SOON ENOUGH

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khandescent:

The shore beckoned, like a siren’s song, sweet and tempting.  The call burst through the atmosphere, coming in miles away and shattering the order fixed in New Haven.

That centuries old air, aged in tradition and prestige had lingered long enough. The demands it played witness and conductor to had ceased. Familiars thought Ryu was broken, neither saddened and anxious about the future nor jubilant in the success of completion. 

He just didn’t care either way. 

It wasn’t really completion. The cycle would repeat twice, growing more complex, before any ceremony dubbed commencement would mean anything to him. That actuality barred him from joining in the partying, excusing him from year-end traditions that he had started. 

There was just no point. 

The shore called through the rejoicing and debauchery unfolding around him.  And he went. 

Grabbing just his passport and wallet, phone glued to his ears, he stepped over the bodies littering the house he shared with friends, speaking only into the phone. The other two males were too occupied with the delivery of alcohol and fine house guests to mind him walking out of the house and into his car. Le Rosey had brought them together, the Korean, the Spaniard, and the Australian, and saw to their understanding of those peculiar quirks their pride wouldn’t allow to be hidden. The three story home they shared now fully embodied what any would assume a college party house looked like, excusing the luxury cars parked in the garage.  All of that, years before he would have happily embodied, becoming mascot and master of ceremonies. 

Yet It all faded into the background. For It would be there when he returned.

He was answering the shores call. The destination was set. The yacht was somewhere off the coast, they said, somewhere between Malaga and Marbella. He would land in Malaga, then be helicoptered to the yacht. They planned it all starting with three words from his mouth. 

When he arrived the days seemed to run into each other. Time in that ruling state, that woke at one hour, then demanded eyes be shut at another, had lost its power. He just went. Fished a few hours, dove a few hours, slept on the deck, being rocked gently by the waves, such a life he could have nowhere else. Such a life the shore provided.

The crew kept out of his way, showing themselves only when necessary, like when he decided he wanted to go inland. The course was set for Monaco, up through the Alboran Sea into the Balearic, until they met the Cote d’Azur. He probably looked fickle to them, he thought as the Lotus was loaded onto land for the second time that week. First, he was going to drive down the coast, see if he could find that bakery in Saladavieja. He drove around, walked a bit but didn’t find it. Now he was going back to land but there was no reason.

With all the calm that the shore offered, there was an unsettled feeling within him, plaguing his mind with questions and thoughts left unfinished. On land he drowned out the questions over the engine of the vehicle that looked like the ocean on at night, the stars illuminated on its surface. But they came, in whispers like the wind at his ear. Giving in, he parked the night rider and walked to the shore, hands pushing within the loose white trousers. The wind made the fabric dance as his eyes looked over the sight before him yet saw none of it.

Ryu stood there, looking at the scene he could paint from memory, yet wasn’t there. He couldn’t be there, not while the dead lived in his sight. The male’s presence pulls him from getting caught too deeply, Ryu turning slightly, acknowledging him with his eyes then looking back across the sea. His words, with that light accent, made Ryu turn again. Was he Korean? What were the odds?

“No matter how many times I’ve seen this sight, it never ceases to awe me”, he added, following suit and using the English tongue. “I don’t think I’ve seen a picture, not of here. I can’t say I have”, he spoke softly as the questions rose within his mind.

“Is that what brings you to the shore?” He asked and turned to face the male. He seemed pleased by it. Malaga did that, but Ryu wasn’t going to have a tourist’s conversation with the man. 

He's always been one to stick to the rhetorical, every train of thought punctuated with solid, impenetrable intention. A nicer way to put it is that he's merely a man of principle. Or, for better or worse, merely someone who has still yet to shake the proverbial lawyer's habit off his shoulders. An irony really, considering the shit show that'd went down a few weeks back.

"Finally dropped out, huh?"  "Yeah." "With so many people that would've killed to be where you are, and you let it go. Just like that." "..." "Must be nice to have an ego as big as yours."

It'd become another habit at this point, to be given the cold shoulder, one more to accept it without protest. So when he gets a response at all, the surprised look—subtle as it may be—is warranted. A second glance only justifies what he's gathered from the minute details: grounded, unwavering. An innate sort of dominance sewn into the straight of his spine, even if he's simply standing, staring off into the distance, past the dark water, like many a man has done in their place.

Absently, he digs into the pockets of his shorts, pulling out the handful of sea shells that had dried out below the sun. In the flat of his palm, he holds them, smoothing over the texture of each with the swipe of his thumb. "Well, it's definitely not for skipping these." It follows by a short, dry laugh, bubbling out of the hitch of his throat, then dissipates into the sea air. His hand drops. Back into the sand they go.

"I don't know, actually."

His transparency takes very little to decipher. A single once over, and the full picture  could have never been more obvious: that behind all the smoke and mirrors, the blame game begins and ends at his feet. The sole perpetrator of his own miserable destiny, the kind that's been built on and surrounded by trouble, as though it's been God-willed, saint-blessed. Such realizations are endured over a fortnight's worth of his vacation, sunk in between him and the company of his reflection. The front of the antique mirror. The bottom of the bottle. The belly of the beast.

There's no running away from the things that you hold the closest. Surely, it's this toxic sort of dependency that'll do him under, that he'll keep holding onto till his very last breath.

A confession: it's never been about getting better. It's learning to live with how it won't.

