Yes, that's right; I'm posting again... someone shoot me before I embarrass myself.
Title: A Lot Of Things
Words: 2 515
Author: Desultory Speech/Cillisian Thatcher
Genre: Angst, Prose
Synopsis: I know what I'll be doing in the next twenty-four hours; do you?
Comments: am in no way affiliated with DBSK, Super Junior or SM Entertainment, nor do I know or associate with any of the people in question. I'm not even Korean. This is a work of pure fiction; any similarities drawn between people, places and events are purely by coincidence. This is not meant to offend. The views and opinions in this story are not necessarily the views and opinions of the author. Directed at a mature youth audience. I apologize for grammar errors and spelling mistakes.
Story © Cillisian Thatcher/Diese Stifte/DesultorySpeech, May 20th, 2008
There are a vast majority of things that I know for sure, which, for some odd reason or another, I feel like sharing with you. The reason, to me, is as unclear as my bedroom window, but I figure there’s no reason not to, so why don’t I just rant off anything and everything that I feel like saying until your ears bleed and I pass out from exhaustion?
First off, I know I love you. A lot, actually. Sometimes it hurts to admit it, but I do, and I don’t plan on stopping anytime soon. I could go into intimate descriptions of my feelings, but I know that won’t be taken well by you, so I’ll bundle those words up and ship them off until a later date that will never come.
Secondly, I know that when I make plans, it is impossible for me to not follow through. Once written down, I have to do it, and no amount of protest from anyone can prevent that. It’s an annoying habit, I know, the times you’ve told me are plenty, but I can’t help it. Structure and order are something about life that I absolutely love, so shrugging off my prearrangements is something I just can’t do. I can’t count the times you’ve ordered me to be spontaneous and chuck my schedule book out the window, all in vain. I’d never do that, you know, but you still asked just the same.
Thirdly, I know that life’s a game and that I have to fight for what I want. I had to fight for you, I had to fight for survival, and I had to fight for money and warmth and the clothes on my back. Something I haven’t learnt to do yet is continue to fight after the battle is over; to never admit defeat. Life’s a battle ground, and you can never stop trying.
Lastly, and most importantly, I know that she isn’t just a friend. I know that you love her, perhaps even more than you love me, and I know I can’t fight for your affection anymore.
That’s what I know.
I have no way of naming off what you know, as you’ve never really told me. I’ve asked you before, ‘Hey, Changmin, what do you know?’, but I’ve always gotten the same response.
‘A lot of things.’
I realize you only say that because your unsure of what I’m asking – that, or you don’t want to answer me – but I would have appreciated at least a trivial answer. Or maybe you can’t really recall what you know… In any case, smart-ass, let me make things a bit easier and tell you what you don’t know.
You don’t know that my favourite colour is creamy pecan – you believe it to be a pinkish-beige, but have never gotten the name down pat. I can’t blame you, though; you’re a man, and you all seem to view things the same. Colours are colours, and names are names; the two should not be associated with one another.
You don’t know that I would do anything to make you happy, even if that meant giving up what was my life and hading you off to someone else. You don’t realize that, though I’m a fighter, I’m also a giver, and would give anything in order to see you content.
And you don’t know that I walked in on you. God forbid that, for, if you did, you surely would have jumped out of bed instantly and began spurting off apologies and ‘It’s not what it looks like’s, all of which I would have know were not true. I had quietly closed the door, the plans for us I had in mind forgotten, and the expensive food I had brought in take-out containers, given to a homeless man outside your apartment.
I ate strawberry-vanilla ice cream and watched sappy romance movies until I couldn’t breath, the next morning awoken by your beck and call. I went to your apartment with a smile on my face – forcedly, mind you – and said nothing of what I had seen the night before.
I asked you what you thought of me.
You said you loved me more than air.
I asked you if that meant you’d love me forever.
You said that came naturally.
I asked if you’d ever love someone else.
You said you hadn’t even looked at other girls.
