♡ A story about learning to love, learning to hurt, learning to 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘥 ― and most importantly, learning to be human. ♡
𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐃 4x
Marino Hills, California in the mid-2000s is hypersensitive to the idea of change. It clings desperately t...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
❥ ❥ ❥
THE SUMMER OF 2007 A Summertime Cliché
❥ ❥ ❥
Blame it on the time difference between Gwangju and California or blame it on Jisung's tendencies to nightmare, but he's awake at three in the morning.
Jisung lays in bed, eyes committed to staring into the dark abyss that is the ceiling. His body is drenched in a cold sweat, committing his loose T-shirt to his sticky chest. His breathing is ragged, and his bedsheets are plastered to his body. It hasn't even been a full week since returning "home", and Jisung's already self-diagnosed himself as chronically insane.
It was just a dream, Jisung reminds himself, trying to calm his erratic heartbeat. It wasn't real.
And it wasn't: the blood dripping down the walls, and the crimson-stained tiles, iced off with egregious imagery of the Devil. It was all a figment of his imagination, conjured up by the dark recesses of his mind.
Still, the image of the bloodied bathroom floor has Jisung feeling like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over his head. His stomach churns uncomfortably, and a shiver runs down his spine.
He doesn't think he'll be able to get back to sleep, even if he tries.
Instead, Jisung throws his sheets to the side, sitting up in bed. His room is dark—blinds sealed shut. His room is also quiet, save for the faint humming of the ceiling fan. Jisung swings his legs over the edge of the bed, pulling himself out of bed.
It's so weird being home.
Jisung pads over to his closet, cracking open the door. It's empty for the most part: housing a small population of his dad's old, forgotten shirts.
Jisung doesn't have any clothes, not after all of his sin-stained belongings were sacrificed to a fire. And unless he wants to wear his Saint Augustine's uniform for the entire summer, Jisung will have to wear his father's forgotten items.
John's shirt is a little too big; to the point where it swallows Jisung up. The sleeves fall past his fingertips and the collar hangs loosely off his shoulders.
Eh.It's presentable, he supposes. It's enough.
There's a light on downstairs—a yellow-tinted glow spilling through the gaps of the railing. A bead of sweat trickles down his neck.
It's just your parents, Jisung tells himself. It's just Mom and Dad. No one's going to hurt you.
But...they could.
They have.
Jisung swallows thickly. He grips the wooden banister with clammy palms.
