♡ 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 Letting Go
❥ ❥ ❥
Two blocks away from Pepper's Pies, where the graffiti glows angry red and dollar deals run the streets, lies a liquor store: a hot spot for alcoholics. It's a dingy, run-down "shop" on the outskirts of Marino Hills, where the only things to look at are the peeling paint and faded signage.
A neon-green sign hangs overhead, lit with bright, bold letters that read 'SPIRIT HAVEN' in big, blocky lettering.
According to the receipts piled in the trashcan of John's study, this is where he stocks up on his favorite alcohol: Jack Daniel's. Jisung is only here to replenish the generous amount he's drunk during the week.
Jisung cringes as he surveys the alcohol selection. The walls are painted a dull beige and there's an unpleasant odor in the air: the lingering scent of booze with a tinge of cigarette smoke.
He's not an alcoholic. He's simply buying on behalf of one.
Jisung stands in the aisle, staring at the shelves lined with an array of various-colored alcohol bottles. Vodka, rum, tequila, whiskey—they all look the same and probably all have that cheap, alleyway taste to them.
He shouldn't have to be here purchasing alcohol. Jisung isn't an alcoholic. It's just that...currently, it's the only way Jisung knows how to cope.
Once he stops, which he will, John will never have to worry about his stash of liquid poison mysteriously disappearing.
Jisung picks two bottles of Jack Daniel's from the shelf, and dust spits back at him. Ew. He shoves the amber alcohol into a flimsy plastic bag and sets foot toward the cash register. It's a small little box tucked into the corner of the store, illuminated by a single, buzzing bulb hanging overhead. It's a wonder how it doesn't flicker like the rest of the lights in this dump.
Jisung doesn't bother with a "hello", and simply plops the bottles onto the counter. He makes sure to keep his head down—not because he's afraid of being recognized, but because there's shame dancing in his eyes that he hopes to hide.
"Is this all?" the cashier asks, drumming his fingers on the filthy countertop.
Jisung nods.
The cashier begins punching numbers into the register, and it makes a loud clacking noise. It's reminiscent of a typewriter.
"Aren't you a little young to be drinking?" the cashier remarks. Jisung doesn't answer. "I'm gonna' need to see your ID."
Jisung swallows thickly. Shit.
"Um," Jisung manages, eyes darting around the store. "Um, I–I'm twenty-two. It's just the baby face, you know..."
The cashier doesn't look convinced. He crosses his arms atop his pot belly.
