speed-dial #05.
the alcohol wipe goes over the edges of the open wound and she winces, a snarl in protest coupled with the reflective retraction of her arm as though it’s a first. there’s a slight pause on his end ( exasperation, perhaps ) and his grip around her wrist remains, but his free hand is gentle at the fingertips when he continues with a fresh wipe.
“let’s see… another fella got unlucky tonight?” it isn’t so much curiosity than it is concern. she wears these scars like a fighter, proudly and relentlessly, but a good part of him wishes she could do the same for herself instead. a thumb rests over a faded scar at the side of her forearm, the patch of discoloured skin barely visible now but the red remains vivid and fresh in his mind, as do every other scar on her that is his work.
the silence is resounding and anxiety brews from the calamity and familiarity, like he’s waiting for a storm; but it doesn’t come. her pulse –– beating and strong and alive –– the only assurance he holds onto. this shall pass, this shall pass.
“i think i’ve seen patchwork that are in better shape than you.” there’s clear exasperation in his tone but he knows better than to ask; answers do neither of them any good at this point. he rids himself of the stained gloves in favour of a new pair, disinfectants overpowering the scent of iron. this cleanliness puts him at odd ease as he tapes the bandage down; at least it’s nothing critical yet. “you just need more colours, maybe.”
she snorts in response, evidently unimpressed. it’s nothing she hasn’t heard from him, but they both know he isn’t going to stop.
“shut up and kiss me.”
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there is nothing more infuriating than an irrefutable logic, especially one that’s neatly presented to him by none other than the man who holds his utmost respect.
“what’s there to be afraid of? the man’s dead. he can’t hurt you.”
it’s an incessant cycle of pushing him towards expectations held above him, chasing limits that seem out of reach. it does him good, he reckons; it should.
“we’re running out of time here, joohwan.”
the air in the morgue is heavy, numbing to his hands; the skin too cold to his touch, hand withdrawn and fingers curled tight into his palm instead. he’s not a coward.
“i’m sorry, i’ll try again ––”
an automated response, as though it’s almost instinctive to apologise for failure should not and would not be condoned in what they do. there is no room for failure and excuses –– he gets one shot, no more no less.
the first time he cuts into a body, he feels a part of him taken apart only to be fixed together after into something else, something new.