Looking In
Didn't feel like this piece fitted in my stories, but I have always thought about how Chorong would have faced a love for a woman with her strong religious background. It's just an extremely short piece, please do not expect much of it. And of course, complete fiction. A fictional story with fictional characters. So if anyone feels like discussing or will be open to read a kind of religious take, feel free to give this a chance :')
The book is worn. Its cover is creased, so that it's almost bent double. She's tried stacking other books on top, to no avail. She's considered buying a new one, but she's had this one since she was eight, and it's carried her through almost everything. Her name is on the first page, along with the date: small, looping script – her mother's. She remembers her excitement, that day; she remembers her mother's bright smile, her father's twinkling eyes.
The beads are cool in her hand, entwined around her fingers and creating little purple impressions of chain. They are red, red like blood, red like love, red like pain. Jesus hangs for her redemption on the cross at the end, dangling out from the grip of her hand. She can't look at him, but she can't escape him; he looms large and judging on the wall ahead of her, so she turns her attention back to the book on her lap, and opens it.
There are passages underlined, outlined, highlighted in varying shades of pink, purple, and green. Notes are scribbled in the margin, there are bookmarks at every ten pages. The binding is coming loose, and she smiles wryly. The book mirrors her life, torn, marked, coming apart. But she's here on a mission, and at the darkness of midnight in the living room of the dormitory, she turns to the first verse she has making echoes in her mind.
Do not lie with a man as with a woman; that is detestable.
Detestable. It comes to her in a flood; soft lips and even softer touches, brown hair trailing over her face and quiet moans in her ear. The rush of blood to her head, red like the beads in her hand. The heat she never knew existed, in places that should fill her with shame. Sweat and slick, caress and kiss…
Detestable.
She turns pages.
They must be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.
"I'm in love with her."
The sound of the door slamming behind her echoed in her ears for hours. Her mother, eyes wide and pale, had left without a word. Bomi had held her hand as they sat on the couch, saying nothing.
She turns more pages.
Even their women exchanged natural relations for unnatural ones. In the same way the men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another.
She thinks of that word, natural. Natural as breathing, natural as water to a thirsty throat, natural as a hand in hers, a warm body next to her, as natural as the sun rising in the morning to reveal brown eyes clouded with sleep and care. As natural as coming home. As natural as finding the one person who can take all of you in and love you as naturally as if you'd known each other all your lives.
As natural as her heart beating, and the little way yours stops whenever she smiles at you.
Someone slides into the couch behind Chorong, and she tenses.
"First Peter," Bomi rests her hand on Chorong's shoulder. "Chapter four, verse eight."
Chorong quirks an eyebrow, but turns the pages anyway.
Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.
Her breath catches in like a sob, and Bomi's hand squeezes her shoulder gently. The beads drop onto the Bible and Chorong's hand closes over Bomi's, clutching tightly as she cries.
"First John, chapter four, verse eighteen."
There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.
Chorong is sobbing now, shoulders shaking, and Bomi scoots in beside her, wrapping the rosary around her wrist and her arms around Chorong. "Love never fails," she whispers into Chorong's hair, kissing her face and her lips, not caring that they're sitting in the dim light of a living room shared with other four people that could walk on them.
"How did you know…?" Chorong sniffs out, raising her face.
Bomi wipes her tears away and smiles when Chorong does the same for her.
"I'm an all-round super star, the ace of this group. I have my ways." This gets an eye roll from Chorong, and Bomi's smile widens.
"Be serious. How did you know…?" Chorong gestures to the Bible in her lap. "Or are you a secret Catholic ninja?"
Bomi snorts. "Hardly. But," and she captures Chorong's lips again, "I knew that it would… hurt you. So, I did my research." She shrugs. "I ended up reading it."
Chorong stares at her, shocked. Yoon Bomi, Christian only by tradition and a clear example of 'spiritual but not religious', firm opponent of even lifting a book, let alone read one… read the whole Bible? It seems almost… too freaky to be true.
Bomi huffs at her, as if she can read her mind. "Don't be so surprised."
It was so strange, so exactly Bomi, so sweet that Chorong was crying again, even as she shakes her head and laughs in disbelief. Bomi once again wipes her tears, and once again kisses Chorong with enough love for both of them.
"One more. Song of Solomon," Bomi says. "Chapter eight, verse six."
Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave. It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame.
It wasn't a statement, Chorong knows; it's a request. Bomi is asking her, then, sitting next to her with tears and fear in her eyes, not to give up. Not to give up on her, not to give up on them, not to give up on love. She glances up at the crucifix on the wall for the first time that night, and she understands, for the first time in her life understands, what her redemption was for. For Bomi, for the way she smiles, for the way she laughs, for the way Chorong feels when she's in her arms.
For love.
Chapters and verses used (New International Version, NIV):
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