☠— the host

[sgtfilth]

DIALOGUE CHANGES. . . #001

“I'm a hard worker. I set high goals, and I've been told that I'm persistent. Now, I'm not fooling myself, sir. Having been raised with the self esteem movement so popular in schools, I used to expect my needs to be considered. But I know that these days, our culture no long caters to the job loyalty that could be promised to earlier generations. What I believe, sir, is that good thinks come to those who work their asses off. And that people such as yourself, who reached the top of the mountain didn't just fall there. My motto is, if you want to win the lottery, you have to make the money to buy the ticket.”

[sgtfilth]

DETECTIVE SERGEANT BY DAY,  -- guidelines ///    CROSSDRESSER BY NIGHT.  -- profile / #2 JANG DONGWOO AS PARK EDAN  -- ♂♂♂♂♂♂

[sgtfilth]

commedias:

         as a practitioner, jiha possessed certain certifications that set her apart from the most of the nursing staff. one of them was the ability to prescribe medication and the other to commit patients against their will, both powers she didn’t like to exercise. she saw how liberally the nurses at the facility doled out medication in order to shirk their duties. most of their work was based in therapeutic communication, having intimiate conversations with their assigned patients to assess their menal conditions. hearing the same hapless streams of words, however, disheartened most nurses — eventually learning to tune out the pleas of patients. in her third year at the psychiatric unit, jiha was slowly understanding the sentiments of her seniors at work. still, it wasn’t enough to discourage her from giving her undivided attention to the man before her.

          instead, she gives him unconditional positive regard, both from her training and her own personal conviction. perhpas it was naive to think so, but she believed an innate ability existed for someone to shape their own fate. sure, she hadn’t had the best luck with that herself. she hadn’t been able to intervene when her father flung himself off the building of the hospital he dutifully worked at for his whole life. she hadn’t been able to stop herself from launching into a black void uopn the news of her first (and hopefully, last) miscarriage. not every aspect of life was malleable from an internal locus of control. still, jiha felt that with proper counseling, edan’s own issues might be combated. they might not be able to win the war just yet, but even a single battle was a victory worth celebrating over.

            consequently, she acts as his ally, not his enemy. jiha had witnessed that approach so many times at the unit, nurses antagonizing patients out of their own bitterness. after work took such a toll of her psyche, she couldn’t blame her colleagues at times. however, jiha kept her mental fortitude strong to the best of her ability, even if every impulse begged her to sucuumb to weakness. jiha looks at him warmly, but not without confidence. even if they were meant to be battling edan’s demons together, she had her own battle to fight within herself: the struggle to assert her authority towards him. jiha’s an ally, not a friend. friends were prone to offer their own advice, to meddle in the other’s affair out of their own personal habit. this is strictly professional, the nurse practitioner merely present to listen to him. if everything went smoothly, she wouldn’t have to exercise either of the two powers she was bestowed with.

            ❛ my name is jiha. moon jiha. i’m a psychiatric nurse practitioner. what’s your name ? ❜ she opens the floor for him, curious on what his introduction will entail this time around. his comment about her attire goes dismissed, not wanting to revolve focus onto herself. it was him they were to discuss, even it was only in condensed bits squeezed into tales of his detective cases.

It was ironic, the way both faced each other. Roughly the same age, him protecting her from whatever monsters were roaming the streets, and her protecting him from himself. It was a funny joke-- he chuckles. He rubs his eyes for a few good minutes, hoping the millions of particles disappear to uncover his own office, or his room, or anywhere else than this shit hole of a situation. Alas, he was disappointed. She was still there, he was still there, and the clock was still ticking.

“My wife’s waitin’ for me. I can’t stay for long, y’know.” He rambles, not really wanting to answer her questions. As a detective, questions were his to ask. “She’d be jealous, knowing that I’m spending time with a gorgeous gal.“ A not-so subtle wink at the woman in front of him.

