Opening the Box
That Summer
(LJS)
If time can travel backwards, I wish it would go back to the hour before I showed up in his apartment. Even the second before I entered the password to his door would still be in time to change the outcome. But as it is, the smallest actions we take, with or without intentions, can severely affect the course of things.
I had knocked on his door. I had knocked for a while and there was no answer. I thought he must be out, and went ahead to let myself in. I was surprised to find him sitting deep in thought in front of an easel, paintbrush in hand, in the room he had refused to let anyone in. For some reasons, he looked really tired - like a limp balloon which had lost some air. I stood in hesitation at the studio's doorway, looking quietly at the person who seemed so far away. For the first time, I felt we were in two different worlds.
He looked up when he finally sensed my presence, and appeared like he saw a ghost. I walked towards him, into the room that I momentarily forgot was off limits to everyone. It was a normal sized squarish room, built as a bedroom, used as an art studio. Before I managed to take a proper look at the place, he stepped before me, and blocked my vision.
Maybe, even at that point, if I were to only back off from the room, things would be very different now. In the very least, I could have remained by his side...
"How did you get in?" His tone is solemn, and he looks upset. For one usually calm and collected, there is an unfathomable nervousness on his face.
Maybe I shouldn't have taken the liberty to get into his apartment, even though we are so close and he was the one who offered his password. Things are different now - he didn't have a girlfriend then. I bite my lips, upset with myself for being inconsiderate.
"Jong Suk?"
"I've knocked for a while..."
His voice softens as his eyes turn apologetic, "I didn't know you knocked... sorry. Is there something you need?"
I nod quietly, happy that he sounds less angry now. "I have an interview tomorrow and thought about that white shirt... you know, the one you said would look good on me..." Truth is, I just wanted to see him. The shirt is a convenient excuse. I peep over his shoulder and smile broadly, "but look what I found!"
He stiffens and quickly blocks me, "You know where that shirt is, go get it yourself. You should have taken it when I told you it's for you." That's why I left it in his place. Because he bought it for me, and I only want to wear it when I'm with him.
"But..." I peer over his wide shoulders again, making my curiosity clear. He immediately grabs me, turning me around to face the door. Smaller in build and more nimble, I easily lower myself and slide under his arms...
and stand before a painting.
"...W-Woo Bin, this... is really good..." I'm a little taken aback by what I see - he is much better at painting than I had thought.
The focus of the artwork is a pair of bright red lips. Full and just slightly apart, it flirts its ominous presence from a depressing background. Oddly, a bright window floats at the upper corner, distant and small but strangely out of place. It feels... oppressive. My eyes get drawn back to the lips. It looks a little familiar but I shrug it off - lips look mostly the same, after all.
"What is this? ...abstract?" I dig into my memory for the term I learned in school.
"...whatever. C'mon, let's go make some coffee. You love that tin of Colombian, don't you?" He mutters. I fail to notice his voice has become tight.
"J-just a moment," I refuse to budge. "Woo Bin, I didn't know you can paint so well. Why didn't you show me earlier? This is good enough for a gallery!" I ignore his discomfort and utter my amazement before glancing around the room.
The barely furnished room probably has the best lighting in the apartment. Big tubes of paints lie messily in two wooden boxes beside the easel. Paintbrushes and other tools fill the rest of the space by it. Leaning against two walls are numerous canvases; some painted, some not.
I stride over, wanting to take a closer look, only to step over a paintbrush on the floor. As I slip, I desperately grab onto whatever's within my reach. It is his shirt. At the same time, I feel his arms behind my back, cushioning my fall.
"You ok?" He asks, looking concerned. I am on the floor, lying in his arms. "Jong Suk, are you alright?"
I look at him, then down to check a stinging pain from my elbow. Messy blood flows down my arm. I look at the cause and panicked.
"W-Woo Bin! The painting! Oh damn!" My elbow had landed badly on the frame of a canvas, scraping through some staples on the back. The impact caused a tear on the fabric, and there's stain from my blood. "I'm... I'm sorry!" God knows how long he spent painting it.
He doesn't seem to be bothered, as his attention is on my wound. He pulls the bottom of his tee to wipe away the blood, stopping the flow.
"Woo Bin, the painting..." and I fall silent as I look at it, no longer just focusing on the tear.
It is a portrait of... me.
I become still, unable to speak from the surprise of what's before me. Why would the painting be me? I turn back to look at him. He is silent, his hands are still holding my elbow, his head not lifted to look at me. I turn back to the damaged painting and my eyes fall onto another one beside it. It is a portrait of my back, with my face slightly towards the front. Not far away, I see my eyes staring back at me from another canvas.
I slump back a little, shocked at the discovery. Why would he use me as a subject in so many paintings? Maybe there are no particular reasons, maybe he paints many people. But the thought of him painting me strõke by strõke causes my heart to tremble.
"I told you never to come in," he suddenly says. He is still not looking up and I can't see his face. But his tone clearly shows that he is upset.
"Woo Bin..."
"I told you to get out! Didn't you hear?" He looks up with eyes that scare me. I stare at him in shock. I don't know why he is so angry. He moves nearer, and I find myself backing up against the wall, toppling another canvas filled with sketches. Paintings... sketches... they all have the same subject.
