[.十五.]

Gyeonggi 2020 February 04

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A sigh is a very multifaceted action. A sigh could flutter on the winds like a butterfly decorated with a perfidy amount of colours. A sigh could be one of desire and disgust, one that streams through the air.

A sigh could be of disappointment and gladness decorating the air, further leaving a path. A sigh is one of relief and worries leaping through the air like a dear. Sometimes you'll see a sigh of happiness and sadness dancing through the air.

The most versatile one is one of excitement and fear strolling through the air as though a roller coaster. Kang Seughwa adjusted himself on the barely 2cm thick bed, his back aligned against the metalheads and, an almost contented sigh slipping past his lips.

It was much similar to the second kind of sigh. That sigh would describe the atmosphere he has been living in. Nonetheless, the visit had been a successful one. The two men had been all that they had claimed to be when they had first contacted him.

The administration of this department had never been known to bustle with busybodies. Daybreak filtered through the bare windows along the northward brick wall and the male had been trying to slip in a cigar or two to offset the disgusting drowsiness taking over his limbs.

It was a little surprising to him that he was allowed visitors at this point, but perhaps the warden didn't think he was dangerous to have him meet a few souls here and there, since he was old and dying in a crappy prison hospital ward.

He scrutinized his limp muscles heaving himself up a bit to adjust his position in his white dust speckled shirt and loose pants in very much the same condition. He spat sideways in revulsion letting his tongue slide over his barely white teeth.

Park Jimin.

He could almost hear that scum plaster on that over-enthusiastic smile. And although that over-enthusiastic, boringly disciplined attitude of his would seemingly trick many people. It would never trick him.

A cold yet simple gale rose from the ground and began to travel through the ground outside. The remaining almost warm wind swept around the square, silently but strongly resistant to the thick walls of this extremely secured building. Seughwa simply dived his hands in his pocket rolling his eyes, scanning the cracked walls in front of him.

Maybe this was where this shit council planned to let him breathe his last lungful of oxygen. Speaking about lungs, that organ of his wasn't doing its job well either. Well, the man could not have been more wrong. Maybe his stinger had been pulled, but Seunghwa had his other undercover sources giving him the resources he needed, starting with the two men in black suits toting religious scriptures.

And they had others, lots of others, to work with them. The scriptures were a nice touch, he thought. The verses put people at ease, specifically during those times when people were supposedly on the highest alert.

He felt warm despite the cold air, completely ignorant of the dust sweeping around him, conjoined to every exposed particle of his skin. Well, perhaps he wasn't ignorant, him being used to it now was also a big possibility. The sick man couldn't help but let out a collective chuckle followed by triumphant smirk escape his lips.

The scriptures were lovely words for Seughwa. Bad for the law. What was bad for the law was always great for Kang Seunghwa. What's the fun in the following the law? He trained harder than he could in every fuckin combat drill but all he got was a few medals here and there? He craved for respect, fear.

This nobility, this peace was all disturbing. It was no fun to be obedient all the damn time. Having others help him out was something he'd spit at. Hell, he'd be a better one than that, scratch that he'll be the best there ever was.

To hell with that bullshit about unity and being each other's wings. He'd never for the life of him be grotesque enough to follow someone's lead. All the consequences of his deeds were fine, all fine till they gained him fame.

He curled his fingers tightly into one tight fist, blood shooting through his arteries. Till others crushed under him just like he was crushed upon. It was only when one fine day, he accidentally stabbed a knife through his colleague's, it dawned upon him; 'actions make a difference'.They were capable enough to get him the prestige and respect he needed, no matter the consequence.

Now, indulging himself in the killing, demolishing others' plans along with the individuals that made them made him come out as an evil human? Now, this was what confused him. The mantra of "be extraordinary ", " give your best in everything you do "," imagine yourself as the person you wanna be " was always chanted out to him as though it was a necessity, its importance going above and beyond a human's need for water.

In his eyes, he was working his arse off to become someone society expected of him. What all hadn't he achieved through his consecutive killing and acts that sneered at the law? He was gifted fame, hell, he even attained all the glory he'd been losing out on all these years.

Most of all people were fearful of him just like he had his hair stand on end with the very sight of his merciless uncle. It was all so beautiful. Until of course it all became a massive pile of worthless dust under society's shoes. Solely because of a few people he knew very well.

Merciless creatures rather. Creatures who left him like a battered body shrouded in a spark of crimson dirt, abandoning him from working towards his dreams like that. Now sickened and distracted he dug his nails deeper into his worn-out palm.

At the training base, all of them including him would nonetheless have the same enthusiasm. Going over and above the horizons made. Pushing and testing themselves beyond their comfort limits all came under the same sky they were safeguarded under. It was a gut-wrenching 1,000,000 % or nothing at all.

The men in black had done their part. They were all ready. Now it was time for the ash blonde to do his part. He grabbed at his belly and hacked up what felt like part of his left lung. That was the only one he had left. They'd cut most of the other one out years ago to stem cancer.

They'd only done it to try to get enough blood and nutrients flowing in him to let his body almost germinate into a healthy being so they could bloody execute him. But he'd beaten them on that, his health was a cold case. He wasn't getting healthier. He was dying. Dying fast, but not too fast.

Having one foot in his grave didn't mean that he'd leave without settling down some scores. Ironically, the only thing keeping him going was the idea that if he could accomplish this last thing in his life, he could die easily. It was all he thought about. He was obsessed with it.

It was the only thing keeping his good lung moving, his diseased heart pumping, and the pain relatively at bay. He caught his breath, wiped the sweat from his face, and struggled to a sitting position. His heart barely hammered against his almost hollow ribs, his breathing was naturally as though his respiratory system wasn't working for the inhaling and the exhaling process rather it was leaning towards more of a "cough in oxygen " and "let the carbon dioxide squeeze it's way out". Overall a massive paradox.

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I feel like most people tend to suicide at about 2-3 in the night and I always unexpectedly write my stories in that time phase. Oof