Skin, Bone

{1/2}

           The bar was never empty. From early afternoon to dawn, the bar was a graveyard of half-alive souls, people with nowhere to turn, seeking oblivion. Lights, flashing and colorful, danced across the wall like hungry flames, curling around the drunken and crowded bodies sprawled across the dance floor in bright, alluring embers. Heat thickened the air, weighing down and poking at the fire, it further and further until it burned up the entire bar. The stench of alcohol and blaring electronic music muddled the senses and the minds of the corpse-like partiers, trapping them in a purple haze where nothing mattered: nothing but instant gratification and drinking the agony away. The purple haze, like the rolling smoke after a wildfire, filled the bar, rolling off sweaty bodies, mingling in the air to create a taste of bitterness and longing. Anyone a mile away could catch the stench, could hear the ghostly cries and cheers of the people who lost themselves within bad music and pungent alcohol. The Oval, bar and nightclub, was a drug, and once one got the first taste of Vodka to their lips, there was no going back.

           Chanyeol came to people-watch. Every night, his eyes drew to those amiss in their purple haze, careless with their bodies, hearts and minds. He never tasted the Vodka. He sat behind the bar, damp rag draped over his shoulder, soaking the fabric of his bristling, crisp black button-up, as he watched everyone. No one ever sat at the bar, leaving him alone to stand, mindlessly cleaning glasses and selling the occasionally shot or cocktail. Loneliness overcame him quickly, in a way his own drug at The Oval, enough to drive him to work every night, giving up his sleepless nights to stand behind three feet of bar space, surrounding by people who were never there. Chanyeol would accept the company of mindless bodies rather than dead ones or empty space. He’d ask them how they were as the staggered to the counter, their pupils faded into a lilac blur, their mouths ajar and slanted, fumbling and asking him for more drink. Chanyeol would smile and slide them full glasses, watching as they downed each drink in what seemed like a second. They were empty, he could tell. Whatever waited for them beyond The Oval must be terrible, he thought, forcing human beings to give away their consciousness,  their freedom, and their purity to a place so crowded, unhappy, and manufactured. At The Oval, Chanyeol noticed, everything that made someone human, despite perhaps desire and lust, was sacrificed to this purple haze. Chanyeol feared it. He hoped the lilac would never seep into his own veins.

           He’d rather die.

           He was human. Inside and out.

 

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           “You’re free to go,” Kris said, stepping out of his office behind the bar. Chanyeol watched his boss: his features crinkled, bags under his eyes heavy and dark, hair disheveled, the gel he applied at the beginning of the night beginning to melt away, leaving large, white flakes in his fringe.

           “You should take a night off, Kris,” he said back. The bar was empty. “I can handle one night.”

           Kris gave him a skeptical look. The owner’s face was hollow and sunken, like a weathered skull, his cheekbones pronounced, his collarbone jutting out like the edge of a knife, and the veins and tendons in his hands and wrists painting a picture beneath his skin. His skin, practically transparent, lacking all melanin, seemed as thin as paper. Thin yet fit- his shoulders broad and muscled- Kris towered a few inches above Chanyeol, his eyes sharp and cold, compared to his own: delicately curved eyelids into thick lashes and wide irises. Kris’ eyes, reflecting those of a stray dog, all skin and bone, its teeth bared and eyes clouded red, ready to snap at the slightest movement, bore into Chanyeol’s, and he stepped back.

           “It’s just a suggestion,” Chanyeol said, leaning to his right, resting his elbow on the bar.

           “I appreciate it, Park,” his boss murmured. “But I can’t. You know I can’t.”

           “I know.”

           Kris stepped closer and clapped a hand on his shoulder, his fingers bony but incredibly strong against his skin. “You did well tonight, as usual. Hope you made some tips.”

           “You think people in the haze tip?” Chanyeol couldn’t help but snort. Kris never experienced firsthand how mindless his customers truly were, what his establishment did to them, what it stripped from them.

           “You and this haze…” Kris fell silent for a moment, his arctic gaze trailing over the entirety of Chanyeol’s body, before averting away. “I don’t understand you. You’re odd.”

           “Is that a compliment?”