"Woo Bin..." I started. Somehow I think I should apologize, but my mind is confused like a tangled web.
He moves closer, until he cannot move nearer. His bloodied shirt hovers over my wounded arm, the blood fuses headily with his scent. I am trapped within his perimeter, as he places both arms on the wall, denying my breathing space. It is too close. I can feel his angry breath on me. He leans on the side of my head, breathing hard, as if to calm himself.
"You think you can just come in here....... See...? You can only get yourself hurt!" his voice shakes from trying hard to remain calm. "It's why this place is locked! Now you know."
"Know... what," my own voice is barely audible. I'm not sure if I heard it myself.
"I... paint what's on my mind..." he says, sounding more helpless now than angry. "I paint what's in my heart... do you know what I mean?"
I hold my breath, I... don't know what he meant.
"Up till three years ago, I'd only done sketches and cartoons. I drew the things I wanted to remember, and the things I wanted to tell myself... One day, that pencil and paper were no longer enough. I found myself wanting to paint, to express myself in colours what was before me, to capture the essence of a single moment that black and white was not able to provide. So I trained myself to paint, and had been painting till now, trying to perfect the colours of just one singular subject," he moves a little to stare at me intently in the eyes. "A year ago, I met a pottery master. He told me, the hardest colour to create is the colour of a loved one..." he says, as he gently touches my cheek with the back of his fingers. "...I agree. Jong Suk, do you know what I mean?"
No, I don't know what he meant. My mind is screwing me because his face is coming too close to mine. I can feel his breath at the side of my lips.
"Suk, do you... know what I mean?" he whispers gently, his lips now so close to mine I can no longer see his face.
My tongue is as numb as the rest of my body. If only there's a remote possibility that what he means is what I yearn for. But how could it be, he is seeing her. I back further into the wall, the hard surface refusing to cradle me further. For the first time of my life, I'm terrified. I'm terrified that I could no longer keep my secret. But what if... am I allowed to dream? I weakly lift my arm towards his neck, not sure if I can catch this dream with my fingers.
Nobody knows what would have happened then if the call never came. But it did come. Maybe, that's the warning for us. A warning to remind us that there is a line we should never cross.
He disregards the call and parts his lips a little. I slowly close my eyes, now hearing only the thumping of my own heart, ready to pass out from the headiness I feel. But the ringing of the phone persists. He lets out a heavy sigh, and backs away from me to pick it up.
"Yes, Eomma.... yes, Aboeji told me that..... You will drop by this weekend?... no, no... she won't be free..... I know, but it's too early to talk about..... yes, I know.... yes... I know his health is no good..."
I listen to his conversation with his mother, the erratic beating of my heart hardly resuming its rhythm. I nervously glance around the room and once again my eyes are drawn to the painting on the easel. That is when I notice the very faint dot on the lip. I realize why I thought it looked familiar just now, as my finger touches the same spot on mine.
"Yes, Eomma, I will let Mi Na know you sent your regards..."
Then my eyes rest upon the bright window in the painting - the bright white window with a single cross grid. All of a sudden, I realize why this room has to be locked. He is right. This room should remain locked forever. I have no business barging into this place.
"Suk..." he finishes the call and turns to me. His eyes fill with all the tenderness I've always craved for.
"Ya! Kim Woo Bin!" I jump up from the floor, ignoring the pain on my elbow, which tears as badly as my heart. "Kim Woo Bin! What joke are you pulling now? You'll get me into deep shît with Sin Ae!"
"Suk, it's not a..."
"Are you honing your acting skill? If you're not with Mi Na I'll probably be fooled," I turn to head for the door. I need to get out of this place right now. "Great acting but I've got to run, Sin Ae's waiting for my call."
"Suk!"
No, don't call me. Don't make me turn around. I can't turn around now - I'm not that strong. Yet it is you, it is you who call me, so I turn.
I flinch as his lips crook to one side, revealing to me the bad boy smile he reserves for his acting. He straightens his posture and pushes his fringe to the side. And laughs.
"Damn Saekki! How do you know I was fooling you?" I smirk, to pretend. He continues, "I just got my script. It's my first lead role in a drama.... you know, it's a melo so I've got to practice some emotions."
I quietly gaze at him. This room drains a person. He was looking deflated when I found him, and now I, too, have lost something... the air in me, I guess.
"...why did you paint me?" I drag out the question to which an answer is not needed.
He gaze at me with the answer, before replying, "I heard it's easier to paint someone with well defined facial features first. You're the closest I could think of." He laughs but it is hollow. "C'mon, don't tell me you want a copyright fee!"
I shake my head, "Of course not. Pay me when you become famous. It's late now, I've got to go."
"Suk," I stop my footsteps. "... Don't come into this studio anymore."
My silent nod is my reply as I walk out the door. I try to see the path in front of me but the air is dry and it stings my eyes.
Yes, let's lock this room again. I don't want to see that look in your eyes.
I don't want to see you laugh again with sadness in those eyes.
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.... and Pandora opened the box, letting all evil out. She quickly closed it, but it was too late. Now, only Hope is left.
(tbc...)
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