#sgnsungwoo

[sgnolivia]

yo, ma! is that a f*cking cat?

@sgnsungwoo

someone has dropped the ball. 

and not a normal ball, not the ‘oh sorry! i forgot to pick up milk’ ball. they dropped the livelihood of five (5) whole living, breathing, shitting creatures off the top of lotte world tower. the ball is gone. 

one of them’s a snake.

this is more helpful than she originally anticipated as it requires no guidance whatsoever. olivia respects this, but immediately pays it very little attention. the cat is all over and cats are nothing like dogs. they’re picky and petulant and confusing and olivia can’t figure out her own moods, how’s she supposed to decipher what a kick-roll-roll-hiss-rub means? 

and how the fuck did a room acquire all these animals, anyway? is there no limit to what rich people can do? are there no bounds?

a distant part of her is panicking but, honestly, her body sends out a million signals at once. panic gets lost in the thrum of it. 

olivia watches the cat watch the hamster. 

“eat or be eaten,” she murmurs sagely, and scratches the cats butt. it’s the only place it’ll allow contact.

[sgntae]

        ° 𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄: @sgnsungwoo / high school, summer of 2014

        “in my defence, he started it.”

        the only overhead light in the room hangs from the ceiling, covered in a layer of dust, flickering the moment he’s seated on his bed. he has half a mind to leave it, but the shortening intervals of brightness is blindingly white, and he almost punches the switch when he reaches it. a wince, grimacing from the bruises that sting. painful reminders. the head of discipline’s voice sounds in his subconscious, fresh in memory, preaching moral theories and how the trick to success is the sole, conventional way of getting through education unscathed. clean. or be doomed for life. spoiler alert: it’s not that serious. 

        he’s back on the edge of his bed, adjusting the table lamp that uses a different bulb –– a warm glow that’s not as functional. the first aid kit is open and sitting on top of their warning letters, unopened and scrunched against the mattress. disinfectant wipes at the ready, he’s reaching for sungwoo’s face, cleaning the edges of any visible wounds. 

        “did you see the look on his face when you were reaching for that tennis ball –– i swear, if i’d recorded it, he could’ve gone viral.” the chuckle that follows triggers the ache on the side of his ribcage, resulting in a distorted expression. “ugh. maybe then he’ll get the attention he’s so desperately after.” a small pile of bloodied wipes is now stacked next to his feet, and he uncaps the cream next. “look up.”