To Edan, replying to her meant he lost the game of life. Could you imagine? A grade-A detective sergeant letting his guard down during an interrogation-- fucking blasphemy. Sure, this wasn’t that kind of questioning, but he felt like a handcuffed criminal confessing all of his sins. God, the terror. “Jiha.”, he repeats after her, leaning in closer.

The walls were bleeding. Ignore it. That’s not real.

“You know my name, I’m not a fucking idiot.“ His eyes glanced over at the hallucinations BLOOD ON THE WALLS, and he was suddenly very visibly uncomfortable. Switching positions on the chair, crossing his legs and then uncrossing them, rubbing his cheek, coughing into a whitened fist, rubbing his eyes a little more, almost pushing them into their sockets, hopefully dying in the process, who knows? “Fuck. Just give me the fuckin’ prescription, I’ve got things to do.“

His eyes are closed, head hanging low and held by his hands. He doesn’t even want to look at the time, lest he gets transported into a Dali painting. At least that’d be far away from here-- he chuckles again. It’s not that this Jiha person gives him the chills, but he hasn’t been sober for the last three years and it’s taking over his life. He likes it, seemingly drowning in fake blood while she’s calmly looking at him. It honestly really bothers him that she’s not phased by his own hallucinations. It’s like, can’t you play the fucking part, at least? Whatever; it’s not like women were any good at acting. Wink-wink, sob-sob at his wife in bed.

He couldn’t just leave without testing her out first though. Females were just....that. Easily scarred. No wonder they held office and paperwork jobs. Edan was annoyed. He was angry. Her voice made him want to leap forward at her, hands tight around her neck. Or something. He needed to break her before she broke him.

“Missy, d’you know what a cheese-grater is?“, and the first smile was revealed. The sergeant straightened up and cleared his throat. The grater story was a tough one to start with, reinforcements were needed. He plucked a teeny-tiny bottle from his coat pocket, poured the white insides onto his finger before snorting them directly to his brain. He held his nose for a few seconds, because ouch, that fucking burns, and smiled back at her. “Fuck. Okay. Hit me.”

Hopeful outcome of this appointment: not remembering anything. He’s gonna need a few more teeny-tiny bottles.

[sgtfilth]

commedias:

closed for: @sgtfilth

           her eyes flit to her phone to verify the time — past the one originally set per usual. jiha’s accustomed to the flightiness of her patients at the ward, not letting it irk her at this point. even if edan was more of a personal endeavor, he suffered the same mental anguish as those in the inpatient unit. as a psychiatric nurse practitioner, she’s more than qualified to undertake her own private practice, but she felt her services were more needed at the facility. the staff was sparse as it is, jiha’s added expertise with higher certification than most nurses only an increased perk. she hadn’t thought highly of herself enough to have her own office reserved, especially not when the building was out of date as it was.

           but she would have wished for something more quaint than this room to conduct her session in, even if it was unofficial. the peeling chips of paint cause her to cringe, longing for more funding to do some rennovations. in such a dilapidated environment, no wonder many of the patients found themselves in a perpetual cycle of depression. of course more complexities existed to their condition than that, but the confines they inhabited didn’t do much to improve their state. while some did make enough progress to transfer over to an outpatient treatment program, many ended up committed within a matter of months or even worse — remained in permanent care. her notions of nobility tapered out by the middle of her second year, dawning upon her that the ultimatuum of her career didn’t involve redemption; it was about taming demons over and over again to avoid gaining any of your own.

           light leaks in from a slightly ajar door, jiha wondering whether one of her co-workers had entered the room during the break. as a practitioner, her master’s degree gave her some abilities that her fellow nurses, who mostly earned bachelor’s, didn’t possess such as prescribing medication. her certification lead her colleagues to both covet and ostracize her, an intrusion from any of them only incidental at most. this room wasn’t intended for jiha’s personal use to begin with, mainly for handling paperwork and reprieve from the lunacy which awaited outside its doors. but this is her break, the time allotted thinning with each passing minute that edan didn’t show. it was one of the few private areas she could secure to discuss edan’s captivating tales of crimes from his detective work. jiha was more than content to listen to such a scintillating life (all while not even living her own), especially if it could help with his demons.

