Since, A Novel

ix. GIVING IN TO HUNGER DOESN'T MEAN DEVOURING JUST ANYTHING

ix.
GIVING IN TO HUNGER DOESN'T MEAN DEVOURING JUST ANYTHING

               October 2023. The woman was so pretty that Yūn had questioned what even came before and what even comes next after death. In fact, Yūn, at first, wanted to not mind at all the things that she did with her unpredictable hand, unpredictable face, and unpredictable utters and let her continue what ever that she had intended to do: from time to time she plainly looked at Yūn, if not, a brief scrutiny (to which Yūn supposed that maybe it is the new norm?—she couldn't remember others of the selfsame behavior as the woman—so it couldn't be; it made her ultimately uncomfortable). The time she figured out that not all things each had their paces was when the girl had this silken delight in her eyes which Yūn had never seen before with anyone when she asked 'You mean I get to draw you?'. Delicacy has never been this bold, this naked, stripping itself of every consciousness there is but definitely not the self-regard to fall flat which fed the reason to just go and pursue! Because being drawn by art is properly seldom for just about anyone.

     At the same time, a beautiful moment can only last for a good while. The most gorgeous things happen like that. Just the same, there is a silent luxury, a little milk and honey in thinking of wanting to see the woman again even with all this black and horror. It only takes a phone call from your little sibling whom never called before to try and be extra alive for the next hours.

Out of everything to slip my mind, Yūn couldn't help but cudgel her brain, Why haven't I asked of her name?

It is as if the heat from everywhere had settled in the eyes to stop it from stilling on the train departure boards and Yūn is doing only so much to keep calm, composing her mind of only the clock and its ticks and the little girl she so much loves, holding the phone as foreboding worry insinuates itself; her right arm and nape began feeling like that of a plucked bird's skin. The ugliness of every little thing fills each and every one of her nerves. This time, she thinks, it is feeding good, this ugliness and this worry. Yūn, come home now. Please come home now. Upset luck had somehow picked this day to make the wonted platform she'd normally use unavailable and is now waiting for the stop from another that's going to take her home. This lady here . . . in our home, she calls herself our mother. She hears Little Su's voice and it stays in her ears like disembodied whispers that are enough to confine anything with flesh and consciousness; the reprise of the first fear she's ever heard back when a stray dog snarled and bared its teeth at the little girl who've only wanted to feed it had itself laced again on her voice but now with more pronounced, deep-rooted terror. She bites the skin off her lips as if sanity is in the metallic taste of blood that she is to taste.

After boarding the train, Yūn stares on her phone's wallpaper. Both of them, Yūn and Little Su, smile in the picture, the two sharing unilateral dimples. The train starts rumbling. I need to go home. She needs to see me. I need to go home. I must see her now.

Yūn is standing behind the door to their unit. Her lips were dried with blood and it stung. Biting her lips to keep the sting, she unlocks and twists the doorknob.

"Yūn?" says the girl from the living room.
"I'm here. Where are you, Little Su?" Yūn asks, looking at the dimmed lights to restrict her voice of any strain. She hears breathing but not of a little girl.
"I'm here—"
"Little Su," says the voice of a woman whom she used to so well. "Your sister made you a cute nickname.
Would you mind, love, if I also call you that?"