Music falls effortlessly from the edges of his chapped lips; lyrics caress the insides of his soul like thousands of tiny fireflies sparkling with hope.

And with each passing day spent singing at the bar, Jongdae finds his singing slipping into sub-consciousness. His voice is a rare thin compared to the heavy beats and drunken laughter that surround him.

What is it like to fall into an endless circle of nothing?

His hair is a tangled mess of loss and deprivation, his arms frail compared to the built length of his shoulder blades.

Jongdae’s muscles lean against his bony spine—weak and unused.

There is no strength or endurance or power, merely the frantic remains of a dead boy.

Yes, Jongdae is dead—his eyes, his lips, his touch, his soul—trapped within the confinements of his beating heart and moving breath.

~~~

What is it like to not believe in anything?

Jongdae cries as the masses of crowd begin to disperse. The uncomfortable pats on his back and condolences are long since abandoned.

He still clings onto the small thread of hope, which stretches through the length between his mother and himself.

Sitting with his head pressed hard against the concrete slab, it is easy for Jongdae to lose himself in the heavy raindrops that echo in a distance.

He shelters his mother’s tombstone with the warm scrap of his worn-out coat.

Jongdae wants so desperately to fall between the cracks of soil—to snuggle next to the coffin of his dead mother, to feel her arms above his for one last time, to trace the veins of her ageing skin.

He doesn’t want to leave.

He doesn’t want to go home alone.

But reality moves on without him—a hard slap across his cheek; a cold touch of temptation.

“You’ll be with daddy, now.” He touches the smooth engravings of his mother’s name.

And with an ambient roar of defeat,
Jongdae lets go.

~~~

Jongdae wouldn’t even wish this for his worst enemy.

How could he?

How could he wish for someone to feel this kind of agony?

And Jongdae is sure that, if he focused hard enough, he could even feel the bitter taste of disaster approaching—a jagged line of goosebumps along his pale skin.

~~~

Her lips taste like cherry against the cinnamon flavour of her skin.

A smooth tangle of limbs is all it takes for her to lose all control—Jongdae has her body, her soul, at the tips of his fingers.

But instead of passion and love, he finds himself reaching behind for his accomplice.

He points the gun to the temple of her forehead, and the subtle click of the trigger drags her back into clarity—one last flash of life.

~~~

There is no such thing as feeling if you live in the depths of the dark city.

There is also no sound.

Only the occasional toss of dice and shuffling of cards.

Lights flicker across the seemingly long corridor that trails from the corner of Jongdae’s dorm to the opening of the gambling den.

Cigarette smoke engulfs Jongdae’s nights—taking away each hour of sleep with one sharp breath.

“One more for you tonight,” Sir calls as he slips the documents under the crack of his door.

Jongdae groans as he opens the envelope that reveals the fine print of a typewriter:

Minseok.
$5,000 worth of heroin due two weeks ago.

Attached to the papers is a wrap of brown threads carefully woven together. Eyeing the crooked seams of a dirty cloth, Jongdae unravels the thread, opening up to a small dose of heroin along with several small bullets.

He sighs as he starts to load his gun.

~~~

Why live when you can simply follow?

Jongdae was never destined for great things anyway.

He might as well try to be part of something much more powerful than faith.

But then again, what is more powerful than faith?

~~~

Jongdae finds his fragile world breaking apart when herds of dogs rush into the den.

They sniff their way to Sir’s room, barking as the sounds of creeping footsteps follow behind.

“Wu Yifan, you are under arrest for possession of weapons, instigating murder, and trafficking of , heroin and .”

Blinding lights bounce off the corners of walls, flashlights faltering as they try to cling to some—any—evidence of hope.

They brush past Jongdae, glaring seamlessly into his eyes.

And only then does Jongdae realise that, for all this time, he had actually been living in darkness.

~~~

My name is Jongdae.
I love to sing.
I love to dance.
I am a little boy.
I am a lost man.
I want to live.
I want to die.
 

Jongdae scribbles furiously into the empty pages of his old notebook.
 

My name is Jongdae.
 

He presses the pen hard; the imprints of his messy handwriting are defined clearly onto the next page.
 

My name is Jongdae.
 

Jongdae writes because he is afraid he will lose himself.

Jongdae writes because, in the event that he actually loses himself one day, someone else might remember him.

