xxx. The White Knight & The Dark Horse

Dear Diary,

The two of them remind me of two sides of a coin. Essentially visually consistent, only a few quirks Nature’s hand wrote out making them different. A beauty mark here, a shorter nose there. Because she had to make them different. Because two of one would be too much.

I know I don’t usually talk about them. I know I make an active effort to do anything but. But, today, they visited again. I only saw them for a moment, as I had to leave for school soon after they arrived. But, still. Still, that one second in which I locked eyes with them, that one second in which they crossed paths with me only to disappear behind another door whose contents I knew not, I couldn’t help it. I can’t help myself.

If he knew, he’d laugh at me. Surely, he wouldn’t miss the chance to do so. If he knew that I cried, I don’t even want to think about it. I don’t even want to think about the amount of endless blackmailing that would occur should he ever see the tears he caused. But, at the same time, I wonder. I wonder what chivalrous action he’d take to stop them.

I suppose it’s obvious. I’ve been thinking about him recently. Just him in general. Just his image, his personality, his words, in general. Not daydreaming. Rather, reminiscing. Burning it all into my memory so that I never lose it. So that I never forget, as though I ever could.

It’s all a precaution should the worst scenario occur.

It’s always good to take precautions, isn’t it?

I’m burning you again today as well. Because everything I write can and will be used against me. Against my grandfather. Against my family. Against the two of them. And, against my species itself. But, you already know that. So, don’t feel sad when I rip these pages out once more. Don’t tell anyone that I’ll never burn them.

Because for some reason, I want to keep this: this entry that reminds me of them even though they left so long ago. Because for some reason, I don’t think I’ll see them again for a long time following this. Because for some reason, something tells me, there’s this feeling in my gut that’s wholly indescribable, that those two won’t live to see the age of twenty.

Despite Nature’s efforts, they’re too much, you know?

My White Knight and the Dark Horse.

They’re practically begging someone to come cut them down. To end them. To rid them of the troubles that once more, today, I’m unable to see the root of. To finish what Nature started, two beings such as their selves too much for this world of ours to handle.

To kill them.

Sooner rather than later.

Sincerely,

Stephanie Hwang

Age 17

The wooden door slammed shut, the sound reverberating from tree to tree, echoing off into the distant forest that surrounded the large home. The trees had long since lost their heavy coats of white. Nature had shed it’s winter clothes. It now prepared itself for the mild-mid summer nights. For the fiery mid-summer days.

Today is May 20^th.

The weekend.

Saturday to be exact.

And they were looking forward to summer. To the activities it would bring along with it. Swimming. Beach vacations. Barbeques. Though, perhaps most importantly, Graduation.

28 days and counting now.

28 days and counting until they found out what awaited them. As though anxiously anticipating the gift they were to receive on Christmas, the two had kept count of the days precisely. Down to the last minute. Down to the last second. Trepidation nipping at their heels. Summer batting at their noses. So close and yet so far at the same time. So much to accomplish in what seemed to be such little time.

Those above them would say they’re fighting a losing battle. That all they will receive is coal in their stockings on Christmas morning. That the situation has digressed to a point in which resistance is, as it is most commonly said to be, futile.

Futility.

Neither sides of the mirror knew the definition of such a word anymore. They may have fought over the existence of such a word, cracks forming at the edges of the cleanly cut glass, but they had come to an agreement in the end. After many busy winter days, many eventful spring nights, they had smoothed out that which had cracked.

Futility.

The word was one the two decided unanimously to delete from the dictionary. Webster be damned, the word ceased to exist. The meaning it may have held in the past was that which it defined. Because it was useless changing their minds at this point. Not when key players had entered the stage, changing the script. Rewriting events that should have occurred. That in the end, didn’t. Making all three sides of the fight they raged in even out.

It made them confident.

Confident enough to step out into the light after so long. To take the stage once more, their costume change having long since taken place. With one call, they came out from behind the thick, red curtain. It had them doing what they had just done here, at the large, pastel white house they walked away from, leaving catastrophe in their wake for one particular person who lived inside it.

