asphyxial blue
asphyxial blue
1,271w; pg-13 (sungjoon/minha)
there is an infinite number of ways to approach a point on a three-plane graph.
Wake up.
Tonight, he’s bleeding. Yesterday, it was rupturing. The day before that, fractures. Tonight, it’s blood - dark as tar, slick like oil. It’s black, completely black, even in the light, running all over the floorboards. He lays down, counts to ten. The stuff monsters under the bed are made of - less imaginative, more or so real.
She clenches her fist. The veins on her arm protrude like rivers beneath her skin, tell-tale blue and linear. Blue is a redundant calamity, an accidental revelation. Blue is -
Wake up.
Wake up.
She’s in his arms. They lie this way, fully clothed, naked truths and false statements peppering the air. They lie this way, he reaches for her hands - they are just out of his grasp. Her skin is sandpaper, powder dusted and bone dry, like winter makes them. He reaches a little farther (they are just out of his grasp).
They are farther away.
Real monsters don’t look under the bed. She sits in the dark, in the corner of her room, half-awake, half-dead (she looked, she looked). Something is breaking, grating cacophony searing against her eardrums. Something is breaking, waking up. Something - black stain beneath her bed - is pulsing, alive, and here she sits, half-awake and half-dead (she looked, she looked, she looked).
She looked.
Sibelius plays in the airwaves. It is three o’clock, give or take a minute. Or sixty. It booms through the streets, violin concerto in D minor, symphony like bitter honey, cold. If tormented souls had an escape plan, he thinks, standing from his position in his cubicle, the whole office standing with him, this would be it.
He catches her wrist. Her fist relaxes. The rivers beneath her skin ebb, cease, dry. Don’t, he says. She averts her eyes. Blue is a redundant calamity, an accidental revelation. Blue is the color of demons, the color of wasting away. Blue is -
Wake -
What are we gonna do, she whispers into his cheek, fingers tracing the air. When all of this is over?
He thinks about it. Watches her index finger, ghosting over his arms, tracing his silhouette. He tilts his shoulders up, elbows rising along with them. Her hands fall away, skin like sandpaper, powder dusted and bone dry, just as he does so.
Thirty minutes in, it ends. There’s a cacophony in her head, rattling in the confines of her skull. Was that always there? The airwaves do that, someone told her once, boy around her age in the cubicle across from hers. The airwaves do that - just sit down, close your eyes, and imagine if, if tormented souls had an escape plan, that would be it.
He’s on the floor, impaired, cracked. Waiting for the beginning, her end. She’d die, anyway, without him, somewhere other than this room, this night, this monster under the bed. Said it like it was true. It is. It is. The whole horde of them, bleeding black, bleeding out, slowly, surely - trailing out of empty cigarette boxes into the universe. He just found her first.
This is what he knows, body going through the motions on autopilot, automaton without a second thought. This is how he knows, it is, it is, it is, without knowing why, monsters under the bed, black like tar, slick like oil. And tonight, he’s bleeding.
He doesn’t let go. He holds her like she is stronger than she actually is, like he will not make indents onto her bones. But he will (he doesn’t know it). You’re better than this, Minha, as if he believes it (she knows he doesn’t). She shrugs, there is nothing left to cry over. The oceans dry out, turn to land. Blue is a redundant calamity, an accidental revelation. Blue is the color of demons, the color of wasting away. Blue is bruises, internal bleeding that no one else sees, beating inside of you as you beat it down. Blue is -
She’s a slender little thing, wide eyes, soft lips. Men like him like women like her. She’s a slender little thing, so slight that he imagines if her bones were brittle, she could easily snap in two.
Up -
Six o’clock: they get off from work. Mendelssohn filters in through the airwaves. They file out of their cubicles, meticulous, structured, systematic. She meets his eyes from her place in line, one section ahead of him. It occurs to him then - if tormented souls had an escape plan -
She loves him like men like him shouldn’t be loved. He’s told her this before. Stereotypical misconceptions, she dismissed it as. He doesn’t want to be loved, he thinks angry, volatile, stereotypical misconception, by this girl, slender little thing, so slight that she could easily snap in two, that her lungs could never fill once more, that her heart would slow, slow, slow, and, once the oxygen was depleted, cease to beat.