~~~

He crawls through the empty tunnels that lead to an open road—the howls and cries of his fellow dorm-mates a mere fade behind him.

In the distance, he can still see the roaring lights of blue and red; he can still hear the clear definitions of police sirens.

Jongdae needs to reinvent himself, again.

~~~

Sometimes, the pain of memory settles so finely onto Jongdae’s thoughts, that he does nothing more than stop and recollect himself.

When will this (he) end?

~~~

He has no home.

For the next few days, Jongdae finds himself wandering around the streets of Seoul, Sir’s load of money stacked in the thickness of his wallet.

He eventually rents an apartment and begins to sing at a bar again—hoping against hope, that reconnecting with the past will make him feel alive once more.

~~~

There is really nothing left to hold on to—no thrill, no risk, no joy.

And Jongdae finds it harder to look for any signs of stars caught between the tangles of his burning mind.

A human can only handle disaster for so long, before bursting into a million brilliant pieces of distress and anxiety.

Jongdae is merely human.

~~~

It is one solemn night that leads Jongdae to a downward spiral of catastrophe:

The blur sight of Minseok at a distance.

Jongdae could have sworn he saw the ghostly image of his victim, sitting at the corner of the bar.

He blinks twice, and Minseok is holding up a glass of alcohol—running his other hand down his ribs, to the bloody stain of his shirt.

Where Jongdae had shot him two months ago.

And soon, Jongdae sees of line of murdered people—women and men and children alike—sitting on the stools at the back of the bar.

They smile at each other, and then at him—almost as if to say, “it’s your turn. It’s your turn to join the hell of the dead. Because you deserve it.”

Because Jongdae deserves every inch of death that is about to invade his hollow bones.

His voice is a sudden crack against the screeching cries of his microphone.

And then, everything is a faint shudder in the background.

~~~

Jongdae wonders why his cigarettes have gradually reduced from stacks, to a simple nothingness.

And how the alcohol seems to tear him from the inside of his throat—rupturing his voice into tiny shreds of oblivion and hacked sentences.

No, this isn’t right.

He reaches out and expects to find the warm fingers of his mother entangled with his.

Only, there is no warmth.

Just the silent shudder of a cold, storming night; tall lamps glow within his hospital ward.

Something is out of place.

“Are you okay, honey?”

The dulcet voice of the nearby nurse sends him into maniac cycles of headache and torture.

“I’m fine.” Jongdae’s whispers reverberate across the smooth air; cuts across it like broken firewood.

But Jongdae is far from fine.

The ache in his chest, the soreness in his ribs, the too-erratic thudding of his heart—they tell him otherwise.

Speaking two words has strained Jongdae’s capacity. He erupts in a pandemonium of coughs and splutters of blood. The boy’s eyes widen and his fingernails scratch the handles of his bed. He clings to the wires on his body and wordlessly begs for the needles to take him away.

Jongdae feels the smoke build up from his chest, claiming his insides like a cigarette withering to its bud. And in an instant, his life seems to flash—in broken segments—before his very eyes.

“Mum, is something wrong?”

The accelerated beeping of the machine drives Jongdae to insanity.

“I love you, my son. I will always love you."

The boy’s chest heaves up in uneven patterns. And sweat builds up across his arms and legs.

“I’m Wu Yifan. I can offer you a way out, if you want.”

The nurses crowd around him and pump his chest to the distorted beating of his heart.

“Please. Please. I’ll pay! Just spare my life! Please I’m sor—”

“Sorry.” The words leave Jongdae’s pale lips just as fast as his memories scatter.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry."

“I’M SORRY!”

And Jongdae finds himself screaming—the pain that wrecks the back of his throat is no longer a bother.

He desperately claws at the metal frames of his bed. The incessant pleas of the nurses fade away into the austere background.

A long string of incoherent apologies spill from Jongdae’s lips, reverberating across the nape of his neck.

Jongdae feels the dark splotches of black and grey impair is vision. His heart palpitates against the barriers of his ribcage.

And at this very moment, he knows that his apologies are fruitless.

Jongdae loosens his grip on the bed frame.

~~~

My name is Jongdae.
I love to sing.
I love to dance.
I am a little boy.
I am a lost man.
I want to live.
I want to die.

~~~