Leaving them moving onto their second act of the evening. An act that had them walking down two different paths. Two separate scenes. The question now was, who would go where? Who would greet the princess? Who would act as savior to the prince? It was a question that had long since been answered, but he found a reason to ask it anyway.

Soryong asked it anyway.

“Where are you going?”

“To Snow White.” Daeryong answered, his voice not missing a beat. Not a single stutter. His volume anything but a mumble. He was painfully obvious; just like the girl he was going to seek out now.

“Then, I’m headed off to the eldest of the dwarves.” Soryong raised his arm, waving goodbye with his hand in which his car keys were held tightly, “Have fun with the princess.”

“I always do.” He quipped back, about to leave on foot. About to leave just like that, leaving a small, gratefully chirping sparrow in his shadow, when he caught sight of his brother’s hand tucked tightly in his jean’s pocket. And, he couldn’t miss out on the chance to . To tease his little brother with that one question as he reached out, patting down onto Soryong’s left pocket as he smiled coyly, "Are you keeping them safe?"

"Of course I am. After all the trouble we went through to get them, why wouldn’t I be?" After all the trouble they went through to find them buried so deep as they were.  After all the trouble he went through before he was finally able to read their contents. After all of that, he wasn't going to back down from the events that were being set into motion. Even up until the point in which “The End” came knocking on their door. And that thought had Soryong thinking, had him wondering out loud, “We can’t do this forever, you know.”

It was a statement, not a question. And yet, it still received an answer.

“That’s why we have to keep doing it while we still can.”

And his brother smiled, and he smiled back.

Ill-fated or not, there was no more time for hesitation when it came to scaling the Himalayan giant that stood before them. One of many es to come.

Dear Diary,

I promise to keep this entry short. Not because I don’t have things to say about him. Not because today was uneventful. Rather, the person I’m writing about maintains a short attention span. Maintains a foolish persona that leaves me wondering at times how he manages to go day to day without ending the world. Maintains a smile as big as the sun that reveals itself with a nudge of his chin upwards, just slightly.

I know. I’m over exaggerating.

Because while he may be and do all of those things, he’s still that same kid. That same kid who would follow me around, despite being older than me by two years. Pre-puberty helped him look younger. Post-puberty was what caused us to drift apart. It’s not his fault. If it’s anyone’s, it’s mine. It’s mine for not giving him the attention he needed. The attention that was like a single buoy amidst the big, blue sea.

It’s attention that keeps him afloat.

It’s attention that he deserves.

Why am I suddenly inspired to write about him today? In the back of my closet, I found it. I found it while I packed my things into the boxes at my side: the same boxes I’ll pack you in too. I found the present I had received from him on my fifteenth birthday. Stored there, not a single thing blocking it from view and yet, I had forgotten it.

A horse mask.

At first, I thought that it was the most useless present I could have received from anyone at any point of time in my life. But, I never wrote this down, I’ve never admitted it to myself before now, but, it became the best. It became the best thing I have ever gotten. Not because of what it was but rather for the purpose it served. For those words he told me when he slipped it onto my head, his endless laughter ceasing for a single moment.

He told me, “Fany, use this when you cry.”

As though he knew. As though he was giving me all the attention I failed to give him and more. As though I was so obvious. Perhaps I am to him. To them. It’s embarrassing to think they knew even then how I felt. How I felt about it all. How many tears I choked down because fate had written an ending for me that was most unfavorable. That remains unfavorable to this day.

And, that day, after he shoved it over my head, he stayed there with me for a long while. I didn’t cry. Rather, I thought something. After sitting there, after I could feel the world beyond the tight plastic become smaller and smaller, I thought something.

When it’s hard for him, where does he hide?

It was this question I found myself asking, once the feelings of overwhelming gratefulness began to settle in, my shock and awe at his ability to read and perceive the feelings of another always and forever new to me each time.

It was this question that I found the answer to today.

When it’s hard for him, where does he hide?

The Dark Horse, the wild stallion, hides in plain sight. Or rather, he forgoes hiding at all. Because only when he’s visible can he be healed. Only when the mask comes off can he find comfort through another person.

She likes him, you know? The girl like a magnifying glass to his personality. The girl who goes by a name she chose after looking on him fondly for years now. She likes him, that girl.

