“helps me focus,” she speaks between interludes of ditties, fingers tugging up her rolled sleeve further to reveal four nicotine patches arranged neatly down the soft of her inner arm. there is no particular need for explanation, but yeonju strives for conversation in between the cutting and twisting and bone breaking and whatever.
anything to better distract her from the crack of bone—the lurch in her gut—and strong metallic tang of blood.
notably, if she could get high (which she had, but only served to further upset her already sensitive stomach), she would.
“you should try it sometime.” perhaps it is ill-mannered (almost crude) to speak to the man cuffed to the chair, but what else could she do? when his one working eye remained fixated on her the entire time. pleading for mercy yeonju simply could not give.
but that is the line of occupation she chooses and this man—whatever it may be that led him down to being cuffed to this exact room (she’s sure haejin has mentioned it, yeonju simply hadn’t listened)—is here for a reason.
though sad, tragic, and thoroughly regrettable—it was still none of her business.
in fact, most of yeonju’s responsibilities now (at least for tonight) centers only around keeping stomach contents in and the chances of last time slim.
“so,” the woman swallows the bit of bile pooling at the back of her throat and replaces it with a cough, pushing thick black shades further up her nose at the start of another sonata. pastorale. as if she hadn’t already committed to memory (and association) every allegro and every cut into skin. absolutely revolting. “how much longer?” her veins itch for reprieve, fingers rubbing at her nose absently, the faint scent of nicotine has her twisting with ache. maybe she should have opted for another patch.
“because our dinner reservation is at 8 and i would like to go before i shoot up out of boredom.”
yeonju bites out a smile, arguably lopsided and not the slightest bit shamed. till this day it’s still a wonder as to who guards who.
she can afford barely a glimpse in yeonju’s direction before a rough collision of flesh erupts against her recently buffed ( and previously spotless ) granite tiles. chopin bleeds into the chipper keys of beethoven’s sixth symphony, seemingly quickening the pace at which a familiar, viscous substance creeps across the floor. an irritated, measured breath — “if he wasn’t being so difficult, i’m sure we’d be well on our way,” eyeing the tan patches flush with her arm. it’s presumption that these means of temporary assuage are enough to pacify her escort’s more...urgent needs — not that haejin would reprimand her for substituting impatience with ecstasy.
more importantly, the man’s made a mess at her feet ( somehow deciding that flipping himself backward was the best chance at relief ), the chair’s framed backing reduced to splintered smithereens beneath his bulk. prior contact to the face now blooms in spotted hues of purple && pink, wrists and ankles chafed so terribly that they begin to blacken. his jaw, looser, perhaps a painful ramification of excess rough-handling, presses against the floor. haejin can’t help but indulge in the comicality of the scene, resting hands slick with blood on the table.
she’ll admit he might’ve once been appealing ( “it’s a shame it’s this face we’re breaking,” she’d observed when yeonju had been helping organize an impressive supply of mints and fresheners ), but with eyes bloodshot and barely visible under swollen tissue, pointed not at his tormentor but rather toward her less maniacal companion, haejin finds her sympathy running increasingly thin. “that’s quite unfortunate. i’m afraid his immobility will prevent him from trying out anything, anytime soon.”
work, play — it’s all indistinguishable. at the end of the day one large assemblage of perverse pleasure, in the same manner her top 100 playlist of euphonious classics blends into a single tremendous && fiery sonata. but haejin hasn’t yet wrung out the confession she wants. perhaps it would be wise to hope for better results in the morning. with a deliberate nudge of her heel, haejin rolls him to the other side.
“yeonju-yah, i’m so sorry to ask this of you — just try not to look... you know, down. at him. anywhere.” tilts her head toward this grisly presentation, then at the elevated surface nearby. “i need help. how much do your shades dim the colors?” as if that would help. delicately, haejin extends a fresh pair of latex gloves toward the woman, ignoring the tickling of rogue flyaways against her cheek. it would constitute a victory if they make it to dinner with stomachs intact.
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