〚 sms: vanilla 〛a whore she was, a whore she will always be. aren't you proud, aria? how your mother became your own betrayal, silent about it just as i am. don't you love silence sometimes? i do indeed, you must love her greatly for not killing such a disgrace yet. love, either way, is just your illusion of your mother. she wasn't ever a proper lady, now was she? pity. your family is full of lies. adorable.
An ordinary day turns into chaos upon the explosive message that has his device buzzing a couple of times on the coffee table in the living room. The last dish had been wiped just in time, hands wiping against the kitchen cloth, steps directed towards what was to ruin his day. Easily gliding his thumb along the lock screen, he’s predicting the text message to come from his room mate, since it was supposedly her day for grocery shopping — so it makes him think that perhaps she forgot the list at home. It’s not what he expects. A long text that he doesn’t even dare to read fully at first, eyes flicking quickly over it, in panic upon spotting the vulgar words, accompanied by ‘mother.’ One, two. Breathe, Yoseob. It was hopeless to possibly imagine that the text went to the wrong number, when the displayed name told him exactly the opposite. Still, naive he is for holding onto the last shred of hope, for believing that behind every cold and ruthless man hid a kind heart.
The grip on device tightens when he begins to properly read the message, each word stinging to his heart; yes, he is well aware that his mother had never been a proper woman and that most would be ashamed to publicly display themselves. His childhood reflected no good memories of her, only screams to her husband that it was never enough, that they were cursed with poverty. He didn’t condemn her; she carried him through an unwanted pregnancy, gave birth to him and acknowledged him as her son. It is thanks to her that he exists. The tips of his ears turn red, flushing down to his cheeks as his eyebrows pulled down together in distaste; he could not permit this. The more he read, the quicker his heart beat increased, a volcano ready to erupt threatening to take over his insides. “No.” He whispers towards the screen and shoves it in his pocket, forgetting the house duties that needed attendance.
Instead of a direct reply, he’s stomping to the neighborhood, well aware of the apartment the other lived at, for he had been the one to help him install in to begin with. Fast steps with fierce eyes that could start storms, he hardly recalls the last time someone riled him up this badly. A well reserved man like him doesn’t behave like him; kindness too, has a limit — and for once, it’s been reached. A couple of seconds and he’s standing in front of the door, bottom lip caught between his teeth, resolution tattering; an inner conflict occurred, part of him insisting to drop the madness, whilst the other reassured that it was okay to react on impulse from time to time. It’s a mindless decision, his head buzzing when the door slammed unceremoniously against the wall, in realization that it was him behind the violent act.
Not coherent enough to care, his feet lead him straight to the living room, towards the figure on the couch, the appearance itself peaceful; rudely interrupting, an arm stretches out for the front of the shirt, and with a handful of strength, he forces to other to his feet. The atmosphere is tense now, his forehead pressed against his in a crushing manner, lips narrowed with glaring eyes.