But, I don’t think he’ll ever know. Or maybe, he already does. Maybe, he’s scared of the same thing I am. Maybe, he’s waiting for someone to come up and heal him. To at long last give him the attention he deserves.

I hope he finds that person soon.

He’s in his twenties now.

He made it. They both made it. Despite all odds, he’s still living and breathing somewhere out there. I can only hope he doesn’t meet his end before he finds that person. Before he can quell his fears and settle things.

I truly do hope the Dark Horse can run on forever.

Long strides. Powerful legs. Determined passion. Never ending. Always going. Always moving.

I truly do hope Nature does not rob the world of him too soon: the sun that shines down on you far out of sight.

Sincerely,

Stephanie Hwang

Age 22

P.S. We’re moving to Springfield today. I’ve decided to take my plastic mare with me. 

He didn’t knock right away. He psyched himself out first. He bounced from one heel to the other, massaging one palm into the other. Kneading thumbs into wrists. Full pink lips parting. One, heavy sigh leaving him. He was anxious. But, most of all, he was eager. He was too eager.

It had been so long since he last even had the time to sneak a glance at this house whose porch he stood on. Whose front door his hand hovered over. No. That’s wrong. He’s had time. He’s had more than enough time. He simply didn’t know what to do with it. He simply didn’t know what he was supposed to do with it. He simply didn’t know then what he knew now: that what mattered in the end was what he wanted to do with it.

With his unpredictable time whose hands moved at a rate he knew not.

With his unpredictable hand which decided to tremble against the door then, even though he didn’t mean to. Even though he was still preparing himself for it. For the sight of that which he missed. Certainly not for that which opened the door instead. For who opened the door instead. Though still, he greeted the surprise with open arms.

“Good evening, Ms. Song.” He bowed just slightly, smile large. Because she had unknowingly given him more time to steady his pulsing nerve endings which buzzed just from the thought of being near to who he sought out. Judging from the older woman’s expression, judging from the apron wrapped around her body, she was cooking dinner and hadn’t expected company today. Especially not him.

And yet, she didn’t turn him away. She didn’t put up a strong front, pushing him out as much as she could. Keeping him from touching upon that which raged inside of her like a storm each time she saw him – his connection, his attachment, to that which she loved too strong for her liking. Instead, she stepped aside, mumbling a low, “She’s in the living room,” before shrinking away, back into the kitchen where she had been before.

He stepped inside slowly, looking around, taking in the sights and the smells. Committing it all to memory, this place that felt like a second home. Slipping off his shoes with ease, he took soft steps inside. But, at the sight of her, sitting there on the couch with her back facing him. With her head down, looking at something in her hands, his footsteps became anything but quiet. Or rather, he wanted to announce himself to her.

He promptly annouced himself, loudly and proudly, “Long time no see, Jojo.”

 And she visibly flinched, turning around slowly. Her eyes caught sight of him and her lips parted, her shoulders relaxed, her furrowed eyebrows unfurled.

“Daeryong.” She whispered his name – knowing it was him without a doubt – her voice aching, tugging at him with a strength he couldn’t fight against. As though she missed the sound of her voice saying it as much as he did. He didn’t maintain his distance from her, closing in on the couch and rounding it as she managed out a small muttering of, “You’re here.”

Like she couldn’t believe it. Like she was dreaming. Like someone had just broken the news to her that pigs could indeed fly.

“I am.” He replied, sinking into his seat beside her, his head oriented towards her, his body turned towards her, all of his attention focused on nothing but. She stared at him in silence for awhile and he could practically see the gears working in her brain. All the conclusions and hypothesizes melded together in the form of her lips closing, her eyes returning to their normal size, her fingers loosening around the rectangular object in her slim fingers.

And, her lips curved upwards, her head leaning forward as she hid it: her amusement with him. As her arm went out, nudging him in the side for his sudden appearance, for his long delayed appearance, and yet, not scolding him in the least.

And, it’s when he smiled back, when he nudged her back, that he saw the item in her lap. The shallow box filled with slips of laminated paper: pictures. His curiosity got the better of him. His desire to hear her voice speak all the combinations the alphabet had to offer after so long got the better of him.

