Chapter Text
[prologue : its just a dream]
Crimson river flowed down the hills and valleys of his pale face, dripping down on the white tiles. He wiped them away with the sleeves of his shirt, smearing the scarlet liquid over it. That stain could never be washed away. Neither the blood on your hand.
‘I’m sure Hyuck would say this is such a pathetic way to end a song.’ He mumbles softly, struggling to pull up his facial features to smile. How he once used to smile with ease when he saw the face of the woman standing in front of him. It was easy then. Now it’s not. Burdened by the weight of the world, even putting Atlas to shame, Mark lived.
To say he lived was such an exaggeration. He lived with broken pieces of his mind stitched together by threads that he so dearly called hope. His mind resembled the glass splitters on the floor. Sharp and shattered. Something that can’t be changed or brought back to normal now.
You weep. And mourn and cry silently with him, holding his hands to your chest. Between the sobs, you beg him, “Please, don’t leave. Please, please…”. Oh how much he wished he was deaf. To not hear your voice, your desperate, breaking tone which will haunt him even in his afterlife. Was it selfish of him to ask this much?
He struggles with maintaining eye contact; his eyes lingering on the tip of your lips. Withdrawing his hands from your hold, he extends his arm forward until the tips of his cold fingers slide over your skin. A delicate thumb wipes away the streak of blood from the corner of lips.
“The performance is over for the night. Thank you for watching the show with patience.”
It all shatters once again. Like a windowpane separating a world of the known and that of the unknown mist breaking piece by piece when a stone hits its surface. Cries of siren and thundering skies. Misty eyes and gigantic waves. Frantic cries ebb out of your tongue until they bleed. Oh, how beautiful are the drops of crimson blood staining the white tiles of the washroom and neck of his old guitar.