YESUNG

now

I am a light sleeper. The slightest things scoop me out of slumber: the chorus of cicadas in the garden, the whistle of the wind, the heat of the night. What woke me tonight is the sound of running water. 

I open my bleary eyes. The other side of the bed is empty. The door to the bathroom is closed, its sides limned with thin lines of light. While I wait for Ryeowook to return to bed, I fall asleep again, lulled by oddly hypnotising rush of water. 

When I wake up once more, the red numbers of the digital clock report that half and hour has passed. The water is still running.  The space next to me is cool, devoid of any human warmth. I sit up in the bed, rubbing my eyes. 

“Ryeowook,” I call. 

There is no answer. 

Moonlight pours in from the open window. Gentle fingers of wind lift the undrawn curtains, caressing. On the bedsheets, the bodily fluids left behind by our lovemaking glisten like luminescent earthworms.

“Ryeowook,” I call for the second time. I count to three but again, there is no answer.

I flip the covers off me and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Being mid-July, the floor is nicely cool. I pad to the door and bring my knuckle to the burnished wood. 

“Ryeowook,” I knock, “Ryeowook, are you in there?”

There is only the sound of running water, and the whistling as the water spiral through the drainage hole, down the pipes. 

Worry rises like smoke in me, replacing the haze of sleep that has enfolded me just a minute ago. My voice becomes louder. My gentle rapping on the door transforms into full-blown pounding.

“Ryeowook, answer me, please. I’m breaking the door if you don’t. Do you hear me? I’m coming in.”

Part angry and part panicking, I clutch the brass knob, not expecting it to yield. I am surprised when the knob turns easily; the door is not locked in the first place. The door creaks inward, a triangle of light escaping.

“Ryeowook,” I test, expecting Ryeowook to startle at my intrusion. I am ready to placate him, to explain to him.

From the small gap, I see pink water dyeing the ceramic floor. But what hits me the most - what pauses my heart - is the revolting smell of metal.

I pushed the door fully open with a stiff arm. 

Many seconds pass in which my world is silent. I cannot hear the sound of my heartbeat. I cannot hear the sound of blood draining from my face. The only thing I hear is the water, constantly flowing over the bathtub, down the ceramic side and pushing along the floor, in a gradient of blood red to pink.

My heart jumpstart again. Its rhythm is hysterical, threatening to break free of the jail that is my ribcage.

I try to call Ryeowook’s name, to wake him up, but what came out of my throat is a scream, a raw and primal sound that only helpless and injured animals make.

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