“What’s this you’ve got going on?” He peeked over her shoulder, his fringe brushing against the sleeve of her t-shirt as he leaned in.

“Oh,” She began, seemingly forgetting about what she was doing for a moment due to his appearance, much to his satisfaction, “My mom and I were organizing the photo albums. It’s one of the few boxes we’ve left to unpack besides—” She stopped there, her teeth biting down onto her lower lip, her next words looking as though they weren’t going to come out anytime soon.

Which left him beckoning them from her with an inquiring repetition of, “Besides?”

That’s when she gave up. That’s when her lip was released from her teeth and she divulged to him the contents of said other box her mother and herself had left to unpack, “Besides Alien Vs. Predator Collectable Figurines and the like.”

He raised his eyebrows, this fascination with worlds that existed beyond their own and the fights between species unlike their own new to him. He knew about her other hobbies of giant robots and lizards – or “Godzilla,” as she so persistently proclaimed when he called it by such a “demeaning,” according to her, name.  “Really?”

“No.” She shrugged her shoulders, observing him from the corner of her eyes, their closeness so natural, so mindlessly normal, that the feeling of each breath he exhaled hitting her neck left her anything but on edge. If anything, it relaxed her. That along with the look of suspicion he gave her, making her give herself up in the end, once more, “Yes. My dad’s a huge fan of Sci-fi stuff. So, you could say it’s his fault I’m like this.” She drew her eyes down once more, thumbing through a stack of five or six photos she had in her hands, “Not that I particularly mind it.” 

Daeryong nodded, because he didn’t mind it either.

He certainly didn’t.

“This him?” He asked as he pointed to the picture on top of the stack in front of her. The picture of an older man with brown hair, falling in fluffy, short waves on his head. A style that made the man look young, but, certainly not as young as the woman, or rather girl, who stood beside him.

A miniature Song Hyunjoo, her hair pulled into a side, low ponytail. Her hand clenching onto the man’s shirt, attached to him like glue. She must have not been a year over eight years old. And it was her eight-year-old self’s winter that was there, captured in that picture. Buildings he recognized stood in the background. Buildings he had only ever seen in pictures stood in the background.

He always wanted to visit Paris.

So, it was a shame the opportunity had never arisen.

But, like this, he could feel it. The cold weather of winter. The warm smell of bread that filled one’s stomach. The happiness of being in a place with your most precious person, your most precious family, no matter where it may have been.

“Yeah.” Hyunjoo laughed at his side, her shoulders shaking due to the gesture. Her shoulders rubbing against his leaned in chest, low vibrations caused from the friction traveling down his spine as a result. A pleasant vibration he wanted to know the cause of.

“And why is our Jojo laughing so?”

She breathed in deeply, her eyes staring down at that picture and yet, it’s as though they were looking at something far away. Something much to far away. “Well, I used to get asked by my friends in my hometown if he was my older brother. They’d always be surprised when I told them, ‘Nope, that’s my dad.’ So, that you knew so quickly is funny, I guess.” She shrugged, as though she didn’t know herself why she laughed.

As though she didn’t know that laughing was, and always would be, her best defensive mechanism against it all. Against everything. Against anything. It wasn’t much unlike his own. They say when you start to see yourself in another person its, well, nevermind. For now, nevermind. Right now, he focused on her. He focused everything and anything, all of it, on her.

“Are they blind? That,” he pointed down at the man whose eyes held the camera, a youthful smile blooming on his face like a child’s as his hand held gently pressed against the back of her head, “that look in his eyes, that’s fatherly love if I’ve ever seen it.” He heard a few plates topple over onto metal – most likely into the sink – in the kitchen, a sudden noise that he couldn’t help but laugh at, “That’s fatherly love in its purest of forms.”

And that’s all he said. Those are the only words he spoke regarding the matter. But, he wished she could have seen it. That she could have read the script of the action-packed scenes, of the lengthy acts, that followed this one he wrote so plainly across his eyes. That he hoped to convey with the simplest of means. Simpler than words. Because sometimes words were too much. Sometimes, words had the ability to make a person forget.

