01

“Your aim ,” the bartender says, chuckling as he watches her wrist snap forwards, the dart embedding itself into the softwood board.

Her eyes flash dangerously as she spares the bartender with a sidelong glance. She picks at the darts, her fingers the slender metal as she weighs it in her palm. She nods. This would do. Her eyes level at the small red spot, at the direct centre. She tilts her head slightly, a brief glance at the now silent bartender who recognises the challenge. She smirks, watch this.

The air seems to ripple. The bartender has lost interest in whatever he had been doing before. His eyes now follow the dart snapping forwards. Cleanly, neatly. The bartender seems baffled. The utensils in his hands clatter to the floor and scatter across the carpeted floor. She listens to the sharp inhalation of breath and the soft thud of metal on the carpet. A smile teases the corners of her lips, but she does not let it show.

“I take back what I said,” the bartender bends down to pick up the fallen utensils and her face falls a little, if it had been noticeable at all underneath the solemn expression she had been wearing all along. “Impressive.”

A curt nod. The bartender takes no notice of the stiff nod and laughs, pushing a drink towards her. Never shyly, she thinks, never shyly.

Nonetheless, she drains the glass within seconds. She knows nothing of the drink she had just consumed, but the liquid burns and soothes her. She hears the twinkling of the piano in her head, playing to Bach’s classics. Her body hums along with each note involuntarily and she readily accepts another glass the bartender offers with a smile. Ignorance or sheer stupidity has nothing to do with it. She understands the situation and where this may lead her to. Another night at a nameless hotel, another night with a nameless bartender. It frightens her, but as the piano keys increase in volume, so does her need to silence it.

She wishes for control, but it always happens to be the one she can never quite seem to find. She drains another glass, her third. And continues until she can no longer count the many she had accepted. She feels an arm slipping under her knees, the other at her neck. The cold marble of the bar is no longer underneath her face as she is lifted into the arms of a stranger.

But she doesn’t struggle.

The bartender will find no joy in her if he continues. Even if he does, it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. The use of a flustered, lifeless and unresponsive girl is minimal. The bartender will not arouse her. She knows this very well.

“Come on,” the soft purring of car hums in her ears.

Her head lolls to her right, against the smooth leather of the car-seat. Her nose, though burning and currently unwilling to do as she had wanted, is able to catch the faint scent of the vehicle. Strawberries…and coffee?

 She whimpers softly. The numbness in her head is not allowing her to think, but she prefers it that way. Isn’t that the only way to be happy anymore? Like the stray darts before, she feels wasted, unworthy, undeserving. Even then, she feels nothing more, but the burning trail down her cheeks and the smooth leather at her fingertips. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t when she is aware and awake. She knows better than to allow strangers to see this part of her. She barely even feels the hot tears gushing out of her eyes. So…this doesn’t count as crying, right?

“Hey, don’t cry. I’ll help.”

Help? She doesn’t need any help. She doesn’t want any help. She is fine on her own, as it always had been. The bartender, she presumes, rests his hand over hers. She almost feels his concern. Sadly, she doesn’t care enough to acknowledge it.

“I…don’t want your help,” she says quietly, though her words are slurred and possibly incoherent.

“Well, you don’t want it, but you sure need it.”

“I don’t…know you.”

Her will to hold onto the conversation is strong, but the lethargy in her is growing stronger as well. She doesn’t want to fall asleep. Dreams come to her, and they haunt her.

“Sure you don’t.”

She struggles, but fails ultimately.

Like her pathetic attempt at trying to forget Jessica.

~+~

Jessica’s father detests drunkards. Probably because her mother was the victim of one and her sister followed after due to depression. Jessica understands, learns and moves on. She listens to her father’s stern advice; ‘never touch a drop of alcohol’, silently and nods her head respectfully in the mornings. She doesn’t say anything, even if she gets bored of listening to it, because there’s really nothing she can say to it. She has never befriended an alcoholic or an insistent persuader. Hence, she finds no relation with alcohol in her social life. And she never needs to.

Until Im Yoona walks in on her life and tramples on everything with her dirty footsteps.

It had been easy, really. All Yoona requires is a smile, a friendly pat and a ride to the nearest bar. Jessica is hesitant, aware of Yoona’s social status as an alcoholic and a heavy smoker. Jessica is never proven wrong as she catches the alcohol lingering on Yoona’s clothes and the nicotine in Yoona’s breath. Jessica rests her hand on the hood of her car, finding her adamant mind shaking and crumbling at Yoona’s persuasive touch.

“All I need is a ride,” Yoona smiles and Jessica ponders on the possibility of smokers having yellow teeth when Yoona’s seem to be clean and white, even.

It doesn’t seem possible, but Yoona happens to be the very definition of persuasion. Jessica doesn’t waver easily, but she her conscience trembles before Yoona. Jessica can never find an answer why and she still tries to seek for it, though an apprehensive feeling clouds her judgement.

~+~

Imagine Heaven. It isn’t difficult for Jessica Jung. All she needs is to picture Yoona by her side and the perfect image of Heaven is captured for her. Her eyes water at the smoke and she swipes at the air with her hand.

