DEAD MAN'S HAND.

I

1. Seungcheol was not afraid of the dark.

Darkness was like the thick velvet curtains of a theatre, a box closing in on the stage until he was left with nothing but the dimmed overhead lights and the quieted murmur of the audience, the heavy pause until one would break into applause and the rest would copy, a pitiful game of follow the leader, a desperate attempt at obtaining acceptance. It was respectful, it was expected, it was necessary. It was rude to allow performers to walk off in silence, head bowed in shame at a job well done because onlookers could not be bothered to do as mandatory. Clapping represented appreciation and enjoyment, satisfaction from a crowd to fuel the egos of entertainers under cold spotlights. Seungcheol would never understand why his mother shot him pointed looks when his hands remained firmly in his lap while others gave praise, why he would gain judgmental eyes from his surroundings until he, too, gave his compulsory kudos, because it was easier to succumb to the majority than stand for his own wrong opinions.

He was never a leader, anyway, instead a tadpole in a river flowing where the water went, convincing itself to be in control in a deliberate attempt to save inflated pride. Fantasy was quantified. Even the tadpole knew it could never swim against the current, and in the same sense, Seungcheol would not play pretend. Suffocated by expensive perfume and artificial vanilla, he would clap, too, until his mother nodded stiffly in approval and the disapproving gazes faded away. Darkness was kinder than criticism. Seungcheol could be afraid of the entire world, but darkness would only ever offer him a warm hand, a fire on a winter night, a bottle of water in a desert. There was no fear in darkness, for it was the natural state of the universe; everything could shift out of proportion, but darkness was intentional. The sun would always go down and the light would fade, and nighttime would always prevail, and it was okay. Even with darkness, there were stars. How could anything ever be feared with such bright, stunning stars?

It was easier to be the puppet than the puppeteer, and yet spared the ego of an overconfident doll to pretend to be in control rather than accept being pulled on a string. Everyone sought authority, but hid behind painted masks of lions instead of the bleeding deer they were. Seungcheol was no predator, and he knew that. He was prey, like everyone else, scared out of his mind at the tiniest things. For one, he was scared of dogs - and also scared of commitment, scared of rejection, scared of the government, scared of power, scared of both those who had a voice and those who didn't. Fear was just as consuming as darkness, the same velvet curtains, the same lightless room, the same noiseless chatter, a crumbling stage beneath his feet reminding him that he was a grain of sand in a desert, a shout among thousands. But, of course, Seungcheol was not afraid of the dark, and so he would try his best to suck it up, to inhale deeply and try to stay afloat among all his unnecessary fears, reoccurring superstitions - dogs, commitment, power, and death.

Seungcheol feared death.

It didn't come as a surprise to anyone, but supposedly, a man who lived life to the fullest did not fear death, nor did he regret his actions, and Seungcheol regretted a lot of things. Seungcheol was no saint; he had just as many sins to repent for as everyone else, but somehow, he managed to move on comfortably, ignoring every opportunity for redemption as if he'd have time to be flawless in his early fifties, when he had nothing better to do than be a good person. He was young, he was free, and he was scared of dying, just as every other sane eighteen year old on the planet.

He suppressed dealing with the notion, avoiding conversation, never quite ready to depart, knowing fully well that it would not be his choice. If someone were to ask Seungcheol how he thought he would die, there would not be many immediate outcomes that came to mind. For one, it was partially because Seungcheol would always harbor the tiny hope of immortality, a childhood wish that had sparked out of control and sprouted only in the space of his own head until it was a tree, rotting with the years but still strong, green and beautiful and appearing in his fantasies every night. While it was bizarre and impossible, Seungcheol would always want to live forever. The world was stunning and endless, marvelous sunsets painting giant canvases, dripping somber watercolors into the sky until great fiery fulminations merged into starry evenings, dotted with limitless stars, luminous long after they'd burned out. If he couldn't exist forever, he could at least be a star, both figuratively and literally. Leave a legacy of sorts. Let his light illuminate the night skies even after he'd exploded into a bright supernova. Have his name remembered. Choi Seungcheol had a nice ring to it.