"Thick dome of jasmine/
Under the dense canopy where the white jasmine/
Blends with the rose ā¦/
Come, let us drift down together."Ā
itās not the scent of jasmine that hits him. that claims, suffocates, triggers a reaction. rather itās the clouded dew that falls over the forest at night. that scent. that kind of gentle shrouds that wafts around the face and tinkles the skin. wet and makes him want to touch at his face to make sure heās not dreaming, to make sure heās worthy enough to bask in the sights around him.
street lamps tower, flicker as if in warning and haneul continues by them. marvels at how heās managed to cower beneath the things he doesnāt know, without intention. marvels at how he wishes he could stretch that large, appear that large and not at how unnaturally it is that the lamps almost look like the canopy of trees in a forest.
but they canāt be because heās on his way home, heās been on his way home for a minute now. whether it takes a minute or an hour he takes it as a journey, foot by foot, step by step. his boots in the gravel of the sidewalk are the only reminded that he has somewhere to be, that his destination is the comfort of his bedroom, the faded shine of the stick on lights on his walls.
and he has to get there, so whatās taking so long? whereās the lead pull in his boots coming from? why is he suddenly heavy, tired of nothing but the thought of walking more.
he keeps moving even though all the houses he pass look the same, even though the haze has startled to settle as a fog. even though he knows he needs to breathe and wake up. something about walking around in the daydream sounds so appealing, much more appealing than the empty streets of the night. the echo of his thoughts and the tire in his limbs. it seems easier.
just like the voice that starts to weave through the cloud. itās not thick yet, he can still see lights, lamp posts, street signs and houses. he can still see the paint on the streets telling cars where to go, he can still see the jagged edges of rocks and terrain that make up the neighborhood.Ā
the voice is subtle. itās sharp enough to pierce through the haze, deliberate and with intent. but itās gentle enough that it doesnāt graze his ears the way it seems to slice through everything, invade everything. instead it dances around and if it had a trial it would look pink and purple. if haneulās stopped moving heās unsure. if haneulās floating heās unsure. he just knows the sound, the call even if he canāt make it out.
he makes out laughter too. from all directions and all crevices. from the window of a house heās passed four times. from the top of a lamp post that flickers in darkness. from beneath the stones and the gravel of the street. his body reacts and heās pulling his flannel closer, feeling his skin tingle and his body shudder.
he cowers again and isnāt sure why.
why the voice sweet as a rose has laughter that stings, taunts.
āwhat do they call you?ā comes the question, riding on the wind as if he needs to chase it. soft as if there were a motion with it. haneul thinks heās imagining the eyes that peer at him through shrouds of black, blue and green, the colors of the night donāt hide the figure that plays itās presence in them. itās faint, the silhouette. the twinkle of two eyes and the grin. theyāre pink, a bright pink with specks of black and all of a sudden heās overwhelmed. with the need to move, to walk, to escape.
Ā instead heās swallowing any whispers of his name that want to come out. choking on that same sweetness that tugs at his skin. his throat.
laughter repeats.
haneul swallows.
ādonāt you have manners?ā when the silhouette moves haneulās body stills. itās heavy with something else. lead-ridden with a fear he canāt quite place. fear thatās coming from a weight, a presence, an unknown. and haneulās shoulders sag, his lids want to close and fall into it.
fall into the command. sweet in a way that makes his stomach turn, his brain fog.
tell me.Ā
tell me.
let me.
he catches the shroud of black, a tad shorter than him moving around him. he hears the laughter as it circles his head, as it digs past his ears, clouds the words telling him to move. he tries to follow the eyes but canāt keep up. where there was one pair there are now two. and three and four, and behind his eyelids when he tries to drown them out.
āwhat do they call you?ā
āhaneul.ā itās ripped from him, the way a sob sounds when it breaks through, but more air, no tears. like a gasp of air from being submerged.Ā āmy nameās haneul.ā once itās said, haneul finds himself scrambling to get it back, to cover it, keep it safe. but all he gets is the same laughter and a disappearance of the many pairs of eyes, the fade of the laughter, the pull. immediately like itās been sucked into a void. a space.
āthat wasnāt so hard was it?ā
that space is now occupied by a person, the owner of the pink pair of eyes. the majority of them still shrouded by the night. this time the flickering lamp post is only highlighting that their hair is pink too, their skin is bright, not in a color but in a glow.Ā
haneulās first step is a stumble back.Ā
the response he gets is another laugh.
āitās too late to be afraid.ā when haneul looks around there are pairs of eyes surrounding him, lurking where he thought heād seen them before. there are trees and vines encroaching where heād seen dips of darkness in alleyways and corners. theyāre gold, green, cat-like, empty, open, focused.Ā āhaneul.ā his attention is drawn from them, from the rustles of leaves and the sound fo whispering. itās drawn back to the person(?) in front of him.Ā āitās nice to meet you.ā
haneul doesnāt return the sentiment, but his smile is a lazy one. he feels all the fatigue from before start to settle again. he feels all the air return to him so he knows he can respond, feels like he should. but nothing comes and he sees a motion that looks like a shrug. as if to sayĀ āthatās okayā as if to imply i need nothing else.Ā
haneul has never truly felt like heās had anything worth stealing. heās got parts he wished he could shed but nothing that would interest anyone, nothing worth taking a closer look. and even so, with all those parts and all those troubles, he feels inclined to hold his body closer than he ever has. to beg for something heās not sure heās lost.
but when his mouth opens everything disappears. the street is clear, the lamps are bright, the houses are alive and he's awake. thrown back into the chaos of a world he suddenly missed.
the walk home isnāt any easier, nor is it anymore difficult. it just happens, he follows the steps, allows his brain to work in overtime to get him to his doorstep and to get him inside. his body does the rest, the falling into his sheets, the curling around his pillow. when sleep doesnāt come itās not until there are a hundred renditions of the eyes in his sketchbook and his fingers are stained, cracked with colors of pink, black and purple.
then does sleep come. then does he welcome a pull.
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