You don’t know that I was aware of the lie as it left your lips, but I suppose that’s all fine and dandy; I’ve always wanted to go out with a bang, anyways.
I planned out today like always, you know, and, though I wrote none of it down, I have everything plotted out in my mind perfectly. What I’ll say, what I’ll do; everything, for the next day. It was difficult to fit everything into one day, but I managed.
A day is just twenty-four hours.
Do you know what will you be doing in the next twenty-four hours?
I know what I will.
In the next twenty-four hours, I will be leaving my house, primped and spruced beyond belief to appease you. I will get into my car, turn on the engine, pop in my favorite mix tape supplied by you, and drive to your place. I will sing at the top of my lungs, tapping the steering wheel as I do, and lose myself in the wind that will come swishing in through the window.
I will stop by the mall on the way, and pick out some new shoes and a stylish new outfit. I’ll buy new cutlery for the kitchen – the knives are a little dull and I’m not so sure on their slice-and-dice ability, a new table cloth for the dining room table, and the ingredients – in bulk – for your favourite meal.
I will place those in the trunk to keep them cool, and quickly rush off to your place. I will pull into the parking lot, cut the engine, and rush in. I will leave the groceries in the car, and quickly buzz your number.
I will listen as you greet me, and hear the buzzer vocalized that I may now enter the building. I will walk up the stairs, feeling like going sans-leisure today and getting some exercise.
I will skip down your hallway, and ring your doorbell to let you know I’m here. You’ll open the door and ask my why I’m late – I’ll tell you I took the stairs – and you’ll let me in.
We’ll watch cartoons and I’ll prepare breakfast, slapping your hand away as you attempt to take snippets of the food, claiming that it’s taking too long. I’ll kick you out of the kitchen, and ignore your sweet-talking and pleading for entry until I hear you leave.
I’ll serve you your breakfast at the couch, where you will be pouting cutely because you didn’t get your way. I’ll coo your nickname – ‘Minnah’ – and feed you by hand, and afterwards, we’ll watch cartoons until lunchtime, snuggling and kissing occasionally as we do so.
At exactly 12:15, I will sit up, give you a kiss, and apologize because I have to go. You’ll whine for me to stay, but I’ll deny you that, already half way to the door. You’ll enwrap me in a hug and ask for me to stay a bit longer, but I’ll tell you I can’t, and invite you over for dinner at six.
In the next twenty-four hours, I will rush back home, sparing no time for dilly-dally. I’ll begin cooking as soon as I arrive, tossing the food into pots and pans, but not burning any of it. I’ll prepare enough of your favourite meal – pineapple chicken with wild rice and daifuku for desert – to last you two weeks, letting the amount needed for dinner remain warm in the oven while I shovel the rest into little plastic containers, label them all with the next fourteen days of the week, and place them in my freezer to preserve.
At four, I will have done that, and prepare myself for you. I will have a shower, style my hair perfectly – more than once, if needed – place on my new outfit and spray myself over with the cologne I have that you love so much. It won’t take me too long, and by five, I will be placed at the table, writing feverously on a piece of cutely deckled paper, getting everything I need to say out before folding neatly, and writing your name on the front. I’ll place that in an envelope, close it and seal it with a kiss, before placing it in my jean pockets.
And then I will wait for you. You will be a bit late, as always, but I expect no more than twenty minutes.
You will arrive; I will remove your coat, greet you with a kiss, and ask how your day went. We’ll make small talk as I lead you inside, and immediately after smelling the food, you’ll sit yourself in your place at my table, commenting on the new tablecloth. You might also compliment me on my appearance, though I doubt it. Your mind will be centered solely on the food prepared, and, once I place the plate in front of you, you will immerse yourself in it, almost forgetting I am there.
I won’t mind, though. I’m used to it, so I sit and eat my share, and wait for you to finish. You’ll scarf down desert like it’s nothing, and, since I’ve never been much a fan of mochi, I’ll offer you mine as well. You’ll ask for seconds, perhaps even thirds, and I’ll deny you none of it, having prepared enough for you to take home. When you ask me to make it again, I will not tell you that you’ll be eating it every day for the next two weeks, and instead nod my head and agree.
