road to ruin (and we started at the end)
road to ruin (and we started at the end)
krystal/myungsoo; pg-13, 747w
they are just sporadic days spent by tip toeing around the periphery of a pier. painstaking caution to not slip into the sea.
a/n; just an attempt to break my writer's block.
he wakes up half blinded by the morning sun. slowly rubs his groggy eyes only to notice smudged ink on the back of his hand. he lazily pulls himself up with a sigh and stares at the distorted writing. blinks; once, twice. he could still make out what it said: the rain paused; the hurricane knocked. he mouths a ‘what the fuck’; not really understanding what the words meant. he never does, really. whenever she leaves, she likes to leave words behind. she never really explained what they meant. he never cared to ask. he tells her hook ups don’t end like this. to which she replies, you’ll know the end when it’s the end. he never understands her, really. but doesn’t care enough to try.
she’s the kind of girl that wears a warning sign around her neck, l.e.d flashing from a hundred steps away. the kind where everyone tries to stay away from, but drawn like deers to headlights all the same.
“you hung out with her again last night?” he nods, amidst the sound of his friends’ laughter bouncing across the walls of the coffee shop. an empty joke to fill their baseless conversations. “did she do any crazy shit? you know she’s fucked up right.” he just shrugs, disinterested. he downs the remainings of his coffee, snorts at how bland it tastes for a two ten notes’ price. but this is his life anyway, with unaffecting monotonous decisions.
he’s been to her place once or twice. almost tripped on a bunch of art supplies (junks, as he called it) scattered on the floor. he sees words painted everywhere. on the wall, on the bathroom mirror, on the floor. some were lines he couldn’t quite comprehend, some were mere self-reminders. self pick-me-ups. the back of his palm didn’t feel that special anymore.
“why do you have all these writings everywhere?” he asks. a simple notion of finally giving a fuck.
“it just helps.”
“with?”
“shutting the mouths of the demons in my head.”
the conversation stops there. they’ve never been the kind to communicate, never decided on a label for what they are to each other either. they are just sporadic days spent by tip toeing around the periphery of a pier. painstaking caution to not slip into the sea. don’t know what’s down there, don’t really want to know. they are on the surface, not willing to go deep. damp skin on skin and salty taste underneath intertwined tongues--that’s all there is to it. that is all there will ever be.
and he wakes up with another one: drowning in dark blue. even when he’s the one waking up in her bed this time, he would still never see her around. she likes to disappear when morning comes. she says she sets off on adventures during the day. but he knows she’s just out working half-assed part time jobs just to afford a pack of cigarettes. he counts the empty packs haphazardly discarded on the floor. her lungs must be fucked up.
she’s the kind of girl who swings her steps high, never touching the gravelly asphalt. walking on air, head stuck in the clouds. she’s living in her own made up fairy tale inside her head. treats life like a page from a story book, ignoring real life responsibilities and wishing on impossible things. that’s who she is. a juxtaposition from the kind of person he is. the kind who tries hard to keep up with the crashing waves of reality. fitting in. achieving shit he’s forced to swallow. pretending to love the life he’s living.
you are the fairest of them all; he writes on her mirror before he leaves. some sort of notion screaming that he’s starting to give a fuck.
but they are the wild ones. restless, lost youths. both going on different directions, not tied down to one place. always on the move, always searching for a kind of salvation to feed the purpose of living.
“i think you are starting to tie me down” he hears her voice break their silence. he turns but he only sees the darkness filling the room.
“this is not how hook ups end.”
the conversation hangs in the air. like the ones before, it winds up evaporating into nothing. blank spaces after blank spaces, unable to be filled like keyboards with missing keys.
he wakes up with the one where he knows it’s the end: i never loved you.