Iᴛ's ᴀ sɪʟᴇɴᴛ movie — black, white, red ! Falls of rubies stain pale hands then drip from the fingers to taint the pavement & the night, a fleeting scene of horror played in the darkest depths of a ghost town brightened only by the neon kaleidoscope of wicked establishments. Youthful is the hour yet there isn't a soul that would come this way to the mischievous side of the city [ and Artemis's children, the moon and the acetic stars, they don't want to be here too ], save the hookers and their daddies and the real fake gangsters and their cheap drugs — everything else is simply d e a d so this is perfect.
Though he walks with a certain kind of calm, tipsy topsy moves and smiles, innocence cannot be found within those honey eyes aglow with amusement no matter how ... angelic or harmless he may seem. It's a pretty fucked up picture, don't you think? A boy looking like a porcelain doll, donning gloves made of pure sanguine, chain-smoking, plunging himself into bar fights and all, all for money. Funny how he turned out to be such a train wreck ; his life used to be beautiful. Maybe if he wasn't a cool kid, didn't hang out with those boys or get involved in that shit, he would be just fine.
Maybe.
Don't get him wrong — his life now still holds some sort of beauty [ guns, blood, money or whatever ] so he can't complain but whenever he lies awake in bed, unable to sleep despite how heavy his eyelids are & how painful his body aches, the thoughts in his head will be the sheep he counts ; he thinks about stupid things, reflects on the past, wonders what kind of world he would be living in if he wasn't in a riot nearly 24/7 like now. He thinks about Mommy and Daddy, he counts the ones he deems his true friends. His heart [ surprise, he still has it ! ] would clench then because he will always remember how special it was, the love he was given & the love he gave, everything lost ... but now it's right in front of him. One of them, that is.
He teeters around the corner of the street, hands damp with blood and with a cigarette in between his bony digits itching to touch that familiar face he left long ago – so long, it's been too long – but he is a deer in the headlights, he just stares. He kind of wants to laugh & cry at the same time, never saw this coming, to see him again and in a pretty ugly state — he knows he's got deep cuts littering his visage, probably a blackened eye, a sprained ankle. His ribs hurt like hell, too and he tries not to show it even though it's obvious from the way he's slouching but ... he staggers a little closer [ rendered ghostly in the flashing sign of some store ] & away from the gloom where the mess he just made awaits to be cleaned up, half hoping that doing so would drive him back [ so he doesn't have to see the blood, the flesh scattered around ], another half excited to be this close and guilty for leaving without saying goodbye.
Ihara Yoichi wants to say something, though nothing's coming out [ more like nothing seems good enough ] — so he stays quiet as he's always been & merely prays that Lee Gikwang will not walk away.