And the one’s he said next wiped away the look she was giving him. The inquisitive look, the curious look, that was distinctly hers. Just like that, she forgot. Was the font of the subtext too small the read? Was it not flashy enough? Was it not obvious enough?

But, how much more obvious could he be? How many more open ended statements could he say before the truth finally came out? How much more until it all blew up in the end? Would he have to coat it all in highlighter to avoid that end?

Maybe she just couldn’t see it. Maybe she just couldn’t see past the mountain that stood before her. He doesn’t blame her. If he were her, he would have given up long ago. Her tenacity was, and always would be, her strong point.

Maybe she just couldn’t see it: the silent plea he was giving her. The invisible words hidden in between the closely placed subtext she couldn’t make out right now. Not right now. He doesn’t blame her. He doesn’t blame her for not noticing it. He’s an attention seeker anyway.

And, he should at the very least be happy to have gotten her attention with his next words. The words that made her forget. The words she couldn’t see behind. Not right now. The obvious hiding place she couldn’t find. Not right now.

“We bailed him out.”

Dear Diary,

He came to see me today, his steed nowhere to be found. I’m not going to say I like it, I wasn’t going to say I liked it, but, I liked it. He wasn’t supposed to. He had his orders, I’m sure. As do I. As does my grandfather. So then, he shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t have come here. And yet, he did. He did as he wanted and came to the house today. Two hours earlier than when I’m sure he knew my grandfather was to return home, he came. He said he had nothing to do. He said he was lying around before he drove over.

He's a liar.

He's a lovable liar.

Because his lies keep on giving. His lies which cover up his true intentions so obviously like a thinly sewn blanket make me nervous. Anxious. Happy. Is it too selfish to think he came to see me? Is it too selfish to wish he would lie in order to do so? Because all other words he says are white, shining truths. Like that smile he gives me, gleaming even in the darkness. Even when the lights are off. Even when I can’t see a thing, I can still see it. I can still feel it.

I can feel his overtly chivalrous personality. I can see the way he looks at me, the image of me repeating endlessly in his irises like two mirrors facing towards each other. I can feel the way his hand hovers over my back as he moves past me to grab a paper towel while I prepare a snack for him. Just a hair’s width away from touching me. Just a distance that will never come close to changing.

Not unless I say something first.

He’s like that.

He’s kind like that.

He’s considerate like that.

He won’t make a move unless I tell him I want him to.

But, I don’t want him to.

The feeling in my chest is tight. Warm. Kind of like a hot air balloon. Forever floating upwards as more warmth piles in. As the flames burn brighter and brighter. That’s the feeling he gives me.

He’s like that, you know?

Like a hot air balloon.

If I tie him down, he can’t fly higher. If I fasten the knot, another can shoot him down with ease. The fabric which is so ornately sewn together can tear with the simplest of means. Relationships such as ours are easy to break.

They’re easy to manipulate.

Getting attached would do us no good. Getting attached is something I’ve already done. Like a precious item, I want to keep him close to me. My own precious person. I want to keep him, even though I’m far from being the princess who can support him. I want to keep my White Knight within eye’s view, within an ear shot, within reach of my hands. Always.

I want to keep what we are. What we’ve been. What we’ll always be.

I want to keep him strong: my White Knight in his shining armor, his sword one which sways not in the name of “justice” but for that which he himself wishes to protect.

I want to keep myself strong. Because one day I may have to play the part of the knight. The one who marches out first, clearing the way for those who follow me. For the Dark Horse with the boundless desires. For my White Knight and his poised manner.

I’m keeping this too: this entry of mine. Not because I don’t want to burn it. But, he’s downstairs right now, talking to my grandfather. He’d see it. He’d see me throw it into the fireplace and then he’d see these words and I can’t exactly take that chance. And even when they stop talking, I’ll hear them continuously droning on all night. I’m sure I will. Because I don’t want them to stop. Because I’ll trick myself into believing they never do. Because when they do, he’ll leave again.

And how many months would it be this time?

Would it be over a year once more?

We always used to be together.

But, we’re not children anymore.

