#damnd he

[puncia]

Let's just talk about this, put the fucking gun down!　⌖　@damnd-he

You have always moved through life assuming you will be betrayed　⸻　you have never trusted a soul and this has not changed,　even as you have aged,　grown more and more familiar with the external world　⸻　and you certainly didn’t think it would be by Sam.　Perhaps an oversight on your part,　letting him close the distance enough for the opportunity to scatter,　like snowflakes,　onto his open palms.　So he’s teamed up with that desperate bitch Hare.　It doesn’t have to mean anything to you,　even if this languid jealousy squeezes until you burst with blood.　He just wasn’t supposed to know any of this.　You were to retain your mystique until you disappeared,　ghost-like,　into the night,　and he would never get to hear from you again.　How dare Sam think himself the hero.　Extended arm fiercely wields your Glock 19,　aimed in the center of his chest.　You’ll shoot.　You’re capable of it.　You are.　Ghastly grimace strains your face,　hot tears welling in your eyes;　you are drowning,　unmistakably.　It would be simple enough to embrace the trigger and be done with this vulgar outpour of emotion.　The rigid lock of your arm would make for a bad shot,　though.　What do you have if not your proper form?　You are nothing,　Leopard.

❛❛  Did she put you up to this?　Did she?　Fucking answer me.  ❜❜　You can’t scream,　silly girl.　You learned to drink down milk-sweet pain without feeling ever surfacing upon your placid comportment.　Instead,　you speak with dreadful lucidity,　stern brows lowered down enough to half-way obfuscate your field of view.　❛❛  I fucking trusted you.  ❜❜　The gun has not moved.　Your arms tremble,　helpless thing that you are.　He doesn’t get to win,　nor does he deserve to tear you away from the only stability you’ve ever known,　seemingly commanded by Hare like some mindless mutt.　

[puncia]

You have been gone for no fewer than eleven months and twenty-three days,　each hour’s ticking beyond dutifully kept track of in your mind’s duress while your selfhood is pared down and stripped away.　It is what you wanted.　Hair to be roughly handled and bleached to its purest state,　blunt cut just above your shoulders,　laying waste to a litany of unruly inches grown out since you had the gall to envision yourself whole.　Your free will an obsolescence,　to be annexed at the root.　Tools do not want and they certainly do not love;　nothing belongs to you with a mouth full of bullets,　munitions tucked beneath silver tongue.　It simply happens,　a flicker,　an eclipse,　close your eyes to the facsimile of life and reawaken to pristine truth,　exeunt humanity.　The facility does onto you all harm it may without killing you　⸻　unbirth,　unawakening,　every spindly limp made bereft of its juvenile indecision　⸻　what cannot be broken will be bent,　tested,　maimed.　Until you react to the stimuli with most barren mien,　prim and composed,　Durant’s favorite daughter.　You even summon the nerve to request a modification,　an edit done onto your brainwashing’s script,　ghost upon your blue lips for most obedient faculty to implement:　a target of your own making,　make saccharine memory a palimpsest,　callous white heat in its place.

You provide the name Sam Jang.

That is all.　No profile to be forged　/　no locale inscribed into skull’s bone fortress.　This is all on you,　contingent on your capability,　and if @damnd-he is not exactly where you left him,　you shall do away with the objective in its entirety,　grand him the infinite mercy of separation from you.　Call it a last-ditch effort of clinging to lifelong debasement,　fingertips clawing to retain their hold until they are nil but bloodied stumps.

No text forewarns your arrival.　You have nothing to say through flatly structured composite of programming and cell towers that cannot be better articulated through terse dialogue and an unshakable countenance.　It’s not that you want to betray him.　You just feel like you have to.　You’re stationed at his door,　staring blankly,　swallowing to alleviate the tension of a tightened throat.　Praying,　to whatever nameless and formless deity oversees,　that Sam will have moved on with his life,　found a new home,　a new identity for himself beyond orbiting as your protector,　you,　the fragile thing,　the delicate thing,　the thing in need of saving and not to be saved from.　You do not want to knock on his door.　There are countless things in life that you do not want,　and your will has always been overwritten and superseded.　Your life does not belong to you.　It will be easier for him this way.　The sooner you tear the bandage off,　the better.　Your Glock-19 is tucked safely within fabric folds ensconcing your slender frame,　intended to blow him an artillery kiss when the moment is exactly right.　Knuckles rap upon the door,　three times,　deliberate and sturdy.

When he swings the door open,　you try and ignore the rush.

[manenuf]

Something drastic has shifted within Sam,  the sort of massive change typically preceded by a dramatic social media post lauded for attention;　where is that obnoxious playboy he came to begrudgingly (and barely) tolerate?　For a man of Sam’s caliber to stoop down into fangled patheticness,  to be lowered before his former blaze of glory,  it should make Dae-ho feel great.　Much better about himself than before,  at least,  wherein he might have been nuzzling his face into Sam’s bicep and stifling curses from raw lips.　The recklessness has disintegrated,  and they are left isolated,  together,  bundled into their respective masculinities in the cramped confines of low-price apartment intended not to be lived in.　He isn’t even sure why he’s here,  but Sam seems to need the company,  like a bird with a broken wing.　Or a catastrophe that Dae-ho cannot bear to rip his eyes away from.　So yes,  yes Dae-ho will lend him the company,  will put aside his personal grievances for long enough to hear precisely what has provoked this change in such a source of his irritation.

❛❛  You want to sleep up here?  ❜❜　@damnd-he

Sort of.　Mouth takes shape,  half a frown and half a weak smile,  squinting to him from the precipice of a downturned brow,  needing not to show his hand of cards whilst sparing the most friendliness he can muster.　By all means,  sit side by side and stare up at the cheaply finished ceiling,  pry and pry and pry for details that Dae-ho hungers for to feed his own affirmation.　Then he nods,  lets down that resistance for a little while,  tugging the hem of his hoodie down such that it’s taut just above his hips.　❛❛  Alright,  dude,  what’s the matter with you?　You remind me of a dog begging for scraps.  ❜❜　If they are to do the juvenile thing,  plucked straight from a teenage girl’s coming of age film centering on some crucial sleepover,  Dae-ho will do it enlightened.