Final

You took my hand into yours, temperature difference sending visible shivers throughout my wrecked body, yet you stayed perfectly fine with your warmth keeping you safe. I remember your hand, through every line and curve and uneven fingernail. It was different from your pale snowy skin though; your skin was cool to match the autumn air, and became a shocking path towards the hands you use to caress mine ever so gently. Rounded nails carved unseen paths of blue and white pigment as we linked them together, and took off for a last day of what seemed to be my eternal blindness.

Yesterday. Yesterday you promised me we would travel along familiar paths strewn with Tuscan colored leaves and homeless men's trash, travel to experience our daily dates' with my eyes closed. So here we are, in the moving streets of Seoul, traveling to a place where I get to hear a descriptive narration by your Bambi toned vocals. I can hear angry business men slamming calloused hands on leather steering wheels, forcing a shrill honk out of the car, and chatty teenagers laughing in their pre-mature voices. But I don't pay attention to the vulgarities of both.

Instead my bandage bound ears are straining to get a note of your ears playing in the background, although I wish it was the main.

". . . and I remember you would always hold my hand like this, and. . . know it never really. . . yet you fought with m. . . a bit too often. . ."

I don't like it like this. Your voice comes in sporadic spurts and I can't tell whether what you are saying about me is good or not. I hope where we are going is quiet so I can fill my ears with your much more pleasant sound.

Eventually, we did arrive at our destination, and it was quiet save for a few birds chirping at each other in an incomprehensible language. I felt our movement stop and your warm hands inch my jeans up my ankle, still air nipping at the skin as you gently removed my shoe and sock before moving to do the same for the other. Now I know where we are.

"I hope you remember this place. This is the garden we go to on the weekends, and the ahjummas give us hot tea," you confirmed, slipping our hands in place once again and lead my blind sight along the bare ground.

Underneath my flat feet the warmed stone of the sun's doing lead me down a gentle slope, natural dips and imperfections imprinting itself on my skin. As if on cue the fragrant aroma of jasmine and lily made a playful dance around my nose, and I could just see the blooming sunset colors, or the rounded petals of white against dark green foliage. Planted in terracotta pots placed on wooden tables decorated with dirt, growing up the posts that held awnings over the path; I remember they covered every inch of the outdoors paradise.

I felt you tug me in a different direction than straight and your hands placed themselves on my shoulders, pushing me down so I submitted into a bench. You sat next to me, our knees touching as your skirt swished gracefully along my thigh. You always had a thing for flowing fashion, be it dresses or skirts, or this invention unknown to the male gender called a skort, and paired it with pastel colored blouses where the see-through sleeves stopped just past your elbows.

"Much quieter here isn't it?"

You seemed to have noticed by discomfort in the city, and took me here because of that. I never got how you understood me so easily.

"Sometimes we would come here later than usual just so we could see the sun's rays make the flowers glow, or to throw rocks into the pond without the old women nagging. Do you remember the pond? It's only a few yards in front of us, with tall stalky plants growing around it. Should we throw a pebble in or two?"

I nodded and we stood up together, walking until I felt the pebbly edge of the pond shift under us. You handed me a stone, rounded yet not shaped like an egg as most cliches go. No, it was uneven in width and had pores all over its unshapely body. It is an ugly rock, so I threw it aimlessly to what I thought would be the pond. I heard something crack and felt you push me to the entrance again.

---

We were back in the city again, although this area was considerably quieter, and from that I once again recognized where we were headed.

As you guided me down the sidewalk I couldn't help but take notice of you once again, this time starting with your feet. You wore two-inch wedges with cork platforms and off-white straps cris-crossing your sun deprived feet to wrap around right above your ankle. I remember the clopping sound those shoes make, like a horse marching leisurely through the colored tiles of ancient Mecca. I remember because it was what you wore on our first date.

You complained about the ache in your heels oh-so like a woman would- saying things you always mean the opposite of - but waved it off with your nails in my face. I took you to a small little cafe slash deli on the corner of some street and gave you the treat of fresh salad with the hearty aroma of cinnamon playing Cat's Cradle around us. After our date I remember quite vividly how you left a quiet little pleasure for me, pressing gloss-less pillows of your lips against mind in a chaste exchange of love. Your floppy hat ungraciously stabbed me in the eye and we had a bout of laughing before parting ways.

Maybe that's what made this cafe so special, or maybe it's just the reverie of a first experience. Either way, we were here again, one pair of eyes gone.

