we are all dying, anyhow could i have the right to happiness?
gtop | pg13, 1797w, au
xmas 2012 bigbang ficmix. original: singing my blues by chanrae, found here
why is it that i’m mired so deeply in such shallow wound?
for anyone, living is pining through a hail of arrows-
yet it feels as if the target is strapped onto my heart.
HOME ft LEE SORA/TABLOa/n: was originally going to make this happy. really. i was even considering properly capitalizing words and paying heed to grammar. but hey, none of that worked out. and i'm sorry. i'd have loved to involve the christmas spirit more, yet it somehow didn't seem to fit. some of the pieces that had already been set into place were too fastened in, too permanent to remove. namely, the particular fic i chose to remix. it took hold on my heart. i allowed it to stay. you could argue that my homage to it here is disheartening, unconventional- especially in light of this joyful season. it is indeed contrary, but is that so bad? i urge you to consider this differently, search for underlying themes. here's a hint: they don't necessarily come through in the ending alone.
he could have loved you unconditionally, maybe, had he stayed a little longer. could have asked for nothing, anything;
could have wrapped his skinny arms upon your shoulders, not to move for hours. these are the painful familiarities, the blatant displays of the reality that incessantly remind you of what you can[not] give him. money, and a roof over his head? all worthless, all for naught. whatever has stolen away your lover has corrupted him, so that even love fails to light, to clear the way. jiyong is flightless, jiyong is broken, jiyong has struck rock bottom and can't manage tears. instead, you wish you could cry for him.
it seems as if yesterday, jiyong could smile. only yesterday, jiyong could live, laugh, be touched, touch others, learn, love, feel
things. and as of now? how swiftly it's all come to pass. finally, you realize that this happiness is transient, elusive—all too late, as always. meanwhile, you wonder this: will death be ultimately inevitable?
and by that you mean ultimately early, ultimately self-induced (for jiyong). better than anyone, you know well that dying is a part of life. after all, you work in the mortuary. had jiyong not been there to snake in and out of your life, grasp, the fine line between those states may have been exceedingly frail. perhaps you would not have thought of it then, perhaps then you might have developed some sense of impenetrability.
but jiyong makes every bit of it impossible. thanks to jiyong, you're blind and defenseless; thanks to jiyong, you're left to gaze at angry scars marred in horrifying numbers upon the veins of his wrists. those seemingly relentless attempts both revolt you and tug vehemently at your heartstrings. sometimes you wish you could express just how greatly he infuriates you. he's unbelievably selfish,
you maintain with confidence, since he never thinks of how anyone else would feel if he were to go.
although you'd love to tell him this, you always come oh so close
before he sports pretend smiles (too intentional, too paper-thin). yet in the midst of it all, he's trying.
realizing that, how could you think in any way against him?
"you know, it's all for you," says jiyong, his piercing words carving a hollow within your burdened heart- some unconventional mix of guilt and relief and numbness, all rolled into one. when you stutter and stare at him blankly, when words fail you amidst this burst of inexplicable emotion, he simply nods, smiles, embraces you- warm somehow and pressed firmly against his jagged, wiry-limbed frame.
"i'm sorry, hyung. i love you, i love you, i love you. a thousand times over."
(but it's all a lie in the end, right?)
because a single week later, you find him shuddering in the dark, curled up against a bathtub that's half-full and lukewarm. there is turbulent water splattered on the tile and a tube of antidepressants cupped in his hand; the toilet is reeking profusely of bile. in spite of everything, jiyong only apologizes for ruining the carpet.
"you don't really
love me," you mutter under your breath, "if you did, you wouldn't do this to yourself."
lackluster eyes regard you, half-lidded and overpowering on his gaunt face. florescent overhead lights flicker upon the planes of his features, casting opaque shadows. somewhere within the confines of your peripheral vision, you see his bony fingers clawing at the paper edge of the starch white hospital wristband.
"please," he says wearily, "let's not discuss this right now."
