Part 3 ⧫ Standpoint

stand·point
/ˈstan(d)ˌpoint/
noun
An attitude to or outlook on issues, typically arising from one's circumstances or beliefs.

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“Watch it!” I flinched away from the hooded figure who had slammed his shoulder against mine, teetering off-balance, and stumbled back against the doorframe, muttering a quick apology as I exited the convenience store before opening my umbrella.

It was half past ten- the time at which I normally slept, but due to the fact that I had very inconveniently run out of tampons and my period had decided to come early, I had been forced to get dressed and walk to the convenience store down the block. Not only was walking alone so late at night late somewhat terrifying, but it was raining like the reckoning day for Noah’s ark all over again.

The streetlights cast watery reflections across the road, rippling iridiscently when cars rushed by. Each set of passing headlights was a pair of eyes staring at me in the dark, getting wider and wider until they too zoomed past. Under the lights, each droplet of rain was visible. Fortunately, I had been smart enough to grab an umbrella, wear a raincoat and somehow find my rainboats, so other than a bit of dampness on the bottoms of my pantlegs, I felt perfectly fine.

I had just caught sight of my apartment's door when movement flickered in the corner of my vision. I turned, taking in the view of a figure stumbling around with no direction whatsoever near the road.

Cautiously, I made my way towards my door, fishing my keys out of my pocket and hoping that the possibly inebriated guy wouldn't attack me or something. Hopefully, he wouldn't even have time to notice my existence before I snuck inside.

I neared the door, squinting, and my line of sight became clearer. The stranger was wearing a grey short sleeved t-shirt- though any colour might've looked grey on such a dull, rainy night. His black — or at least somewhat dark — hair was soaked, as was his shirt. I didn't have any doubt that he was drunk. Rivulets of water streamed down his face and exposed arms- he had probably been out in the rain for a fairly long time.

I wasn't exactly fond of the idea of helping random drunk people because it simply wasn't safe, but obviously this guy was directionally challenged and completely, utterly, totally drunk to the point where his brain was no longer functioning- because he was currently wobbling blindly towards the road, where cars were rushing by.

Despite the pure logic of walking away, I found myself taking a step towards him. Surely he wasn't blind enough to walk straight onto the road- or was he?

My suspicions proved correct. It was as if the guy couldn't find his centre of balance and was being drawn towards his doom by some unseen force. Headlights flashed in the dark. Before I had time to think, I found myself running and shouting at the top of my lungs at him to stop, but he was oblivious to my calls. He took another step towards the road. I ran faster. Everything was a blur of rain and hazy lights after that- and then, involuntarily, my hand reached out, closed around soaking wet cloth, and yanked him away from the headlights all in the matter of what seemed seconds.

He was surprisingly light, because when I applied more force to the yank that I probably should’ve, I sent him sprawling to the ground. Or maybe, he was just terribly unbalanced and uncentered as I had previously noted to myself. Uncertain of what I was supposed to do, I squatted down beside him. Was I supposed to call the police or something?

“Can you stand?” I asked.

Instead of standing up, however, he curled up into a fetal position on the wet sidewalk and began mumbling incoherently.

Um. Okay, then.

Baffled, I stared at the guy, wishing the force of my gaze could get him to stand up. But his face was tucked towards his chest, which meant he couldn’t even see me staring…

“Hey.” Tentatively, I reached out to poke his shoulder. No response; just more mutters and then a couple of coughs.

“Hey!” I shook him this time. “Hey, wake up!”

Sluggishly, the guy lifted his face. “Cold,” he slurred. “I don't want to move. Sleepy. Head spinning. Go away.” To emphasize the go away, he raised a hand and waved it around in a shooing motion. Then, he collapsed back down again, though this time he didn’t even bother curling up anymore — giving me the first proper glimpse of his face.

I squinted in the light. Wet hair was sticking to his forehead, covering most of his eyes, but he was still recognizable. Automatically, I stumbled back- a movement that inconveniently sent me flopping right down onto the wet sidewalk beside him. “Byun Baekhyun?”

His name seemed to stir a bit of memory in him, because he lifted his head, opened his eyes for a split second, then curled up yet again. For the longest time, I watched dumbly as a droplet of rain traced down the outline of his face, looking very similar to a tear. Then another. And another.