A tinkling of a bell sounded our entrance, and we were greeted by the familiar aromas of cinnamon and peppermint before the pungent onion from the other side of the room took over. But it was a comforting combination nonetheless. You lead my bottom into a leather seat near the window, where I could feel the sun through the windows. You left your purse in my lap before trotting to the counter with just your wallet. Looking down - even though all I saw was an entity of black - I felt around the bag with my hands, trying to guess which one it was out of the two dozen you ungraciously own.

It was small, just going past both my hands put together. The strap handle was long, definitely made to sling over your shoulder, decorated with metal rivets. From that I guessed it was your black and white floral sling bag, the very first purse I bought you. I felt a frown come up on my face, hands slowing down on the soft material. Why are you wearing these memorable clothes all of a sudden? It's like you were a child innocently feeling guilty and trying to make it better. . .

You returned with the drinks and sandwhiches, handing me the cold plastic cup of my drink before setting the sandwich in my lap. My lips found the straw and a creamy burst of vanilla and mint filled my mouth with a sweet taste, and I easily recognized the icy crunch of it, coffee-free; because I hated coffee. As I sipped from the straw your voice then drifted into my ears.

"Ah, they're quite busy today; there are about fifteen people already sitting down with four people in both the cafe and deli counters. There are only seven workers in all, and they seem a bit frustrated with the orders. Although, ours came out pretty fast!"

I took a bite of my turkey sandwich and listened, chewing slowly until I realized something.

"Chagiya," I started slowly, "our orders came out fast because. . . there's no meat in our sandwiches; just vegetables, and not even mustard."

"What?"

I heard the crumpling of the wrapping paper around the sandwich and you took a silent bite, letting out an irritated hiss and snatching the lunch out of my hand. You stood out of your chair and marched somewhere, leaving me to look frantically around with the straw in my mouth, still sipping hungrily. I sat there and tried to listen to what you were doing over the noise; there was a sudden wave of cursing and shouting, and then your voice was harsh. You spoke, or should I say yelled, at the workers. Something along the lines of:

"Get your damn act straight and work, look at this piece of crap; look at the line!"

You clopped your way back to me and yanked me by the arm, forcing a yelp and a little ice out of my mouth. Leading me back outside you took hurried steps down the sidewalk abd mumbling incoherent curses of some sort. I suppose you always had a temper when the unfortunate happens to us. A very hot temper, I might add.

---

Our pace slowed down and I heard sliding doors slide open before us, a wiff of old books and hand sanitizer catching me off guard. You pulled me inside the unknown building and your once feisty growl diminished into a soft whisper.

"We're at the library now, mister cheesy."

"Cheesy?"

You laughed into my hand and maneuvered me around a few library obstacles, accidentally steering me into a cold metal shelf.

"Sorry! Well, cheesy because remember the book you bought me for my birthday? It was the one about the butterflies and the little girl. . . "

I nodded, feeling my bottom arrive in a soft bean bag chair.

"Well, ever since then I've been coming to this library to read more books and such, and then I found something I really wanted to show you!"

You patted my shoulder before walking off to find whatever it was, and I just sat there sipping the rest of my icy drink. This library was where I bought that book you spoke of; I remember fighting with the head librarian for him to sell it to me. Apparently they only had one copy of it and no bookstore in the county had one, so that left me no choice but to scream my head off at the old man and package it nicely for you. I knew you would like it. Look at all my hardwork.

The last time I walked in here I remember seeing high slanted ceilings and white walls, setting a modern Roman theme supported by concrete floors and pillars to hold up the roof in certain places. From where I was sitting I could feel the sun's brightness, but the air conditioner cut the heat off reflecting off large windows. Usually the library had some kind of chatter circulating, for it was a popular one, but today it seemed only old people were here because it was very quiet.

I stretched my legs out before completely sinking into the bean bag, feeling the weight shift as you returned.

"So, here, I wanted to read this to you," you said, and I heard pages being turned. "It's a poem."

"Like cherry blossoms drifting in a Japanese night sky, comes a hint of curiosity brushed upon by a soft wind, soft occurrance. Strings are plucked one by one, vibrating until another one was pinched between two fingers and released with a musical sigh of harmony. Cherry blossom petals float into a room of political paradoxes, slapped into the very fibers of the mats, but not one pink paper is ignorant of it. They know. They know what whom across the sea their affairs are concerned. Whom might freeze a drop of mercury to place in the king's milk tea, and return to the very room to argue a valid point over and over. So the cherry blossoms float, down onto the strings plucked oh-so carefully, landing on a wide explanse of oak and ink. It was a game of truth or dare between two players. To box one's self within curses and a beautiful melody, or to fly along a midnight's breeze for an eternity."

