oblivion ; minsung

"lonely lonely lonely"

slowly
after so many rainfalls
and pollen-thick winds
and fallen blossoms
life questions
'why is life always undermined?'
and death questions
'why is death always outshined?'

──

For some sadistic reason, Minho's parents insist on eating dinner as a family every night, even though Minho is almost positive it's as torturous for everybody else as it is for him. His mother is the lone exception, of course, and keeps her energy on par with a circus ringmaster so long as there's an audience.

"So," she says, "why don't we go around the table and say what we're grateful for today?"

Sooyun rattles off a generic answer. His brother-in-law says something about the filibuster. His father says he's grateful that his friend's hotel chain (meaning his own investment) is starting to show some returns.

"What about you, Minho?" his mother says, eager for him to participate.

"I'm thankful for Mrs. Lim and the cooks and the food they prepare for us."

His mother laughs. "That's what I was going to say! Okay, I am grateful for our beautiful, wonderful family."

"Even her?" Haewon is trying to feed Hara, who's snuffling, on the brink of tears. She must be able to sense Minho, though he purposely sat at the far end of the table.

"Of course even Hara!"

"If you say so. I might just rip my hair out if she doesn't sleep tonight. Minho, you better invite that cute singer back or I'm going to do it myself."

Minho stops mid-chew. He can feel eyes on him. He clears his throat. "You should, I don't have his contacts or anything."

Haewon raises her eyebrow, but drops the subject. The conversation bounces back after a minute or two, but it's a very long minute or two.

Minho retreats to his bedroom after dinner. He listens to the radio, some classical station, while he locks the door, draws the curtains, shuts out the light. His room is impersonal — by his own design — but he didn't mean to make it... cold. At least he's comfortable here. Mostly because he's alone.

He lies down and closes his eyes.

He falls quickly and deeply into that dark place, submerged in fog, hovering off the ground. From a crack in the void, light surges in. The figure, bright like the core of the sun, a palpable presence. He can feel the energy emanating from it, familiar and frightening at the same time. Words flow through his mind, indecipherable, an alien language. If Minho just tried, reached, pushed a little harder, he could understand what they mean—

A hitch lurches up his throat. He jolts up and doubles over the side of the bed, retching, holding his neck. Music is still playing over the radio, louder now, the same chord glitching over and over again. He staggers to his feet and yanks the plug out of the wall.

As soon as it's quiet, he can hear the baby crying upstairs. Fuck. He kicks the wall.

So he takes another walk in the forest. He's groggy, awkward on his feet, chilly without a jacket. He sits by the creek for a while and then heads back to the house. His throat hurts from coughing. Sometimes the nightmares overwhelm his body. This is the first time he's felt like he was going to throw up. It's also the first time he's remembered a full sentence from his dream. Life and death are evolving.

It's strange. It sounds like the kind of thing Jisung would sing. Maybe Minho has been thinking about his music too much. About him too much.

Once he returns to the house, he sits on the white wicker couch in the conservatory, watching the sky slowly change colour through the glass ceiling. He isn't tired anymore. He's kind of... lonely.