           Kris laughed. His voice was deep, and resonated in Chanyeol’s chest, rattling his ribs and twisting his stomach into knots. “You’re observant. You even know most of the customers by name while I can’t remember a single face.”

 

           Kris, too, fell victim to his own purple haze. Anyone who crossed over the threshold, Chanyeol noted, lost their identity- their name, their profession, every aspect to who they were. That’s why Chanyeol learned every name and every face. He studied the awkward quirks of each feature, the way their mouth slanted when they smiled, the way they held their shoulders when approached, the way they took a glass in their hands. Each face had a different story, and as Chanyeol sat behind the bar, he wrote the stories himself, focusing on one person and wondering why they were there, what their worst fears were, what they desired. A disowned doctor, a broke college student, a rich girl: all of them had their reasons for being here, and to ease his own suffering and curiosity, he manufactured these stories. None of them were worth asking, their gazes too empty to be met.

    There were never any new faces. If there were, Chanyeol already knew them.

 

    “I’ll think about that day off,” Kris said. He received no response. He pulled his oversized winter coat onto his shoulders, the sides of his face hugged by gray furs, like the corpse of a fox wrapped at his neck, as if it was prized game. “You get home and get to sleep.”

    Chanyeol shook his head. “I can’t.”

    Kris nodded back, and his eyes softened. “Insomnia, right?”

    “Yes.”

    He bit at  lip and ducked his head as if tilting a hat his way. “Well, I’ll see you tonight.”

    “Tonight,” Chanyeol said.

 

    Chanyeol took a long way home, as he always did. The walk was long, and there were no street lights for two blocks of that walk. Chanyeol trekked in darkness, the air light and breathable compared to the air of death and rotting morality of The Oval, yet he found himself offset, missing the heavy, morbid air.

    Starless, cloudy skies hung overhead as Chanyeol to a lightless side street. The asphalt below his feet was cold and damp. It had rained earlier that night. Water dripped from the trim and gutters of dark apartment buildings, its inhabitants long asleep, destined to wake up as the sun breaches the horizon in only a few hours. The constant patter of water against stone rang in Chanyeol’s ears like a wordless chant, and his steps fell in time with the beat of the dripping. Drip. Drip. Step. Step. He wasn’t afraid; he never was. It was as if the road was his own, an unspokenly claimed territory: his domain. He wandered in the darkness- in the suffocating, wet blanket of black velvet that lay over the night, as if trying to smother everyone and everything under it. The entire stretch of road is encased in darkness, the only iridescence blinking in the distance: a street light at least half a mile away.  Chanyeol’s apartment is the only place on the street with a working light.

If he didn’t know any better, he would expect a black cat to run right before he took his next step, but he did know better, and there was no cat.

“Toben, I’m home,” he said as he stepped inside.

His apartment was bright, all of his lamps and overhead lights , basking the tiny, grimy apartment in a warm, welcoming blanket of gold. Toben, his small dog with tightly curled brown fur, clambered from the small kitchen and circled his legs, leaping sloppily and at his bare ankles. Chanyeol knelt, his hands brushing the soft fur, a light laugh tumbling from his lips as Toben crawled into his lap, lapping his tongue at the underside of Chanyeol’s chin. He his back. Toben was always there when he came home, his tail wagging at the speed of light, showering him with wet, sloppy kisses that he cherished.

A heap of bills piled up in a leaning tower on his kitchen counter, all of which containing prices he knew he could not pay, yet powering fifty-four lamps for twenty-four hours a day cost money; Chanyeol knew that. Instead of using his small paychecks and empty tip jars to put a dent into the massive ravine of debt he dug himself into, he spent it buying dog food for Toben and ordering pizza every single night. This proved to be difficult, though, as most pizza joints in the area refused to deliver to his apartment anymore. He now had to go and pick it up himself.

Tonight, though, he wasn’t very hungry.

“Time for bed,” he whispered to Toben, pulling him into his lanky arms before standing, his knees screaming and begging for rest.

