verbatim
she hadn’t known death. hadn’t suffered so much misfortune so to say brushed shoulders with such a thing. not so much as a lick of pain in the ever so plain life of jung dawon. her life, that is, always mild, single toned, painted in muted pastels and an overwhelming canary yellow.
boring, yes. but safe.
safe is what dad always wanted. but that’s expected to. of a retired detective anyway.
and dawon is compliant, above all. demure. filial. all that a daughter should be. what was the alternative? leave? like mom left with her sister toward the rougher end of their divorce? likely not.
instead she remains, does her duties well, follows rules well. always kind. always content. life is—not known any other way. is not lived any other way. and should the hands of time cease against her favor, she would not have known the world to be any better. would not care for any better. but—for the most part, what’s there to complain?
scratch that.
one complaint.
the early morning of the 20th starts out—normal. i’ll paint the picture. a dawning sky. the usage of blues is important here. rolling clouds blotted in darker blues, that gives way to light, to color, palliative smears of pink, orange, yellow. it’s pretty. more colors than she’s used to. than she’d dare brave. so much that dawon stops to stare.
(foolish. the world is not yours. not dad’s. certainly doesn’t follow by his rules. his teachings to do unto others as you would have them do unto you. the world does not care. and it certainly isn’t careful.)
this, she learns. too quickly. in the form of a speeding car at the break of dawn. in blinding white and yellows in her eyes. in the way it leaves her frozen in the streets; heart in her throat.
stupid. stupid. stupid.
— to: @provlematic