"not now, okay- but when? the problem isn't going to resolve itself, you can't keep running away like this."
jiyong is unbearably silent, silent, silent.
voice catching on the words, you rant on and on and on. "maybe it hurts you to live when you're so sick of living. guess i can understand that, in a way. but i just can't—ji, i love you, i love you too much to ever let you go. don't you realize just how fucking much it'd hurt
me when you left? how badly i'd miss you, because you're honestly everything i have? god, i love you, yongie, i love you so much. i can't even imagine life without you. what can i possibly do to make you smile again, to get you to stay?" reduced to your most vulnerable condition before jiyong now, you can't remember the last time you've cried so hard. "please, i'm begging you, i'll do anything. just don't go, don't leave me behind like this…"
the only sound in the room is your ragged breathing, alternating with jiyong's- a sharp contrast to his own fragile exhales. it's heartbreaking, you think. how easily he's willing to let go, how determined you are to hold on.
silently, he turns away. you hope your words have hurt him, moved him. you hope that his shaded face is now awash with tears. why? because that, at the very least, would be feeling.
after he's discharged from the facility, he almost never speaks to you. still, he tails you like a lost puppy dog to the morgue, apparently not giving a fuck that you're forever insisting that he go home. it's as if he can't hear you anymore. maybe he's not even listening. for there are his plain white ipod earbuds, worn on default, and how you really shouldn't mind- but you know, it's so not jiyong
. though they're a far cry from ownership with your paycheck as it is, you sort of miss back when he'd starve a few days to save up for beats by dr. dre, for knockoff dior jackets. but the jiyong you knew and loved so is a hollow home, a broken vessel, an epitome of sorrow. to think that he's already dead frightens you to the bone.
you detest his fascination-tinged-envy at the corpse of the young girl at the morgue. you absolutely abhor the way he's living, as of every moment is his last. throw the world before the old jiyong's eyes, and he'd have asked for the universe. promise the same to the same young man as of now? he'd relish it all, dejectedly musing well, maybe i can die tomorrow.
(has it been said that love is like fire and ice? you think it best befits to your current situation, than that of any other.)
you feel anger, you think you could really, truly explode. and with your augmented hurt and rage, jiyong just burrows deeper within his own ready-marked grave. it's a precariously balanced scale, one that feels terrifyingly beyond your control. if you were to be more at ease, would he build back some of his former heart? or would the fragility of the system be tipped into disproportionate ruin? is it worth it to find out? and what would you ultimately need to sacrifice?
in the end, you do absolutely nothing- which in turn, affects everything.
. this fast-paced world doesn't halt to let you catch your breath, to reconsider. it's merciless, it's progressive, it cycles on and on and in the long run it always begets tragedy.
there were once brighter times, yes. but you are older now. less wise,
you think, far less wise.
spring arrives with the following month, its threadbare existence flickering in clichés like birds and flowers and sunshine. despite it all, the chill remains. you think you may have lived a millennium by now (because that's just how long it takes for the hurt to ease, to become bearable).
and furthermore, this is the season marks the conclusion of jiyong's battle.
there are shards of gold and silver and bronze in the strands of his matted hair. you think of it like glass, almost, as if it's caught all the light of sunbeams and fireflies and metal scraps, welding them together into a collage of all things breathtaking and beautiful. jiyong never thinks of himself in that regard; but when you look at him, you see the whole world before your eyes. every time, without fail. always.
flinching at your touch, he shifts a little and slowly cracks open an eye. there's an illuminated windowpane spilling all over his slight form, and he is lying on his side on a couch that just barely contains his height. smiling gently, lovingly, you stroke his hair.
"where am i?" jiyong then wonders aloud- and for once, somehow, there is raw life energy
in his voice.
hesitantly, you clear your throat, struggling like a fool for the right words. "home. w- we're right where we started, baby," you mutter, voice thick, "remember? you've not a care in the world anymore. you can sleep now, love, it's okay."
but jiyong is beyond hearing you anymore, already succumbing to a dreamless haze. you roll your left thumb over new scars that won't ever heal, streaming blood, tainting fabric with dark moisture. some moments pass by as your simultaneous breathing patterns inevitably begin to subside. the balance enters the process of deterioration; perhaps all along it was too feeble to survive.
"we're in heaven, seungie, right?"
it's jiyong who answers his own question. at first you stare at him in astonishment. "y- yeah," you answer tentatively, wrapping your arms around his slight shoulders, "this is it." and you descend upon him then, allowing your mouth to crash onto his: two instruments finding harmony and melody and unity, a duet so impeccably togeter in nature, it begets a solo. and you'll never give up on jiyong, not now, not ever. the times you shared in the past may be wholly unattainable- but they've all but eluded you yet, and he's still here, living and breathing. in spite of the time that's ticking, he's here, in this moment. and you want nothing less than to make the most of it.
you glance around. the dusty old guitar and lyric book are left unattended in the corner, and they've been there for months since jiyong had lost interest; you sweep them up, press jiyong's fingers upon the untuned strings. flipping through pages of notes you can't read, you fabricate melodies to poetry, singing to jiyong all the while soft and sweet and soft and sweet and-
for jiyong, you carry on until all of him eludes you. for him alone, you carry on and on and on, until there's no longer a reason to [sing] anymore.