        ❛ edan, is that you ? i’m grateful you could make it here today. please take a seat, ❜

God, it was another one of those days. It’s like, one morning, your body decides to fail you in the worst way imaginable. Sure, it’s not like you’ve taken good care of it or anything, but still. Fuck this. Edan cracked open one eye, checked the time-- 7AM-- and rolled back to doze off. He was freezing, but his body was sweating waterfalls. God, fuck this. His throat felt dry, but as soon as he coughed, he was promptly launched to his washroom, vomiting whatever it was he ate the night before.

Apparently it was already noon.

His hunger was eating him from inside, his headache was almost literally killing him, and to top it off, his hands could not- for the love of God- stop shaking. He coughed out a few more drops of trashy bodily fluids, and stared at his ugly reflection. “Handsome son-of-a-bitch, you.” He grinned. He wasn’t even sure if he was hallucinating his undead appearance, or if he actually looked the part; guess we’ll never know.

Apparently it was already three in the afternoon.

The dreaded appointment. The only way the sergeant could put it off for another time was to put his gun in his mouth and pull the trigger, and if his hands weren’t so fucking shaky, he’d have done it. Leave a great bloody scene to his coworkers, especially for Susie the intern, who never wanted to fuck him. She’d have appreciated cleaning his brains off of the wall for sure. The thought makes him smile. Or at least, makes him feel some kind of emotion. He finishes dressing up, typical officer clothing, washes his face with water, freshens his breath with a chug of whisky, and snorts up yesterday’s thin white powder lines left on his night stand.

Apparently it was almost five in the afternoon.

And he’s already sitting comfortably in front a nurse, his nurse, or whatever. It’s like he doesn’t realize he’s left his crummy little studio. He bites his fingernails, not really looking at her, staring at the clock because look at me, pretending to be bored out of my fucking mind. The clock shows eleven in the morning. He feels sick. His watch shows eleven in the morning. He’s about to puke because of how much he’s hungry. Edan takes a deep breath, staring her in the eyes.

“You nurses ought to dress a little less appropriately if you plan on keepin’ your clients.“ He’s a client, not a patient-- his mantra.

Edan holds back a heavy burp. He’s probably going to puke out all of his organs next time he opens his mouth, fuck. His bloodshot eyes sweep the room before focusing on her, and then on the clock, and then on her, and then the clock. One of those isn’t real. “What’s your, uh--”, he hiccups, “--name again, sweetheart?”

[sgtfilth]

i miss haydn :(

[ SAME, but like at this point the only thing left to do with him is get him killed, and as much as i wanna do that......i’m just leaving him alive, but not active. he deserves (not rly) a few more months, right????

[sgtfilth]

hc + wife & daughter

Despite being divorced and having no post contact with his daughter, he talks about them as if they were still around. He never invites anyone over at his apartment because 1) it’s filthy (ha-ha) as fuck, and 2) he lives alone. He thinks that by having sex with other women he’s going to forget about his ex-wife, but more times than not his hallucinations come to life during those moments and the only thing he sees is her. He’s never able to get hard because his body longs for his ex-wife, and since the day she left, a psychological blockade prevents him from reacting accordingly.

He wants to be a good father, and the fact that he knows how awful he actually is forces him to lie even more about his situation. He pretends he needs to get her to her ballet classes, or that he’s going to spend some time with her instead of going to the bar with co-workers. ( which leads him to go home and drink more than he was going to anyway ). But he absolutely despises it when other people bring up his family. He gets violent and borderline paranoid. As if people were going to find out they’re long gone and that he’s just a sad, pathetic man.