The television’s on behind her. She’s not sure how it got like this, was it always on? Was this always how it was supposed to end? She’s lying down now, breathing slow, deep, shallow, deep. The black has stained the entire floor, slick like oil beneath her back, black as tar in her hair. Some Christian sermon is on in the background, the only brightness. It’ll go out someday, she thinks. It’s so sad, it’s almost funny.
She’s slipping from his arms. Her hands are blocking the light, turning the room mustard yellow behind sandpaper skin, powder dusted and bone dry, like winter makes them. He holds on a little tighter. He presses his lips against her neck, her hair tickling his cheek, and whispers -
He loves her, he says. She knows, as if everything leading up to this moment - the wrist-catching, the tears in his eyes, her blue rivers - hadn’t been enough. Sometimes, she wants to say. Sometimes, love cannot solve the problem. She nods into his chest, and finds this something to cry over. Blue is a redundant calamity, an accidental revelation. Blue is the color of demons, the color of wasting away. Blue is bruises, internal bleeding that no one else sees, beating inside of you as you beat it down. Blue is resignation, a promise held to the end of this, and beyond.
Blue is -
“Wake up.”
They run together, out of pattern, unscrupulous, unstructured. Mendelssohn trills in the airwaves, violin concerto in E minor, this is the escape plan, booming through the streets - tormented souls tormented no more.
She breaks his ribs on her way out, trampling all over his chest, save for the lungs. He begins as she ends, face down in his blood, bleeding, rupturing, fracturing. The stuff monsters under the bed are made of - less imaginative, more or so real.
I’m sorry. It’s the only thing she ever says anymore. It’s okay, he has to say. It’s okay, he holds her in his arms like she is stronger than she actually is (it’s really not. he likes to pretend). She thinks he realizes then, when she falls apart, that she is weaker than he thought. Blue is a redundant calamity, an accidental revelation. Blue is the color of demons, the color of wasting away. Blue is bruises, internal bleeding that no one else sees, beating inside of you as you beat it down. Blue is resignation, a promise held to the end of this, and beyond. Blue is, blue is, blue is.
Blue is -
His hands around her neck, angry, volatile, passive aggressive. Tighten. Tense. Tighter. Tighter. Tighter.
Tighter.
Wake up.
Wake up. Wake up.
Wake -
wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up -
Wake up.
(blue is asphyxiation.)
1,271w; pg-13 (sungjoon/minha)
there is an infinite number of ways to approach a point on a three-plane graph.
Wake up.
Tonight, he’s bleeding. Yesterday, it was rupturing. The day before that, fractures. Tonight, it’s blood - dark as tar, slick like oil. It’s black, completely black, even in the light, running all over the floorboards. He lays down, counts to ten. The stuff monsters under the bed are made of - less imaginative, more or so real.
She clenches her fist. The veins on her arm protrude like rivers beneath her skin, tell-tale blue and linear. Blue is a redundant calamity, an accidental revelation. Blue is -
Wake up.
Wake up.
She’s in his arms. They lie this way, fully clothed, naked truths and false statements peppering the air. They lie this way, he reaches for her hands - they are just out of his grasp. Her skin is sandpaper, powder dusted and bone dry, like winter makes them. He reaches a little farther (they are just out of his grasp).
They are farther away.
Real monsters don’t look under the bed. She sits in the dark, in the corner of her room, half-awake, half-dead (she looked, she looked). Something is breaking, grating cacophony searing against her eardrums. Something is breaking, waking up. Something - black stain beneath her bed - is pulsing, alive, and here she sits, half-awake and half-dead (she looked, she looked, she looked).
She looked.
Sibelius plays in the airwaves. It is three o’clock, give or take a minute. Or sixty. It booms through the streets, violin concerto in D minor, symphony like bitter honey, cold. If tormented souls had an escape plan, he thinks, standing from his position in his cubicle, the whole office standing with him, this would be it.
He catches her wrist. Her fist relaxes. The rivers beneath her skin ebb, cease, dry. Don’t, he says. She averts her eyes. Blue is a redundant calamity, an accidental revelation. Blue is the color of demons, the color of wasting away. Blue is -
Wake -
What are we gonna do, she whispers into his cheek, fingers tracing the air. When all of this is over?
He thinks about it. Watches her index finger, ghosting over his arms, tracing his silhouette. He tilts his shoulders up, elbows rising along with them. Her hands fall away, skin like sandpaper, powder dusted and bone dry, just as he does so.
