of the others, quickly drying up her tears before they fall over the ink, knowing it would only serve to smudge the writing. much was expected — she knew of that and her entire body reacted in response; her hands often twisted nervously on her lap, clammy and finger knotting around themselves. her mind was often colored in different shades of anxiety, intrusive thoughts making her overthink every single detail that occurred to her.

until she found the balm for her scorched mind. ten years old she was then, and even now she can still feel the raw coldness biting her cheeks as she slid on the glass-like surface of the lake. she could still feel the giggles bubbling in her throat, ready to surface. she had found love, and much more than that, she had found passion; and just like it was deemed from her, she would devote herself to that thoroughly. gemma never loved ballet the same way she loved ice skating — and it demanded from her hours of practice, hours of exhaustion, hours where she could see herself being good at something. something that not quite pleased her father, who still believed a daughter of his could only be of good if followed the same path threaded with greatness.

and once in her life she had decided to think on herself — and there she shone in full glory. deemed perfection, every move she executed was sharp, clean; so, at twelve, she participated in her first competition. at fifteen, she had ran out of space on the glass shelves that adorned the hallway of her home; and, at sixteen, she had stepped on the highest place of the podium, with her name being announced gold medalist of that year’s world figure skating championship. she was the best at it, it had been proven, it had been shown; and the realisation of that fact had fallen upon her shoulders like a cloak, and given her the power she sought her entire life — that was the breakpoint; that medal was her greatness, but also, the start of a war.

what once brought her immeasurable serenity, now was the reason her father no longer spoke to her, that her mother could no longer juggle between her daughter’s dream and impending obligations. gemma had promised him it would only be a gap year — that year where she was supposed to join university, to join their family’s legacy, to follow his steps. she was to become part of the society and make a difference — but to which world, to their own or the one that everyone else lives? the one she had chosen to partake in? what he couldn’t comprehend was that she was already making a difference — to herself, and for those that would follow her.

the empty promised followed her through that entire year; her mind, lover of tricks, played herself and wove a web of intricate thoughts that chased her throughout every move, every jump, every spin. she no longer was numbed by the cold and carried away by the blurring speed, she had an attentive eye to her surroundings, she listened to all, way too much — and when she stepped on the podium to receive her second consecutive medal, the only thing she could see was her father’s face, and the promise she was bound to break.

ice skating had been her passion. figure skating, her calling, her freedom — boastful, prodigy gemma song, the best there was; the one with a bright future, oozing confidence as she strut down corridors and accepts standing ovations with a smile that recognized her greatness, the one bound for something bright. aghast, anxious gemma song — who knew the consequences of her acts would come to meet her someday; and that day came sooner than she expected. when she was younger she tumbled against a mirror and ended up cracking it; what she could see was a spider-web of fissures coming from one single point, and in each of those broken parts of a whole, she saw herself reflect — residual parts of her left behind. gemma never thought that could happen to her, too.

her father didn’t know where she was; a privilege and a curse. it was not neglect, it was simply a mismatched agenda, a difficulty in prioritizing ( apparently that runs in the family, too. ) he was not there, and she shivered at the thought of trespassing the line — of doing something she had said, she had agreed on not doing, of simply betraying her own words, betraying his trust. there, she broke his promise. the famine thoughts were forcefully pushed away, her mind claiming not to be dragged into that dark hole once again by fighting against the instinct of coiling around itself — she focused on the song instead. the one that carried away her worries, the one that muffled the external noise; the one that was soon engulfed by loud cheers.

the second break came unexpectedly — people tried to make her stop, they tried to interfere in her straightforward strut to look st the screen above them; and in contrast to the image that was seen all around the stadium, gemma stood aghast, mouth agape and the earplugs in pendulum motion in her hands. her record was broken, her own world record was broken -- and she heard the roaring sound filling her ears;ot from the crowd, no — but from her own thoughts coming crashing down, all at once. gemma did everything automatically from that point on, and when asked of that day, she says she cannot recall; and it’s true. most say that our minds are perfect machines that work in order to keep one functioning, but she couldn’t quite say it was like that.

she remembers sliding off her jacket, she remembers her coach’s firm grip on her upper arms and remembers her own smile — hollow and cold, ephemeral. she doesn’t remember what he said to her, she doesn’t remember what she promised and what she agreed on not to do — she doesn’t remember people calling her name, or the tense pause before the song starts. she remember two things only -- she remembers meeting his eyes right before her jump; his eyes, emptied of any other feeling that wasn’t betrayal; and she remembers the silence that ensued as the song continued playing, and she laid on the forming puddle of her own blood as she screamed; for her dreams there were gone, for her hopes that were crushed, for her father that had won and her father who she had mislead, for her broken leg.

C U P R U M

the needle on her skin was a comforting pain, grounding. real. welcoming. she had then believed that at some point it would always come -- the pain, that was now her close companion, and that tattoo. she didn’t believe she could’ve done it without flinching once — she couldn’t believe she could’ve bestowed to that responsibility.

( but then, she barely believed in herself lately. )

a promised engraved, just like the ivory scar on her shin — a mark that changed her life, undoubtedly. one of its own weigh, throbbing against her ribs on her left side as she walked down the street, gently wincing at each step. they didn’t believe she was going to do it alone -- either; just like herself, their trust in her had bled out that day, and the consecutive days that followed her recovery was only a confirmation that the glorious light that warmed her core had been violently put out, with no signs of returning.

her shoulders bent against the wind. was it because of that, or simply because she wasn’t able of sustaining the weight of the crown, the weight of her burn den? gemma had tried to run away once, and almost succeeded -- but fate cannot be changed, and tradition is hardly broken; she had rebellious blood singing in her veins, but could she do it?

( no, not anymore. )

metal against mahogany -- the greetings from her cat, lost somewhere in her closet, inside of one of her bags. she slipped out of her shoes and tiptoed inside, the limp that she concealed during the whole day now prominent inside the four walls of her now home. every now and then she could feel the metal plate under her skin, and every now and then she catches herself self-consciously staring at the long, wretched scar.

but not that night.

she pressed the speaker voice of her phone as it called his number and as she poured herself a glass of wine with two pain killers on the side -- she had to minimize her doses, but still, she could feel the pain eating her insides some days; and others, she can’t even leave the bed.

“ did you do it? ”

it was too early for him, but she didn’t mind -- he didn’t mind. gemma could hear the secretly pleased tone of his voice as she confirmed what he was expecting. she turned the ring on her middle finger, once, twice -- the words dying on her throat before she could even say it; because she knew what the reponse would be.

“ it’s your first day tomorrow, don’t forget to show it to your president. ”

and again, she simply agreed to it, watching the screen darken as he mentioned being late for another office meeting.

and again, she simply watched as the sunlight died out in her apartment, as the life she ran from her entire life was about to begin.