lion.
an average nobody
YOUNG
Oh my sweet suffering
Why do you hound me, incessantly
Why do you hound me, incessantly
Is it My Turn?
the fighter
I paid for all the offences
— Indila
mood: do I even have to describe?
location: outside the Cove House
interactions: Diana ALittleRedLie
location: outside the Cove House
interactions: Diana ALittleRedLie
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Someone could punchline to him, how did he know that he was doing it all for revenge?
It starts young. When his brother had left, his father needed booze. His mother was wrong all the time and apologized a whole slew of times to his father. Excuses— Young wasn’t a beggar like her. He’d go out there again in a helter-skelter mood and grab some kid in the passing of hallways. It was a great catharsis, so great of one that he’d tell himself it’d be the last time he’d be angry. But, everybody made him angry, and nobody could make him happy.
Young knew the color of their money, knew that he could sit in suspension with a slumped back, reading the clock because the Chos were well off. They were so well off that there wasn’t any reluctance when the montane shadow of his father lifted under the guided light from the dining room chandelier, rose a hand, and slapped his woman so hard that it stunned the walls. Not a problem. Young watched with two milk-and-water eyes.
Later on, he’d want to regret for just watching, but his mother still loved that man. There was only one window in his room and as he sat up writing, he could hear the faucet as the dishes washed and a conversation lop overtop as speaking between the two became easier.
She also still loved her other child. But, he? But, Young Cho? He was just somewhere in the middle of it.
If she wanted her younger son back, if she really did, she should’ve said it.
She shouldn’t have had them all sitting at the dining table, into this mad hide-and-seek warfare, into watching her stare at a godforsaken bare seat and empty plate with a gaze that is still hospitalized.
She looked at him with such a jejune expression, but he wasn’t the first to guess that inside her rhyme-nor-reason thinking she was making imagine two sons within one body.
“Aigo,” said the fourteen year old suddenly with a mayhem of volume, flinching none at all from the events that had taken place a moment ago, as he pushed up from the table, “Umma. How could you forget? Wait here.”
He went out to his room and came back, holding a bouquet of roses, harnessing all the things he could’ve spouted with, “Happy birthday.”
Flowers were symbols. There is something beautiful about red roses as classic and overused they are. They know what they are, hanging off hooked stems in reds that people call fragrance for: in adultery, in purity, and shame and vows.
“No, Young. How on earth can you leave me after-” Ren really started crying now, the twixt of lip pulling, “Do you even look back and feel bad?” She had thrown down the bouquet of roses onto the glass table and a few petals had shook loose onto the ground as she fell to her knees herself.
He had been flicking the last bit of ashes off his cigarette into his finished glass of wine on the night of the audition, but it was clear already then. The pianist was a woman with admirations and his brother was a man with infatuations.
What did Ren used to say? Hominem amor. There were always artists copying this type of tension, and though the characters themselves were always changing, they almost always were reunited. Ants, treading angels, people, it was all the same. Love was a tragedy, and the lovers were always being forgiven and forgetting all centuries and eras as they relived through a new landscape in oil or watercolor or pencil.
His jaw worked under his skin. Nights later, he had sent the first text to Diana Matthews.
Anchor Bay had one little treasure; it was rookied within a grocery store. Folding a wallet, he traded a thicket of green dollars into the woman’s hands.
“Red roses if you have them,” he made a gesture of fixing his double-breasted navy suit, “They’re common, aren’t they?”
“Ah, you said your name was Matilda, right?” he replied, beaming and extended out a hand, “I feel like since I’ve met you I have been…saved. Just for a moment.”
The warmth of her hand felt good. Every muscle in his hand was tense and hers had been soft like a cold pillow that brings sleep.
Remaining impartial in explaining further, he quickly bespoke, “Forget I said anything. Thank you for growing these beautiful and fresh roses.”
A flower bouquet extended out to Diana’s face as they stepped out in front of The Cove House.
His girlfriend and his sweet revenge was becoming his muse of living in this seaside town; Her eyes were shunned away towards the restaurant, but his were on intensely portrending over her back. Her saunter was self-made monopoly, and he couldn’t help but take in the way her long legs were pulling out on the silk dress that was morphed over her curves and waist.
“Yours,” he grinned, catching up to her with the roses, “I saw you glance at them in the backseat. Their yours. Take them. But,” he stared at her lips.
“Not before you kiss me, Diana Matthews.”
He always kissed her fiercely like he was going to drag her down towards some end of life or some kind of end of the story vision because that was always the whole fucking point: the end. And, Diana Matthews, was slowly become his new ending.
© reveriee