The sky begins to deepen into a dark, inky violet, the warm glow of the sun falling into a drowsy, golden haze. For a second the world seems to stop, quiet down, bated breath and soft white noise. For a second, he allows himself to be fully convinced of the mythology that's buried deep into the cliffs, and thrives from within. How tender, how profound.

Doojoon meets his gaze again. "Maybe it's because of what you've said—I've seen pictures, but never one of this. Especially not from my Seoul apartment." A beat, then: "Not a first time for you here, is it?"

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jyak:

her stomach’s been in knots for the past few hours and she’s hardly in any place to keep up with this marathon, but a persistent nudge at her back and the shrill, ringing voice of her director is telling her to pick up the tongs, they cook this one medium-rare, do you know how hard it is to find a place that bastes a steak well in this country. and so she grips firm around one of the charred cuts of meat, hash-grills imprinted cleanly at its surface as pink juice drips indiscriminately from buffet to plate.

what does this make—her fifth? christ.

her saving grace is the potato gratin up ahead, at the next buffet. she slips out from the queue and quickly enters the other, entirely engrossed. she can’t remember the last time she’s seen that exact broiled cheesy exterior before—was it ivy? within seconds, she’s emptied out a corner of her stomach; it’s her own voice shrieking out for her to pick up the tongs, damn it.

another pair of hands beats her to it.

she feels suddenly scandalized.

he had his opening. foul play. “excuse me,” she defaults to civility despite the indignation coloring her apology, and withdraws her own hand.

it'd taken a whirlwind of a month to finally get a chance to breathe—thirty days of walking a two way street cut straight from his half-unpacked apartment to the firm has brought little to no opportunity for detours or distraction. it's only a small price to pay for a responsibility—and salary—of such magnitude. but he takes what he can, and at the recommendation of a fellow expat colleague, he’s found on the first floor of a luxury hotel, evening bustle and all.

the hesitation is foremost and obvious, eyes trained at each passing tray, plate empty, more in awe than fully overwhelmed at the rapid pace tongs are being picked up and set down. to be fair, it'd been a while since he'd stepped foot into any kind of buffet, and it takes a good few minutes before he settles into the groove, herd mentality at full force as he piles on what he can. 

at the tray of lamb chops, he’s already learned to think ahead: a good two steps until the next desired item, and from what he can see from his vantage point, it looks pretty damn good. 

never mind that it’s first come, first serve, he snatches the utensils the second it leaves the hands of another. but it’s the sound of a woman’s voice that the bout of realization and the secondhand guilt that comes with it surfaces; at the very least, he has the decency to apologize.

“sorr—” he looks up as he says it, but the word cuts itself short at the pulse the second he sees her and he’s stunned silent, frozen in his astonishment, the recognition instant and all too sudden for him to possibly formulate anything else save for the single, small sound that escapes him before he can even realize: 

“...oh.”

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The right ending is an open door you can’t see too far out of. It can mean exactly the opposite of what you are thinking.

Michael Ondaatje, Coming Through Slaughter (via vintageanchorbooks)

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The white capsules sat in the flesh of his palm. The doc said he only needed two.

It’s four in the morning. No one would ever see, no one would ever know.

But for the first time in weeks, he hesitates.

This is nothing new.

The odds have always weighed against him, the pressure deliberate, familiar. Like the July heat that had once clung to his neck as they made their way through the marshes. Like the way sleep has become a stranger’s notion. Like the way the mattress no longer holds the silhouette of his form.

The only difference: he’s too numb to feel it.  

He’s a ghost, if anything. A shell of a landmine. The rubble, the lost causes, the letters engraved on the chain around his neck are all that’s left to his name.

There’s a boy now in the house. He has her eyes, her sensibilities, his flesh and blood. “Jihoon” fumbles out with difficulty, as if he’s still processing the gravity of this situation. A son. He has a son. But he’s not a father. Not in the way that he wants. Conversation is clipped, kept to the bare minimum. The understanding is mutual.

He’s a soldier, a man whose fingers have been stained plenty. He’s a hero, a miracle, a blessing. He’s all rough edges. He’s thick skinned. He’s battered and bruised. A relic of a past that should have long been forgotten. He’s a monster, still fighting, when the world has learned to let go. Bravery no longer means anything.

Worthless. The walls remind him, no longer the color he remembers that they used to be. The papers. The medals. The bodies sent back home. The flag that rises with the morning sun.  Nothing but deadweight.

Not a father. Not a father.

Not anything.

He looks at the pills again.

The day begins and ends by her side. The same thick tangle of hair, the same lingering smell of lavender. Time took its toll on everyone over the years, but it treated her much kinder than most. He hadn’t. There’s mountains between them. But he’s no longer sure if he has the strength to climb over one more. He’s no longer capable of being tender, not the way he used to be. Something else rises in him when he looks at her. Part question, part knowing better than to ask.

He wishes it was apathy.

The chances aren’t all that high. Losses like his are negligible. He’s just a body, a bag of bones. It’s been tried and tested. Line them all up on the empty field, one by one. Pull the trigger. Let the poppies bloom red. It only hurts this once.

The only difference: this wouldn't hurt at all.

The white capsules sat in the flesh of his palm. The doc said he only needed two.

It’s four in the morning. No one would ever see, no one would ever know.

But he puts them down. Back into the bottle, the lid screwed tight.

This is nothing new.

This won't be the last time.