I don't know where you found this poem, but it was simply beautiful to me, although a bit confusing. Yet somehow it felt like it was connected, connected to me. To us. You are the blossom, and I am the strings; I am within a world of misfortune as you can see. Whether to stay or to float is your choice. How fitting everything you choose is today.

"It wa-"

"Don't worry," I cut you off with a smile. "it's perfect. I'm so glad you're staying."

I lifted a hand into the air and waved it around a bit before I found your cheek, caressing the soft flesh with my thumb.

"Oh, but you were the. . . " you mumbled something I couldn't hear.

---

This is the end of our little memory date, one which I've had the inconvenience of not being able to see your face, but on a brighter tone I believe we are nearing the hospital.

We pass through the sliding doors and check in, going through the usual routine before we were called into the doctor's office. I sat on the stiff bed draped with the thin paper, crinkling it as I shifted in anticipation; now I can finally see you again, and forget that accident ever happened and just continue our sweet romance as one. I didn't listen to what the doctor was talking about with you, no I became lost in a sudden world of jeaously, jealously for all the people we passed today. Your beautiful curved planes patted with pale powder, slim limbs free and able to walk with me, unlike girls who choose the "y" look of skin-tight jeans, and plush lips coated with that clear shimmery stuff. I couldn't see any of that. I couldn't gape or awe or marvel in your unique grace you hold so innocently.

But they could. Other people could take in what's mine when I can't. Do you know how upset I am? How angry and jealous the possessive side of me is?

You don't. And you never will.

"Okay Mr. Kim, I will be taking the wraps off now," the doctor said, and I felt him come closer.

I sat still as I felt the pressure around my head loosen, the darkness in front of me slowly lighting up to the sound of cloth swishing. Soon the cloth wrap around my head was gone and the color had changed from black to a grey mixture of all sorts; just like a normal person.

"Mr. Kim the lights are off and dimmed, you may open your eyes now."

The magic words were said and my eyes fluttered open for the first time in two weeks, taking in all I could see while frantically searching for you. White cabinets, metal sink, middle-aged doctor, and then finally I saw you. Perched quietly in a chair with your hands in your lap, eyes smiling sweetly into my own. But you were no cherry blossom.

The straps of your sandals did not wrap around an ankle, they wrapped around bandages wrapped snuggly around your ankle, held in place by safety pins. Your legs are the color of tie dye print; once slim model's legs had become swollen and bruised blue flesh, a long ugly scab stretching the length of your right. Destroyed they were, no longer holding a strong stance. They were weak and fragile looking, glass repaired over and over until it couldn't take the oven's heat anymore. A floral skirt sat at your hips and shielded your thighs from view, but your shirt did not match at all.

It was a plain white tee you used for sleeping because it was see-through. See through I did. Underneath the fabric were constricting bandages spiraling up your chest right under your armpits, colored brown in some spots located near your stomach. Your arms were not even arms, it was arm. Your right arm was glued perfectly to your side with velcro strips and then wound with more bandages. It wasn't even an arm anymore, it was half of your arm now. My eyes shifted slowly to your left arm and found it dangling from your shoulder like a normal arm should, but I couldn't help but notice the large bruise staining perfect skin.

This was a dangerous game of playing peek-a-boo, but up I peeked at your face and what I thought were sweet eye smiles. Your neck was bandaged too. A face I used to know had been lost the moment I saw it, to a discombogulated mess. The entire right side of your face was slashed and sliced with red scabs, and everywhere there wasn't the bloody color was black and blue skin peeling in an attempt to regenerate itself. Your chin had been smashed in to the left so your jaw was no longer aligned straight, but parallel to your left eye. Your eyes. Shimmery soft golden brown hues that sparkled under the sun were long gone, dead with the face I used to know.

Your right eye was swollen shut. Your left twitched every so often, the corner of your eye bright red with irritation. Moving towards the outside of your head your hair was neatly combed and washed compared to the wreck I made you. You got a hair cut. It was cut quite short, right up to your chin and even higher. Black streaks no longer hid your ears and instead let them peak out. One of them did. The other had been sliced far enough so it stayed hidden.

I had had enough already. I couldn't look, couldn't think, couldn't even begin to imagine how ing wrong I had been. I had thought so beautifully of my dear lover, caressing her in my thoughts without a thought on how the real her was coping, how the reality really was. I was selfish, inconsiderate, a disgrace. I am not worthy of this, I am not worthy of you before or after the car accident. I couldn't protect your smile. I couldn't care for your light laugh. I couldn't do a damn thing.

And here I was, complaining to the world that I couldn't ing see you when we walked around and people didn't want to glance at you.

AsianFanfics

Final

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