He stepped from the living space and took a right. His bedroom was small, much like the rest of his things. A bed, constructed of a withering mattress, mix-matched sheets, and a yellowed pillow, sat in the far left corner under the window, where Chanyeol always kept his curtains drawn pulled open to let the first show of sun inside. Four lamps surrounded his bed, all different heights and with different lamp shades, yet they all focused on basking his bedroom in overwhelming light. Chanyeol couldn’t doze off otherwise. He refused to call it sleep. Sleep meant finding peace in the darkness, to dream and to suffer nightmares, to wake up the next day, refreshed and rejuvenated. Chanyeol didn’t dream. Therefore he didn’t sleep.

Reluctantly, Chanyeol curled up on his mattress, Toben resting contently on his chest. The lights flickered and blared, the lamp with the blue and green lampshade endlessly blaring a high-pitched wail: a telltale sign of old age, yet Chanyeol refused to retire the poor thing. If he got rid of his lamps, he’d have to find new ones, and lamps were getting harder to find. Chanyeol kissed Toben’s head firmly, his hand still tangled in his friend’s hair as he willed his eyes shut. He listened to Toben’s pants and the lamp’s whirring for hours, until he felt a warm graze of the sun sneaking in through the window, the rays dancing along the windowsill and leaning down to kiss his cheeks. Tendrils wrapped around his face, clearing his lungs and throat, the rays basking down onto him. He dozed off.

 

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Another night, another haze. Chanyeol stood behind the bar, resting his elbows on the counter. Kris retreated back to his office, a full bottle of Vodka tucked in his hands. He noticed how Kris’ hands trembled as he struggled to unlock the door to the back office, and the way the Vodka sloshed and roared inside its glass vessel. Chanyeol bit his lip.

Not even an hour past opening, the bar was packed. Chanyeol noted the earlier in the night, the more conscious the patrons seemed to be. A woman, her hair pulled back into a teased ponytail, her eyes clouded  blue and black, her lips as red as blood, came to the bar and sat. She placed her coin purse on the bar-top in front of her. Her hands were recently manicured, her nails a perfect coat of pink, with her middle finger on both hands painted black. Chanyeol didn’t understand why. She looked to him wordlessly, and Chanyeol slid her a glass of pure Vodka. She scowled. Chanyeol knew she was real.

“What can I get for you?” he asked. His heart raced and pounded in his chest, for he hadn’t encountered anyone awake in what felt like grueling, agonizing months.

“Just a Corona would be fine.”

Chanyeol liked the sound of her voice. She was American, her voice as smooth and alluring as honey, her lips pursing with each vowel. Chanyeol turned and grabbed a cold glass of Corona from the under-bar fridge. They didn’t sell beer often. He slid it to her across the bar top. “Here.”

“How much?” She asked.

“On the house.”
    Chanyeol relished in the way she stared at him in shock.

“I can’t possibly-”

“Take it.”

With a shy but uneasy smile, she accepted the drink, lifting it to her lips. Her lipstick stained the rounded glass with red. Her eyelashes brushed against her cheek as she fluttered her eyes shut, humming around the bottle neck as the golden liquid slipped down . Chanyeol leaned back, his arms locked and fingers curled around the underside of the bar. The dance floor started becoming more and more packed, and yet no matter how many more corpses wandered in, the woman stayed there, her eyes bright as she talked to him. Her face was gentle and bright, save for the harsh shadow of her eyes and heavy mascara. She leaned in a bit when they talked. Her lips tilted to the right when she found something funny. Chanyeol wasn’t a very funny person.

“What’s your name, hun?” the woman  asked.

“Call me Park.”

“Park, eh? Nice name,” she said. “It suits you.”
    “You could say that,” Chanyeol said. He wouldn’t ask for her name.

He squirmed. He wanted to go back to his people-watching: a time of bliss where he could watch people and wonder who they were and where they came from.

Chanyeol flinched as she reached out and grabbed his hand, pinning it against the bar.    

“Why don’t we go out? We have the whole night ahead of us.”

