––––– ABSENCE IS A VIOLENCE. // @thecityandthecities
“have you heard the news yet?”
“news..? what news?”
“they’re dispatching staff to frontlines… there’s a shortage they say, name and name had packed and left.”
“already? i just seen her this morning!”
“…”
it begins in the morning, hours before the rays start to burn.
the premonition of something leaves a low stirring at the pit of his gut. first: the cup knocked over by an elbow––––no doubt accidentally, a commonality in a hectic setting has rendered as much. second: the twenty minutes feat of finding himself a new cup. third: the extended disappearance of the boy in the adjacent bed––––it’s been two full days. on hindsight, recovery isn’t much of a good news ( the end is a mere coin flip away ). fourth: he’s completely lost track of time––––arrives two hours late to lunch and has to settle with dry crackers. fifth: he can’t find her. sixth: he’s running low on painkillers.
jongsoo’s far from a superstitious man. yet in the face of pending uncertainties, fear takes a real bite and he’s gotten cautious, softened around condemned edges. ( straight through flesh, hooking tenderness, creating soft wounds that cut deep––––it’s newfound vulnerabilities, belatedly, gradually. )
there’s too much time and too little to do with an arm cast on. a futile attempt to shave himself with the non-dominant hand and a rusty old mirror sends him to his feet instead. ( she’s better with a straight razor––––an unnamed trust taking form; in between fingers, in between throat and blade, in between breaths, sharpened edges that do more than just pure damage. ) a learnt occupational habit that sticks––––always on the move, always alert, always keeping his hands full; there’s only so much sitting around he can take before idleness translates into restlessness.
it becomes hours of wandering around the hospital grounds, built on old bricks and tales untold.
( what are the fucking odds? )
in the grand scheme of things, his presence is negligibly insignificant. in here, he is no longer part of a hierarchy ( his words are lightweight ). in here, there are priorities transcending him and his own.
heart ringing in ears, residual warmth from midday sun clings to skin and leaves a scathing ache pulsing beneath it. spreading, spreading, spreading. thoughts replaced by a singular that’s chased onto a course of tunnel vision––––she is ( has been for a while now ) his pivotal point.
something begins to crawl up his throat, lugging with it a sinking weight and he feels his chest caving in, constricting, hitting rock bottom. it can’t be, this cannot be it.
goodbyes and habits are hammered out of him. from the beginning everyone has been in consensus, a silent acknowledgment that doesn’t read deeper than the perfunctory. an illusionary comfort. but their plans are never foolproof, and loopholes always dig deeper than intended.
yet here she is: a sanctuary in the midst of war fares, a temporary constant. here he is: seeking refuge, building a home from paradoxes.
( absence is a presence. )
it’s been an entire day and she’s nowhere to be seen. no news, no updates, no one willing to tell him what the fuck is going on. dread fills and solidifies: he needs to find her.
eventually he resorts to seeking familiarities in a pack of sticks, burning through half a dozen, the unequal lengths littered around him. ( like a ritual of sort. as though praying could salvage this. ) there’s an occasional tremble in his hands, perhaps of fear and anxiety, perhaps of something else.
( tick. )
a slight twitch under sullen eyes, he toes the last cigarette, brows furrowing from the smoke that stings.
( tick, tick, tick. )
the sun sets, and he assumes the worst: he might be losing more than just time.