DEAD MAN'S HAND.

II

2. Habits. There were too many, far too many, an inexplicable amount of ridiculous, stupid, timeless habits.

Everything boiled down to a fast-paced, blurry rush. Of course, there were other aspects - a throbbing pulse, a disastrous headache, shaky hands and eyes stinging with something oddly reminiscent of the nostalgia of forcing back a tearful goodbye - but his tunnel vision and clouded senses could only pick up so much. Colors. The stained white of the empty countertop, cold underneath his fingertips as he habitually clasped the corner as he stumbled around the kitchen, far too wary of the prospect of the sharp edges jabbing into his side. The colorful glass vase on the dining room table, bloody reds dancing carefully into deep oranges until eventually all blended into the brilliant blue of the tourist ocean, replaced weekly with a new bouquet of flowers, which he frequently admired and examined for wilting petals. It was this time a batch of white, an apparent rose of sorts, though dried and wrinkled around the edges. As per usual, he moved attentively to learn the reason behind the wilting, but time was ticking by. There was never an explanation. The flowers would die eventually - nothing he could do would stop that. The grey magnets on the refrigerator, pinning grocery lists and reminders and a singular family photo, which his gaze uncertainly flickered up customarily, merely ensuring he had not forgotten a household task that he'd be scolded for later.

There would never be another 'later.' All he had left to concern himself over was the present, how he would make it through the night instead of pondering what he would do tomorrow. His mother would never again be able to criticize him for forgetting to take out the trash, or clear the table, or any other chore that suddenly seemed so minuscule, so unimportant. None of it mattered anymore - not the pointed edges of the kitchen counter, not the sunset vase or the flower bouquets on the dining table, not the sticky notes on the fridge or his mother's sharp nagging afterward. They were all habits, formed subconsciously during a better time, but everything eventually had to come to a close. The walls of the house were unfamiliar. He'd once viewed them as clean, strong, unbreakable, but staring from another perspective, a completely different point of view, it was becoming increasingly evident that he'd painted his entire life in a filter of vivid yellow happiness, that he'd mixed the bright colors before his eyes artificially and splattered them where he saw fit. His fantasy utopia was being torn away from his fragile hands, and he could try his best to last, but he would only be able to stare into the face of futility. The world was not built for delicate protagonists like Seungcheol - and yet somehow, abstractedly, he was beginning to learn that he always had been and would continue to be the definite antagonist of his own story, nothing if not responsible for his own downfall.

But he didn't have time for that anymore. No more habits, no more self-pity. All that was left for him was survival - the hands of the clock above the entrance to the kitchen (another habit - periodically glancing up at it to ensure that he hadn't run out of time to procrastinate before he was forced into productivity.) would continue to spin, ticking and tocking and annoying him endlessly, perhaps driving him insane before the outside world would have the chance to get to him, and time was wearing thin. He was going to have to leave before the sun rose - the night was dangerous, and there was a certain anxiety that came with darkness, but the moon would shield the fears that the light would expose. It was a lot easier to hide in the shadows than it was to go unnoticed in broad daylight.

Midnight was scary, but it was all he had. As a child, he used to wake hours after his bedtime and wish for sun. His imagination supplied him with many beasts - curled horns and spiked wings and blood-rimmed mouths - to lurk beyond the field of his vision, hiding under beds and within closets, peering into uncurtained windows as he tried to sleep, but now, Seungcheol embraced it. Obscurity was his umbrella, shielding him from the true monsters that emerged with the light; the ones with guns and badges that attacked in the name of safety, executioners and their beady eyes and wicked schemes for the sake of order, the countless spies with innocent facades and unknowing smiles for the prospect of freedom. He ventured out into the night deliberately, aware he was joining a game that everyone lost, where his only prize would be knowing that he fought. The entire world was etched in charcoal - the brilliant hues of color he swore he once knew was merely a figment of his own hopeful misconceptions.