He swallowed a lump in his throat and retreated further behind the bar, his back pressed against the large and empty wine rack. She looked less human now. Her face crumpled like wet tissue paper, her head and shoulders thinning until she resembled a skeleton. The hair cascading over her left shoulder withered, now dry, frizzy, and an unnatural tone of gray. Sunken, hollow eyes replaced sparkling blue ones, and bloodstained teeth and jaws replaced intricate, rost lipstick. Chanyeol expected her to crawl over the counter and leap at him, sinking her gnarly fangs into the curve of his neck.

“Not interested,” he said, throat tight. “Sorry.”

She flinched as if Chanyeol had reached out and slapped her. “Excuse me?”

“I’m working.”

The woman shook her head. The blood dribbled down her chin. Chanyeol shook his head. The blood was gone, but the rage was still painted in red across her features. She wasn’t used to be turned down.

“Nothing goes past the bar,” he clarified. “Merely business. Sorry.”

Silently, the woman ducked her head between her shoulder blades like a rabid dog being spat at, nearly all the white in her eyes gone. She walked off, her tail tucked between her legs, and Chanyeol lost her in the thickening crowd.

It wasn’t often that a new face came into The Oval. From the countless years he spent standing behind the bar, night after night, new faces were a rarity, but when they did emerge, they hardly left. Faces like hers were common among the jewels- desperate women, mostly rejects, searching for love and validation in the arms of drunken strangers. As dejecting it was to consider, Chanyeol knew, from these desires and desperations, that these women were real. All of those who came looking for the numbness to their pain were real and human. At least, they were before they became regulars.

 

Two new faces in one night were even more strange, much less a face as pale, soft, and round as the face that emerged through the tinted double-doors. Chanyeol twisted his head as he heard the door shudder, the harsh winds outside pulling it shut with a loud crash. At the entrance stood two figures; the one to the right was tall and lean, his shoulders large beneath a large fur-lined winter coat. His legs were long branches from the hem, skinny dress pants hugging toned calves. His face was angular and handsome, soft brown curls hugging the sides of his cheeks. His lips tugged into a bright grin that exposed pearl-like teeth, his entire face bright and glowing through the artificial light.

Beside the man stood another, a few heads shorter. His hair was blond, obviously dyed, and hid his forehead and most of his eyes, leaving a button nose and curled, pink lips across his chin. His entire neck was bandaged, white gauze stark against his skin, the edges invisible past his jawline. A long, oversized jacket engulfed his entire body, trailing down to nearly his ankles. Chanyeol couldn’t make out much of his physique, other than how small he seemed next to the man beside him. His face was pale and sunken underneath the light. He resembled a corpse. Chanyeol couldn’t keep his eyes off of him.

The pair barely stepped inside before being surrounded, a few lingerers from the earlier who had not yet lost their humanity. They beckoned them further inside, leading the pair to one of the few round tables tucked in the far back corner, all the way across the dance floor from the bar. Chanyeol shifted, struggling to crane his neck to keep watching them. They sat with their friends, the smaller tucked on the inside of the man’s arm, his one shoulder overtaking the entirety of the latter’s size. He nearly disappeared into his coat.

That sickeningly sweet smile never left the man’s face, nor did his arm ever leave the smaller body. He laughed and conversed with the others, all of their faces bright and beginning to haze over. The smaller never looked up. Chanyeol couldn’t see what he looked like. He wanted to know more, to see more. Chanyeol mused on their story: an unlikely couple, dysfunctional brother relationship, or perhaps a strange relationship. For once, he was stumped. The constant changes in body language screamed different stories: a soft caress of the taller’s fingers against the blond’s shoulder, only for the thick fingers to curl around his arm, so skinny, and squeeze, as if trying to break the bone. He’d turn his face close to his temple, whether whispering and gracing the skin with a gentle kiss, only to snap and force his head down, fingers wrapped in his hair. The exchange unsettled Chanyeol, his insides twisting and turning as he struggled to place just who they were.