And, I miss it. So, I’m going to let myself be childish. I’m not burning this. Not today. Not tomorrow. No matter who finds it. No matter who sees it. No matter who reads it. Even if it’s my White Knight himself. Even then, I’ll behave childishly.

Even then, I’ll confess childishly.

I’m not going to say I want it to happen, but I want it to happen.

My courage is nothing in the face of him who burns me with a single glance. Whose memory I never want to fade from the etch-a-sketch that is the human mind. So, you’ll go to him, won’t you?

Somehow.  Someday. Someway or another.

One way or another.

Won’t you?

And when you do, make sure he’s still doing as he wants. That he’s doing what matters most to him. That he’s making his rambunctious steed do the same.

Because with the limited amount of time they have in this world, I want them to at the very least be doing that. Even if it takes them away from me.

Even if, as I write this, I’m crying again.

Even if, as I finish this, I’m burning from the inside out.

How long will it be this time?

Sincerely,

Stephanie Hwang

Age 19

P.S. In the end, fours years went by. Just like that.

He was just as confused as he thought he would be. Like a lost lamb, he walked slowly out from behind the police officer dressed in royal blue that led the way for him. As though he thought himself to be walking a path to the slaughter house, he was cautious with every step he took. He was eternally suspicious of what had occurred to result in his release from his cage. He stood there, dumbfounded, naturally narrowed eyes taking in his surroundings. Ears twitching just slightly. Nose sniffing as though he had caught a whiff of something awful.

And that’s when he turned to him, at long last. That’s when he finally met the infamous Kim Sunggyu, who knew in an instant what he himself was. As to who he was, that was the next question that left the rasping male’s lips, his throat parched as he still got used to the taste of long forgotten freedom, no matter how short the amount of time was that he may have spent in that cage of his.

“Who are you?”

He answered him, the spotlight shining down on his figure, his right hand reaching out to take Sunggyu’s own, “Nice to meet you, Kim Sunggyu. My name is Jung Soryong. I am an EN06 ranking officer of the Elite Enforcers.” His words were garbled nonsense to the younger male, as they should have been. As they would no longer be from that night onward. “I’m the one who bailed you out of your nonsensical charge.”

“And why would you do that?” Sunggyu asked, defensive still. Apprehensive still. Ever wary still.

And the connection between himself and Sunggyu needed no more explanation once he said his next words. The tie between them, linked by a common thread, made the untrusting Sunggyu trusting in an instant.

“I’m a friend of Song Hyunjoo.”

And at long last, Sunggyu’s right hand reached out slowly and shook his own, his gesture saying more than words could ever say. As though they had reached the of the script, the end nearly there, nearly in sight. As though they could merely reach out and greet it with the simplest of means. And he gripped down onto the folded piece of paper in his left pocket, telling himself that this wasn’t the end. This was only the beginning. And he wouldn’t abandon the story at its start; still in its infancy. This was him doing what he wanted to do.

Because he had lived into his twenties. Because in the end, tears being spilt was the last thing he wanted to see.

As a knight should, he was chivalrous to a fault in not wanting to see his princess cry.

As a knight should, he remained strong.

As a knight should, he would – along with his gallant steed – wield his sword for that which he wanted to protect.

Tiffany always was cheesy, wasn’t she? 

But, wasn’t he even more so then for taking up her words like his own Coat of Arms?

They were both hopeless then.

Hopelessly—

A/N:

Yes, it ends just like that. I tried a lot of new dynamics in this chapter. The "You" (second person) perspective wasn't included (Cause I felt like it. Which one do you like more? There are pros and cons to both third person and second person omnipresent perspectives). I included Tiffany's perspective in the form of diary entries that loosely tied into the events which occur the night after Sunggyu's arrest -- just after Minah calls for Daeryong (I do hope you all caught onto that. He did call her "Little Sparrow": his own official nickname for her). I usually do a flashback chapter (or something similar) whenever I do a "special" chapter. But, no, this isn't technically a flashback chapter. Not yet. Now's not the time for that. Not right now. 

Did you like it? Did you?

Sidenote: After Friday ends, my internet access is nonexistent. 
Don't know what I'm talking about? Read this. 

So then, feel free to spam me w/ messages on AFF or here or here.