We’ll talk, flirt, make out – really do anything to pass the time until you can go home and call her. We may even spend a good amount of time in the bedroom, enjoying each others presence more than we should.
But the time will come when you have to go home, and that’s when I’ll tell you, begrudgingly.
I’ll hug you, slipping the letter I wrote earlier from my pocket to yours, unbeknownst to you. You never use your pockets, so you most likely won’t find out until you get home, or, perhaps, tomorrow evening, when you’re in class and searching for a pencil to use. I won’t want to let go, but I will, leaning up to kiss you lightly on the nose. You’ll ask me why with the affection, and my reply will shock you.
In the next twenty-four hours, I will see you cry. You’re eyes will begin to tear up as I tell you that we can’t be together anymore, and you’ll beg me for a reason. I can almost hear your voice in my head – ‘What? No, love, no…,’ – but I’ll smile sweetly at you, and bow my head slightly. I’ll tell you that I’m sorry, but that I don’t think it’s working out. I’ll remind you that I’ll always love you, and at those words, you’ll demand the reason for our parting.
I won’t tell you that it’s because of your affair with her; that was the purpose of my letter entirely. You’ll get angry, shout, push me, hug me, beg, but I’ll remain firm in my conviction.
‘I’m sorry, Changmin, but I just don’t want to be with you anymore.’
It’ll hurt to say those words – I know that more than I know anything – and so I’ll practice saying them all day while I cook. I need to sound like I mean them; need to be able to fool you, just this once, so you can be happy and be with her.
You’ll ask about the dinner and the love, ask why I would do that if I didn’t want to be with you. I’ll tell you it was a good-bye dinner, and that I intended nothing else for it. After constant persuasion, you’ll finally absorb the words. Deflation will cause you to hate me, and anger will cause you to tell me you were having an affair regardless. You’ll expect a look of shock from me, but instead I’ll just smile tersely and ask for you to leave.
And you will; leave me and my home, my food and the love I gave you so unconditionally, the love that was unmatched in amount.
I’ll bite back the tears as I walk back into my apartment, picking up the dished as the recounts of the night, washing away the grime that stained them. I’ll put everything away perfectly, clean every surface of my home, before quietly excusing myself from the world and secluding myself in my bedroom. I’ll put on my new shoes, and tear up my day planner.
And finally, I’ll let out the emotions I’ve felt all night, and cry.
My tears won’t reach you where you are, bitterly cursing me out or drowning your rejection in the love of that woman, but I will still cry them and hope they reach you.
In the next twenty-four hours, I will sit as long as my heart contents on the floor of my bed, piecing together our broken relationship like there still is one. I will apologize profusely to you, but you won’t hear my sorry’s, and you won’t have to try to believe them.
In the next twenty-four hours, I will put my new shoes and march out of my home, looking as content as I had been hours before. I’ll roam the city until the morning begins to show, spending most of that time in the park where we were first introduced by your cousin, singing songs about love and hate.
I will trot to the highway, and sit on the side, pretending to be a hitchhiker of sorts.
And I will wait.
I will wait until a large vehicle comes by. I will watch it, carefully, and wave at the driver. I will time everything perfectly, calculating everything out keenly in my mind. And, just as it’s about to pass me, I will lurch out before that large vehicle and hope that when I wake up I’m not breathing.
And, in the next twenty-four hours, I will kill myself.
I’ll tell you something you don’t know, love, and that’s that I can’t live without you. I’m willing to give anything to make you happy, even if that means I’m no longer in the picture, but I cannot survive without you.
And so I’ll sacrifice myself for you.
I sigh, glancing up at the ceiling. It’s six am, and I need to get up and ready. I groan and roll over, off the bed and out of the warmth it provides. I need a nice long shower and cup of strong coffee.
I do, after all, have a long day ahead of me.
Story © Cillisian Thatcher/Diese Stifte/DesultorySpeech, May 19th, 2008