Thirty minutes in, it ends. There’s a cacophony in her head, rattling in the confines of her skull. Was that always there? The airwaves do that, someone told her once, boy around her age in the cubicle across from hers. The airwaves do that - just sit down, close your eyes, and imagine if, if tormented souls had an escape plan, that would be it.
He’s on the floor, impaired, cracked. Waiting for the beginning, her end. She’d die, anyway, without him, somewhere other than this room, this night, this monster under the bed. Said it like it was true. It is. It is. The whole horde of them, bleeding black, bleeding out, slowly, surely - trailing out of empty cigarette boxes into the universe. He just found her first.
This is what he knows, body going through the motions on autopilot, automaton without a second thought. This is how he knows, it is, it is, it is, without knowing why, monsters under the bed, black like tar, slick like oil. And tonight, he’s bleeding.
He doesn’t let go. He holds her like she is stronger than she actually is, like he will not make indents onto her bones. But he will (he doesn’t know it). You’re better than this, Minha, as if he believes it (she knows he doesn’t). She shrugs, there is nothing left to cry over. The oceans dry out, turn to land. Blue is a redundant calamity, an accidental revelation. Blue is the color of demons, the color of wasting away. Blue is bruises, internal bleeding that no one else sees, beating inside of you as you beat it down. Blue is -
She’s a slender little thing, wide eyes, soft lips. Men like him like women like her. She’s a slender little thing, so slight that he imagines if her bones were brittle, she could easily snap in two.
Up -
Six o’clock: they get off from work. Mendelssohn filters in through the airwaves. They file out of their cubicles, meticulous, structured, systematic. She meets his eyes from her place in line, one section ahead of him. It occurs to him then - if tormented souls had an escape plan -
She loves him like men like him shouldn’t be loved. He’s told her this before. Stereotypical misconceptions, she dismissed it as. He doesn’t want to be loved, he thinks angry, volatile, stereotypical misconception, by this girl, slender little thing, so slight that she could easily snap in two, that her lungs could never fill once more, that her heart would slow, slow, slow, and, once the oxygen was depleted, cease to beat.
The television’s on behind her. She’s not sure how it got like this, was it always on? Was this always how it was supposed to end? She’s lying down now, breathing slow, deep, shallow, deep. The black has stained the entire floor, slick like oil beneath her back, black as tar in her hair. Some Christian sermon is on in the background, the only brightness. It’ll go out someday, she thinks. It’s so sad, it’s almost funny.
She’s slipping from his arms. Her hands are blocking the light, turning the room mustard yellow behind sandpaper skin, powder dusted and bone dry, like winter makes them. He holds on a little tighter. He presses his lips against her neck, her hair tickling his cheek, and whispers -
He loves her, he says. She knows, as if everything leading up to this moment - the wrist-catching, the tears in his eyes, her blue rivers - hadn’t been enough. Sometimes, she wants to say. Sometimes, love cannot solve the problem. She nods into his chest, and finds this something to cry over. Blue is a redundant calamity, an accidental revelation. Blue is the color of demons, the color of wasting away. Blue is bruises, internal bleeding that no one else sees, beating inside of you as you beat it down. Blue is resignation, a promise held to the end of this, and beyond.
Blue is -
“Wake up.”
They run together, out of pattern, unscrupulous, unstructured. Mendelssohn trills in the airwaves, violin concerto in E minor, this is the escape plan, booming through the streets - tormented souls tormented no more.
She breaks his ribs on her way out, trampling all over his chest, save for the lungs. He begins as she ends, face down in his blood, bleeding, rupturing, fracturing. The stuff monsters under the bed are made of - less imaginative, more or so real.
I’m sorry. It’s the only thing she ever says anymore. It’s okay, he has to say. It’s okay, he holds her in his arms like she is stronger than she actually is (it’s really not. he likes to pretend). She thinks he realizes then, when she falls apart, that she is weaker than he thought. Blue is a redundant calamity, an accidental revelation. Blue is the color of demons, the color of wasting away. Blue is bruises, internal bleeding that no one else sees, beating inside of you as you beat it down. Blue is resignation, a promise held to the end of this, and beyond. Blue is, blue is, blue is.
Blue is -
His hands around her neck, angry, volatile, passive aggressive. Tighten. Tense. Tighter. Tighter. Tighter.
Tighter.
Wake up.
Wake up. Wake up.
Wake -
wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up -
Wake up.
(blue is asphyxiation.)