All Things Considered
Busan, Seaside Apt. Complex 1800hrs
The drawn blinds section a sparsely decorated abode in illuminated stripes that splay over the walls. Chaow watches the way the ventilation system makes the shadows ripple as the structure begins to sway, ebbing back and barreling forward. If he focuses hard enough it’s as though he can feel the streetlamp light from outside, flaxen warmth both unnatural but familiar grazing his skin. In the backdrop, there’s audience laughter cluttered with television static. Though, he’s not paying it any attention, programs melt into one another. Eventually the voices and the topics all sound the same. Sleep never visits him this early, even after he wishes sometimes that it would. When he’s particularly frustrated he tries to imagine how it looms like a cloud in the corners where the walls touch the ceiling, watching as he struggles with his listlessness. On occasion he can sate a desire for productivity with browsing through his scrolls but two years has offered him too much time to read through incantations and recipes, many of them not interesting enough to spark that telltale flame in him and the ones that do tend to offer warnings that he’s far too cautious to take a chance at. In the end, he’s faced with himself, and Chaow thinks it’s the worst possible outcome, really. He’s pulling away from reality like a day old band-aid, the angry sting in his wake becomes the memories that don’t fit quite right anymore. Childhood, a blur. Departure, a fresh wound. Were it not for the sound of knuckles upon his front door, he would have lost himself for quite some time. Hours would have slipped by, the light outside would have transitioned to sunshine by the time his mind could fog over and topple into slumber, clumsy with fatigue. Instead, his eyes widen as the air around him seemingly stills. A perfect silence punctuating his attention between the call for it. It starts to feel like his mouth is holding onto words too heavy to confine, breath turning into some foreign, gaseous substance that floats aimlessly within his chest. Part of him wants to expel it, part of him knows better than to make any sort of sound that could indicate someone was on the other side of the entryway. So he waits, a cupped palm raised over his lips, clammy with his jostled nerves. Chaow never expects company. Actually, he never expects company, especially if they don’t have the common courtesy to call first. The analog clock across the room flickers to a new set of numbers, a blink of time in acidic red. Slowly, he drags his eyes to the shadow across his floor, stretching from underneath the small space between the door and the hardwood. He sinks to its level from the cushions of his couch, careful of any resounding noises that could indicate there being any pressure on the floorboards save for that of a settling foundation, but like some personal hex he seems to lean his weight on one specific panel. And it creaks. @obsgyuri