The fact that I was sitting on the soaking wet sidewalk finally dawned on me. I hoisted myself up from the ground, though it was too late -- my pants were already soaked. I stared at Baekhyun’s face in disbelief. If anything was possible, then was it possible that he would change into a different person if I stared long enough? Obviously, it wasn’t, because his face stayed the same no matter how hard I squinted. 

I came to my senses after a moment, raising my umbrella over his head so he wouldn't get as soaked as I attempted to think of the most logical thing to do at the moment.

However much I hated Byun Baekhyun- however much his beliefs clashed against mine- leaving him to possibly freeze to death or get pneumonia was simply cruel. I couldn’t muster up the anger I normally felt. Besides, he looked simply pitiful, impossibly small, and oddly sad curled up, soaking wet, on the sidewalk. He was already shivering, and the t-shirt he was wearing was wet to the point where it looked like he had thrown himself fully clothed into a pool. His jeans weren’t much better, though their dark shade hid the fact that they were extremely drenched.

I hesitated. Bringing Baekhyun home was probably a terrible idea, but there was nothing I could think of at the moment that was a much better option. Calling the police didn’t exactly seem appropriate -- not when he looked like this. Taking him back to my apartment didn’t exactly fall into the category of appropriate either, but it was at least safer than calling the police.

You can just get a phone number as soon as you get him to talk, I reassured myself. It’s not like he’s going to stay the whole night. Maybe Chanyeol or Jongin can pick him up or something. You’re just doing what a normal person would do -- saving someone’s life because it’s the only thing you can really do. No one would leave a person to die out here.

“Baekhyun?” I heard myself say. The logical part of my mind was screaming at me yet again, telling me to call the police, but hate him or not, he was a classmate. Maybe I could even get his parents' number and they would come pick him up. Or even Chanyeol’s. Jongin’s. Any one of his friends.

“Byun Baekhyun.” My voice was louder this time. It felt odd to say his name without tasting metal on my tongue or immediately thinking of him scaling the wall or being an idiot in general; the boy currently curled up on the ground seemed to have no connection whatsoever to the person I thought he was. Maybe, I thought in the back of my mind. Maybe that was why I'm bringing him home and helping him. It’s not like I want to. I don’t really have a choice.

“Can you get up?” I threw the question out half-heartedly, knowing that I might as well been talking to a wall because he mustered no reaction to my voice whatsoever. I reached out and shook his shoulder. “Can you hear me? Get up. I’m trying to help you.” I couldn’t help but add, “This is hard enough already, geez!”

“D-don't wanna,” was the muffled reply. His teeth were chattering. “Leave m-me al-lone.” He broke into a fit of violent coughing, hacking so hard his body was shaking.

“How much did you drink?” I wondered, alarmed. He gave no response to the question, and after staring at him for a while expecting him to reply, I huffed out an irritated yelp and let out an involuntary stomp. “Hey! Byun Baekhyun! Get up, you idiot. God, you're going to freeze to death!” And so will I if I stay out here and deal with your crap for a minute more…

“Then lemme freeze to d-death,” he slurred. “Not getting up.”

“Jesus Christ, why is this so hard? I know you're drunk— seriously, why do you drink so much and where are your friends? Can you at least cooperate while I’m trying to help you?”

No response. Out of anger and annoyance, I grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet as hard as I could.

I didn’t quite achieve what I was aiming for, but I managed to drag him to his knees -- at least he was upright, right? It was an improvement. I yanked his arm again, trying to get him to stand up this time. I almost toppled over. “You might want to freeze out here, but I don’t!” One more rough yank, and he finally responded.

“Ouch!” Baekhyun shrieked childishly. I made a mental note to never drink so I would never have a chance of embarrassing myself this much. “Stop, it's hurting me!” As if to try to make me let go, Baekhyun flapped his hand weakly at me again, though I was pretty sure even girls didn't hit like that. “I want to sleep.”

I’m offering you a warm place to stay and you want to sleep in the rain? Byun Idiot Baekhyun. Can you at least cooperate? Like getting the thought of helping you through my head isn’t hard enough.

“Look,” I said, forcing all of the patience I could muster into my voice and speaking with a cringeworthy amount of false pleasantry . Thankfully, Baekhyun was too drunk to notice (thou