Beacon
for november 2021 fic a word challenge by @writeorwrite with the prompt, DAY ONE: ukiyo “living in the moment, detached from bothers of life”
fandom: strangers from hell / hell is other people character: seo moon-jo
18+, dead dove content. be warned.
not limited to murder, violence, blood, gore, child abuse.
inspired by No Exit by Jean-Paul Sartre and Halsey’s The Lighthouse.
based on my headcanon: “snippets of little things in life that made moon-jo happy”. this is more of a metaphorical approach to giving insights as to what his adolescence is like as “he lived in the moment, detached from bothers of life”. the funny thing is, what moment exactly is he living in?
is it in the moment or is it in the moment? because moon-jo rarely really let anything bother him after what he’d been through years prior.
Today is one of those days.
When the heat only brings more brutality to the humid season, and he wanders near the brook to catch the cool summer breeze passing though the trees.
A patch of oasis that he discovered long before the city gets its claws on the foot of the mountainside; its sprawl beginning to constrict the little pockets of spaces that he keeps for himself down the open fields.
He dips his hand into the waters, feeling its gentle tugs in between his fingers. Bubbling sounds lull him to empty his thoughts and filter the dirt accumulated behind ivory bars where his sternum connects. Blank, black eyes follow suit with another hand, observing how the currents attempt to wash him away, along with the occasional travelers from upstream; their lovely colors dulling from his peripheral vision.
These days, they had been rolling their tongues off as to how Moon-jo hadn’t been as conscious as he should be of what they’re doing as of late.
And he’d stare at them seconds longer than should, before breaking a friendly smile and returning to meaningless conversations and sporting hollow laughs to accompany such useless chattering between friends.
If they ever knew how much more that he is painfully aware than they can ever be.
Slash. Slash. Across the back, curling further into his stomach. One, two, three... Counting with every breath he takes, steeling himself from heavy punishment that accounts for every mistake he missed.
Screams— Gurgled deep into the throat that was too thick for him to gash through, but ought to do the job sooner as he pressed the knife into the meat. Far too messier than he anticipated, says so himself. The man’s eyes roll back and the young man sees a little boy reflected with relief; big grin spread from ear to ear.
Cries. Of praises whilst accommodating, motherly hands tend to his cuts. Of begging whilst on knees, clutching to his legs. Of the bones locked within the orphanage’s closets and of their ghosts hovering behind him everywhere he goes.
Numbness sets in, yet he doesn’t draw back.
He reaches further with his right hand tracking down minute movement in the water.
Plop!
What a shame, Moon-jo missed his catch.
Maybe next time, he thinks to himself, as he shakes his hands — once, twice. Dampness, a reminder of his failure, stay when he gathers his things; when he fixes his clothes into pristine condition. As they were, as they should.
Mrs. Eom spent her time ironing them for him, after all.
He starts the trek home.