“Not in the car, please,” she says, catching a glimpse of Yoona in the back seat, arms stretched out, windows rolled down as she dangles the cigarette in between her slender fingers.

Yoona arches an eyebrow, but drops the cigarette onto the road, the flames extinguished by the passing cars. Jessica smiles approvingly, though that smile is hidden. The box tucked in Yoona’s pocket is pulled out again as Yoona draws out another one.

“Seriously, you can’t. Not in the car, Yoona,” Jessica warns again and Yoona drops the cigarette back onto the seat, her head falling back to rest on the headrest.

“The windows are open, Jessica,” Yoona reasons, but Jessica can’t afford to get caught.

“Do it somewhere else or you’re taking public transport.”

The tone is final and Yoona dares not question Jessica’s authority. She tucks the cigarette carton back into her back pocket and stares out the open window, the wind playing with her hair. It feels nice, and smells exactly of cigarettes.

“How many do you take per day?” Jessica asks as she waits for the traffic lights to turn green.

Yoona stops to count. “About ten?”

Jessica falters, her hand coming to rest on the stick shift.

“Yes, I know what you’re going to say. God, I’ve made a template for this. ‘It’s bad for your health. You should stop. You should quit.’ You don’t have to tell me, Jessica. I know enough.”

“I don’t know enough to tell you that.”

Her answer surprises Yoona. “Pardon?”

The car begins to move, but Yoona knows Jessica’s delayed answer has nothing to do with that slight distraction. “I have never smoked in my life. I don’t want to assume things.”

Oh, the rare moments when she doesn’t have to be associated with drugs or a homeless wanderer. Yoona is uncertain if she should rejoice or be relieved. Society has marked her as an unlawful hooligan. Anyone who ever said otherwise are crazy enough to defy society.

“Another left?”

Yoona jolts from her thoughts, her mind suddenly jarred back to reality.

She nods. “Another left.”

The car stops and Jessica rests her hands on her laps, unsure of what to say. Yoona mutters her thanks and alights, but Jessica’s soft, hesitant voice calls her back.

“Are you going to call me?”

Yoona’s eyes widen slightly but she nods and bows. “Thank you.”

“Hey, Yoona, one day, this isn’t the only thing you’re going to be thanking me for.”

Yoona is left to ponder on Jessica’s words.

~+~

“Jessica.”

“Yes, Dad?” Jessica’s back had been turned towards her father, who appears from the garage, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Your car reeks. Get an air freshener,” her father says.

“Sorry, Dad, I left the windows open. The air-conditioning’s off.”

“I’ve fixed it, so you don’t have to leave it open anymore. Don’t want my little girl to suffocate now,” her father grins and grabs the bottle on the counter.

Jessica smiles, “I’m not your little girl, Dad.”

Krystal was.

Her father nods and heads off. She tries to suppress the guilt, but the grip on the plate tightens. She briskly rinses off the soap and stacks it in the corner, her palms coming to rest on the sides of the sink. I don’t know what to do.

She questions the foamy bubbles collected in the sink and then wonders why the only girl she isn’t allowed to be with happens to be the only girl she wants. Life is sad, but stereotypes are sadder. Yoona must have been strong then, to endure years of this. Well, she must be, to ignore the snarky comments passed on by the girls, the proud claims of the boys on having touched her and the disapproving looks of the teachers and staff when their eyes rest on Im Yoona, deemed as troublemaker.

~+~

“You don’t have to send me today. I’m going with someone else,” Yoona says as Jessica approaches her, car keys dangling in her hand.

Yoona sees the small nod of Jessica’s head and watches as Jessica walks away with heavy steps.

“I can’t do this,” she whispers quietly, crushing the box of cigarettes in her hand.

She tosses the box onto the ground, bringing the scarf around her neck closer to her face. The box disappears into the bushes and Yoona doesn’t turn around to retrieve it, though the absence of the much-needed nicotine in her lungs is making her jumpy and uncoordinated. It yells for her to go back to get it. Her mind reasons with her, one more, just one more.

But how long will one more cigarette be?

She settles on the bench, fiddling with her fingers. She doesn’t want to go to the bar today and has refused the invitations and offers to buy her drinks. But she isn’t used to this. She isn’t ready for this change. She needs the numbing alcohol and the calming cigarettes. She needs them.

But she repels them.

She wanders around for a drugstore and purchases some gum, to satisfy her smoking habits. Popping one into , she grimaces at the differences. This would do. Somehow, it manages to calm her down slightly, but never in the same way alcohol and cigarettes does.

She smiles, thinking of Jessica’s car and the random, awkward conversations that seem to grow and deepen in time. Her mind drifts away from the coarse liquids and boxes of Malboro smokes. Her fingers twitch, unused to the absence of the white stick in between them.

They are the same.

Yoona’s faint smile fades away. They are exactly the same. The way they talk; their laughter. Yoona never thought of it to be possible, but quitting smoking doesn’t exactly seem possible to her either. She traces the small scar on her the back of her hand and it all comes rushing back to her. She hears Bach’s piano pieces again and regrets are beginning to weigh her down. Maybe she should have gone to drink. Maybe that would lessen the pain.

But until when?

~+~