The taller, Chanyeol could tell, began to lose himself to the purple haze, his head becoming too heavy for his neck as he downed drink after drink, happily conversing with those across from him, and leaving the smaller alone in the chair beside him. The blond sat silently for the first hour they were there, an unopened beer sitting in front of him. Chanyeol tucked himself at the far corner of the bar, and through a perfect tunnel through the thick hoard of corpses, he was granted a perfect view of the blond. He sat, his kneecaps tucked close together beneath the table as he stepped on his own feet, the small white sneakers stained with dirt and dark spots that vaguely reminded Chanyeol of the blood stains. His hands twisted in his lap so tightly and quickly he was sure the kid’s fingers would break. They were bandaged too, delicate little things adorned in white wrapping that disrupted their elegance. Chanyeol imagined a car accident, an unfortunate encounter with a kitchen knife, any kind of incident that could cause such harm.

 

It seemed like hours passed, lively faces turning to stone, until the taller male stood, brushing his hand across the length of the latter’s shoulders and pulling away. He stalked off to the restrooms, disappearing behind the dark, heavy metal door. The others at the table blended into the crowd. The small blond sat at the table alone. For the first time since he walked in, he lifted his head, the frizzy bangs slipping from his eyes and exposing dark, yet wide eyes folded in an exhausted stare. Each second, the blond shrunk further and further into himself, his entire body trembling as he pulled his knees up to his chest, hiding his face behind his bony knees.

Chanyeol never stepped out from behind the bar; it was one of his rules. But, as the image of the blond drew closer until, suddenly, he stood in front of him, Chanyeol realized that not only had he left the bar, but he trekked across the entire dance floor, the sweat of strangers sticking his shirt to his skin. He shivered.

The blond tucked his chin back down to his chest, his fingers twitching and fiddling. He tugged at the bandages around his fingers and palms as if trying to claw the fabric away. Chanyeol pulled out a plastic chair from the table, sinking into it until he was level with him. His eyes narrowed as he observed him, his demeanor tense, and from under the dark lighting, Chanyeol could tell he was trembling.

“What’s your name?”

The boy ignored him. His trembling worsened.

“Hey,” he said, reaching across the table to grab  his arm.

The kid flinched away, his eyes wide as saucers as he scrambled back. The chair screeched under his weight, and he nearly fell backward, the chair pitching to the side. Before Chanyeol managed to sprint to catch him, the boy steadied himself, gripping onto the edge of the flimsy table with two petite and bandaged hands. For the first time, he lifted his gaze enough to meet Chanyeol’s, and he instantly regretted approaching him.

    His eyes, drooped just enough to sadden his features, were heavy and dark with bags that disrupted that porcelain smoothness of the rest of his face. The desperation b in those two dark orbs that stared at him in absolute terror manifested itself in thick, crystallized tears. They adorned his cheeks, slipping across his skin and thickening around his lips, which trembled and pursed as sobs caught in his throat. His fingers curled in front of him on the table, and Chanyeol could tell now how small and frail they were, the bones craning through the bandages and pressing against his skin.

The boy leaned forward in his chair, reaching his short arm across the table to grab the pen tucked in Chanyeol’s shirt pocket. Chanyeol let him, his heart hammering in his chest as the crying boy shakily pulled the pen from his pocket and sank back into his chair. His fingers trembled around the pen with such rigor that the poor thing could hardly hold onto the pen. His head whipped around towards the bathroom door before, with confidence and speed that nearly gave Chanyeol whiplash, pulling a wet napkin out from his unopened beer bottle. He ducked his head down, like a feral animal crouched over the remnants of his food. He pressed the pen to the napkin, scribbling something Chanyeol couldn’t quite make out from across the table.

Keeping his head low, the boy slid the napkin over to Chanyeol. The red ink across it was smudged, but the word was clear as day:

 

    HELP.

The ink across the curve of the P bled into the wet spot on the napkin, mimicking a blood stain.

 

Chanyeol lifted his gaze, horrified.

“What?”
 

“Who are you?”
    Chanyeol looked up. The man escorting the boy in front of him stood, the smile still plastered to his face, but now Chanyeol could see the red seeping through his teeth.

“The bartender,” he said.

“Shouldn’t you be behind the bar?”

Chanyeol motioned his head toward the blond, the napkin crumpled in his balled fist. He could see the boy from the corner of his eye: his body hunched in on itself and trembling.

    “I just wanted to say hello,” Chanyeol said. “He looked lonely.”

    “He’s fine. Aren’t you, B?”

