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He forgets what it's like without the pain.
He aches for a memory of what life without aching is, but the memory does not come. His body throbs and pulses in agony; here, there; up, down. It hurts so much. It's been long since it didn't hurt. It's been longer since he used to cry his pain out.
He wonders how long it's been since breathing didn't hurt as bad as it does right now ; he can't really remember. Does time has any meaning in this place? It must, right? He remembers ever so clearly when his captor counted off the seconds in slow relish as he brandished his whip with full force. One. Two. Three. Someone's screaming. It's a familiar scream. It haunts his days and his nights; it follows him into his sleep and tortures his mind when he is awake.
His eyes are tired of seeing nothing but shades of black, gray and red. Is the world only limited to these colours, its canvas flooded with hopelessness and darkness and nothing else? His chest and limbs ache. His body begs for some sort of release- because oh god it hurts and he can't breathe and he just wants to stop - but unconsciousness refuses to come.
Sometimes he remembers why he's here, and then it hurts a little less and a little more at the same time. He remembers their faces; sometimes vividly, sometimes it's vague. But they keep his mind intact as his body is shattered like delicate, delicate glass.
But he doesn't know how long his sanity will remain. How many times has he cried? How many times has he been left with nothing but the darkness and the slickness of his own own crimson blood and transparent tears beneath his fingers? How many times did he feel the heart stopping fear whenever he hears those footsteps; his footsteps.
Oh, yes, he thinks with a morbid smile. He enjoys the broken state he's in right now. He tells him that he looks so pretty like this, so close to shattering. A shell. He hasn't come today- not yet at least. It must be a day not as sacred as the ones before it. The young man still feels the ache in his arms from last night's session. He hopes he isn't asleep by the time the white haired captor arrives. Sleep is a privilege he has to pay for by "entertaining" him. He is very entertained when it comes to screams and blood and tears.
Tap. Tap. Tap
Oh. There he is. The young man's body tense up. The familiar chill runs down his spine. His muscles lock up and his eyes are wide open. His body begins to tremble. He feels so, so cold.
He hears the footsteps again. They move at a regular rhythm; a symphony of order. He tries to focus on the light pouring through the cracks in the cieling. He can glimpse a tiny bit of blue, too. Blue is the colour of faraway freedom. His heart aches.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
More rapidly this time. Urgent. Fast. His captor is in a bad mood today, or he's excited. He doesn't know which option he prefers less.
What is it going to be today? Whips again? Maybe shards of glass. He hopes it won't be like the time he'd just taunt him like he usually does. But his captor's taunts are illegible to him now. He's too cold and frozen to feel any meaning behind them. He wishes he wasn't so scared- this is fine. This is normal. This is routine. Why is he so absolutely, positively terrified?
The door slams open, and the violet eyed young man jumps slightly. He ducks his head and curls into himself further, ignoring the immense pain in his limbs as his body protested loudly. His eyes are still looking up at patch of sky like his life depends on it.
He hears the footsteps coming closer. And then a yell. It startles him so much; he lets out a groan of pain and his eyes water. Why? He's so confused. It isn't rare for a yell to be heard, but why did this one extract such a reaction from him?
His eyes won't look anywhere but the little visible area of sky- like his sanity depends on it.
A few moments of tense silence pass. Why isn't his captor coming any closer? Is this his method of torture for the day? Watching the young man sit there, transfixed in fear for as long as he pleased. He honestly prefers his blood being drawn to this crippling terror.
But then he hears another noise. A sob.
"Yoosung?"
Yoosung. Meteor; shooting star. What a strange name. It brings back an odd feeling. His body shakes. His digs his fingernails into his bare skin until he could feel the metallic red liquid slide down his arms. The captive dares, after much reluctance, to mouth the name experimentally. It tastes like sunshine and a clear, blue sky. It leaves his lips like something familiar and unpainful. Is that his name? It might be. It must be. It is.
Yoosung finally brings himself to lower his eyes. He locks them with a pair brown.
So familiar. So familiar. Is she one of the faces? He thinks she is. But what's she doing here? He must be dreaming. In case that's it, Yoosung needs to wake himself up quickly. Sleep is a privilege, after all.
He doesn't speak. He just stares into the eyes of the woman from this dream he must be having, and then looks in the direction of the sky once again. If only he can live up to his name; shooting stars are young. They live short lives, but shine so brightly and travel so far within that short span. He wishes he were a shooting star. He wants to feel himself burn his own life force, he wants to shine and incinerate his very being until nothing is left of his but a pure streak of white.
But he listens. He can't understand, but he listens as the brown eyed, short haired lady speaks. She isn't adressing him. It's nice to hear a voice that isn't his captor's, even if it is just a dream. But she sounds so distressed- Yoosung wonders what kind of ache she must be feeling to sound this sad.
She's talking. Frantically. Her voice seems to falter now and again. Yoosung guesses it's an ache in her chest; it always makes him falter, and it effectively kills his screams. He wonders if she feels the same suffocation he's so used to.
And then there is silence.
Yoosung closes his eyes for a while. Then he opens them again; violet eyes blinking themselves to a state of hesitant attention. He can't hear anything. Maybe he's awake now. Maybe the captor would soon arrive.
A hand on his shoulder jolts him into awarness - and oh god it's him, it's him, it has to be him now- , and he lets out a silent sigh so filled with pain and resignment, it would have shattered a heart of rock.
But the hand does not belong to his tormentor. It is the soft touch of one Jaehee Kang, and her heart has broken in two.
She withdraws her hand immediately, her senses taking over. She's intelligent, she always has been; she sees what she probably shouldn't do.
"Help is coming," she mutters, struggling to keep her usually calm voice from trembling.
Yoosung doesn't reply. His eyes are fixed on the patch of blue, faraway freedom, and his body is waiting for the blow that never comes. For some reason, though, he feels the need to laugh until his throat is raw from hollering in inane mirth and sobbing at the same time.