Aubade | J.J.K FF ✔

0.3

you're no longer that single alcoholic crybaby but that single alcoholic crybaby with no way to pay for the bills and the soju you so desperately crave. in short, you're screwed. the night is spent sending resumes left and right, hoping that somehow a company will find you desirable, the companionable bottle of soju by your side, loyal to the end.

it's close to three and you're wide awake, sleep deciding that you were unworthy of its cozy confines. you grab a second soju from the fridge, popping it open and letting the liquid burn your throat on its way down, a satisfied sigh escaping. your head hits the back of the wall in a dull thud as your body slides down it and you revel in the pain it brings, hissing as the muted sting courses through the back of your skull. 

at least it's something that you felt, you reason. other than the neighbor's singing, it's the only thing that showed you that this shitty life is a reality. the thought makes you snicker before you take another swig of the alcoholic drink. 

if this is life, you muse as if you're a philosopher thinking of things unheard of, then is this worth it? is this world where money is the only real thing of importance worth it? the money that people would do anything for ruled the world. money equals power. and you? you were as powerful as a slug at the mercy of a spoiled rotten kid ready to pour salt on you. you were as powerful as a minuscule crack in a wall, to small to do anything but exist.

you don't matter in this piece of shit world, you think dully, the effects of the soju making your brain grow fuzzy as you stand up, slightly woozy on your feet. your bare feet meet the dirty stone of the balcony and you stumble to the railing, twisting tendrils of smoke from a bittersweet cigarette barely reaching you from the drunks at the bottom, the glowing cancer sticks the only things visible in the smog. 

an idea seizes you; a crazy one when sober, but a plausible one now with destructive liquid courage coursing through your veins.

the lonely moon deserves a serenade, you decide, crossing your arms on the railing and letting them dangle down, the neck of the green bottle swinging haphazardly from your fingertips.

minutes later, a man storms into the balcony next to yours. "will you shut it with that god awful wailing of yours?" he roars, eyes raging. he would look scary if not for his sleep mussed hair sticking up in all sorts of directions-scratch that; he does look intimidating. 

"it's not wailing, you fool," you toss your head, looking stupid. "it's called singing."

"it's called being off-key," he glares, folding his arms causing the tattoos that adorn them to stand out even more as his muscles bulge. 

"terribly off-key," a man slurs from below and you stiffen.

"do shut up, you two-bit drunk!" you yell, shaking your fist awkwardly. hey, if it works in the movies, it should work here.

"takes one to know one, ya bitch!" the man screams, his buddies howling with their hiccupped laughter.

eyes narrowed, you make it your mission to best the man who dared to yell at you in a fight. eyes blazing with the power of one thousand suns, you turn around, fists already up. but a hand grabs the back of your shirt, pulling you back.

"calm down, child," the man grins, innocent bunny teeth on show.

"oh, come on, that's so goddamn unfair!" you whine, fists down and your body slumped. "you have those stupid bunny teeth-"

"hey!" he covers his teeth with a large hand, somehow offended by your well-meaning words.

"-and then you have those cutesy eyes, but then you have this fucking hot face and body. that. is. so. fucking. unfair," you punctuate each word with a poke to his rock hard chest. "i bet you have abs, too. and a well-paying job," your voice is starting to become wobbly, "and a bunch of friends. and a-a," tears start to stream down your face, "a cute girlfriend and oh, fuck."

you sink to your knees, your collar slipping out of his grasp, and promptly burst out into huge, gasping sobs, the noise echoing in the night.

"fuck."

731 words