    He turned to look at the boy, who sheepishly lifted his gaze to the man. The desperation and terror in his eyes lingered like high tide, waves swarming behind glossy irises, yet his lips curled into a broken smile. Wordlessly, he nodded.

    “He’s fine. We don’t need anything to drink.”

    Chanyeol was sure his heart would stop beating, and he’d fall in line with all the other corpses in the bar, just because of the sinister glow behind his grin this time, the edges of his lips curling to the left in a crooked manner that could only mean the man was up to no good. Chanyeol had seen it time and time again in the bar’s mindless occupants. He spared one last glance to the boy- B -who had returned to his infatuation with his fingers, his head ducked so low that his forehead nearly pressed against the table. As Chanyeol stood, putting a few inches between him and the stranger, he saw that in the boy's lap, he held his red ball-point pen.

 

    Despite his deathly thin and withered appearance, Chanyeol knew the kid was alive, was human. Still alive, he was, but barely breathing. Help. The boy needed help. As Chanyeol turned away to retreat back behind the bar, he felt eyes burning into his back. He glanced over his shoulder to see the blond, quivering boy staring back at him. Chanyeol nodded in a silent promise. The napkin burned at his palm.

    Help.

    He’d help.

 

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    Guilt devoured Chanyeol as he watched the pair leave. It was not even half way through the night, and he knew he could not abandon his post to crawl after them. He still concealed the napkin in his palm, the wetness of the red ink staining his hand, his fingers beginning to cramp, but he didn’t dare let go. B hadn’t managed a glance as he left the bar, his , as Chanyeol dubbed him, pressing his broad palm against his nape, forcing his head down. The however, grinned widely at Chanyeol as they left, his wish of a goodnight slurred and drunken.

    Chanyeol only stood there.

    At the end of the night, unlike usual, he bid Kris a swift and insincere goodbye before ducking outside. He unraveled the napkin as soon as he stood outside, the neon lighting flickering over the worn fabric, illuminating the simple word that managed to freeze his insides. Help. His opportunity to help slipped right past his fingers, and Chanyeol, as he walked home, managed to convince himself he’d never see the blond again. He would never know what hid behind the bandages, or what caused such a beautiful, lively face to be stricken with such torture and terror.

    Chanyeol spent a long time theorizing about people: who they were, where they came from, what they strengths and weakness are, but never did he imagine anything deeper of his patrons. He thought little of their desires past a good night of dancing and drinking. He thought little of the fears and anguishes behind each face.

    But Chanyeol thought of B, and the way his eyes scrunched and crinkled as tears slipped past, only for his face to be stone dry the second after, no trace of his crystallized fear across his cheeks. For once, Chanyeol needed to know more. With each second of ignorance that passed, Chanyeol’s rage bubbled into a boiling concoction that sent his mind reeling, dragging him down by the ankles. He thrashed against his rage and cried, his arms flailing. He threw out his left arm, his balled fist ramming into the brick wall, the skin across his knuckles cracked open and bleeding.

    He had stopped a few feet from his apartment. The sole streetlight flickered and bore down on him in warm, comforting streams of golden yellow, lighting the pathway up to his second-story apartment. Chanyeol stepped away from the wall, his breathing ragged as he cradled his bloody fist against his chest.

    Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow, maybe B and his would return, and Chanyeol would have his redemption.

    He stalked to his apartment, more bills spilling over the kitchen counter, and without greeting the whining Toben circling his feet, he crawled into bed, the napkin balled tightly in his injured fist. He continued to cradle it, his mind reeling and chest aching as he, for the first time in a while, fell asleep.

    He knew he didn’t doze off. Dozing off doesn’t include dreaming. He never dreamed. But he fell asleep, and he saw images in the darkness: he saw, heard, and smelled fear. He danced with agony, and sang terror to sleep. For the first night since he was a child, he dreamed. Most would describe it as a nightmare, Chanyeol pondered, but the sensation of a dream was so surreal and foreign, that happiness and relief intertwined with his torture.

    He was human. Inside and out. Now, he was even more so.

    Help. Chanyeol vowed himself to that one word scribbled in crimson.