Rabbia

So drinks. Drinks until he drools over his pillow. Drinks when the sun peeks out from the horizon. It staves that emptiness threatening to take over his mind. It’s enough that his heart’s all cloaked in this pain he can’t contain.

He gulps every drop of alcohol. Orders for another. One cup to accompany him, as he pores over imperial edicts. One cup by his side, as he reads the imperial decree his late father had left. One cup for every second he’s awake.

Sometimes, he can’t tell if the skies are still peppered with moving clouds and bright sun. Most of the times, he thinks it’s black and bare, no stars strewn across the skies. No moon to light up his darkened heart.

He summons (bellows at the top of his lungs) for another fresh bottle of soju. That his voice rings in his ear, echoes through the palace. Or maybe that’s all in his imagination. He leans against the door frame, waits for his drink.

The corner of his eyes catches the outline of a palace maid entering his compound. His eyes drift from the bottles to the maid, studies her, like one does with his books. Her hair, black and coiled neatly above her neck, as it should be. Her face’s small and skin of porcelain beauty.

Hae Su, she’s back. She’d come back to him, eventually.

His lips twisting into a smile. Slaps his face twice, trying to keep his drooping eyes open. She closes the distance between them, hands carrying his precious drinks. The bottles rattle violently against each other.      

She trips over her feet, one bottle crashes against the floor. Her dark eyes (almost the shade of dark brown eyes he memorised) widens, terror swirling within them.

“I-I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” she whimpers, “I’ll fetch you another bottle.” That’s not Su’s voice, screams the part of his mind clear of alcohol. She quickly picks up the pieces, turns around to leave the room.

Oh, no. She’s not leaving him again. Not after she’s back into his life. He won’t let her go anymore.

All he hears, in that ghostly lingering whispers, I’ve made up my mind, Your Majesty. I’m not coming back.

“Sorry? You’re sorry?” His voice raises an octave higher, runs a hand through his messy hair. He cackles, a maniacal one. It doesn’t sound like his voice at all.

“I did everything I could to get to the throne,” the smile on his face slips, replaces with a snarl, “I never bedded my wife for you!” So hisses at her. Every muscle in his body quivers with his heart pounding hard against his ribcage.

“I killed my brothers for you!” So growls, bangs his flat palm at the door, and blocks her only escape from the room.

He grabs the nearest bottle from the tray, flings it across the room, “If you just waited for me a little longer,” the bottle shatters. So picks another bottle up, slams it on the floor. She flinches. Ugly sobs erupting from her.

He kicks the broken shard, slices into his bare feet, and growls at her, “I’m not good enough for you! Is that it?”

She drops to her knees, begs for her forgiveness. Her body shivering, as her sniffles wreck her control to remain calm. Her voice’s inaudible. He grabs her arms, squeezing her tight that he could feel the bruises forming on her pale skin.   

He inclines his body forward that his breath rests above her face, “What did he has that I don’t?”

He blinks twice. She’s … not Hae Su. Another palace maid – this is new, he’d recognised all the palace maids sent to deal with him – came to serve his drink. So releases his iron grip over her, and roars, “Get out now! Leave.”

This is not the end of his simmering wrath.

His rage explodes, like a volcano without warning, every now and then. It builds, with one drink after another, until he ignores the temptation of alcohol to drown his sorrows. His sorrows have dried up, only anger left behind.

His affairs often comes in only one action; neglect. With drops of alcohol, he sees her here and there. Losses his mind more often than not to mirages. Vulgarity becomes his frequent preference over false politeness.

He doesn’t mask the hatred burning every fibre of his body. Takes anything within his reach. Smashes, destroys anything that he vaguely remembers she’d taken a liking to.

He jeers and leers. Assign faults to Hae Su. He’d sacrificed so much (too much that he sleeps with the occasional restlessness of seeing his dead brothers and sister pleading for mercy), how can she abandoned him after all he’d done for her?

Discards him like he’s a piece of trash. Toss him aside for a village fool.

These days, only Yeon-hwa graces him with her presence. She can’t leave him. She’s his sister-wife, for the better or worse. Yeon-hwa’s here to stay (he’ll make sure of it).

Their court maids beg, with tears swelling in their dark eyes, not to serve him. He knows, he’s not deaf. He catches the rumours spreading like wildfire in his palace.

His brothers, the remaining (still breathing) ones, request for his spare time. So ignores them all. He doesn’t need their pity. Doesn’t need their lectures.

The day starts like any other day before, one where the tray of alcohol is there for him to quench his throat.

“I need more,” he grouses, wiggles the empty bottle in front of her.

She plucks the bottle from him, the end of her lips twisting to a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, “You have enough, brother,” she settles the bottle on to the empty tray.

“No, get me more,” So slurs.

“You’re drinking at the cost of your health. It’s time to draw the line.”

“Or what?” So spits, “What will you do, sister?” He makes one menacing step forward, breathes heavily against her jaw. Their faces are only inches apart, and he notices her knuckles turns pale. She’s gripping something hard in her hand.

“I do not wish to argue with you, brother,” she replies, her tone clipped.

“As do I,” he hooks a finger beneath her chin, lets his lips curl into a grimace and bares his fangs.

“Remember your place, sister. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be cast out from the palace long time after Hae Su left the Damiwon Palace. You’re nothing without the support of my clan and the Kang’s,” he reminds her.

Her brown as chestnut eyes hardens, unshed tears pooling in those eyes. She slaps his finger away, “I am not one of the palace maids that is willing to bend over backwards to accommodate your demands, Your Majesty,” Yeon-hwa narrows her eyes, clenches her jaw and slips one shaky hand behind her back.

Yeon-hwa tilts her chin up, holds him locked in her gaze, “If I didn’t take the steps I did, you wouldn’t even enjoy the benefits of being an emperor,” she hisses, venomous and disenchanted.

He sees it clearly, the end of her hairpin all ready to attack, in the name of defence. She doesn’t stand down, only gazing back at him with the fire and steel in her eyes that he never notice.

“I’m not Hae Su. Nor will I ever be her, the faster you swallow that bitterness and wake up, the better,” she retorts, the bravado in her tone falters.

Fearless Hwangbo Yeon-hwa … dreads him? That look in her eyes, reminds him of Mother’s after he slaughtered the monks to keep her safe. Will he be the reason she turns to another Empress Sinmyungsunseong? He backtracks, puts some distance between them.

Since when did Wang So becomes the guy he promised Hae Su that he’ll never be? For a moment or two, perhaps even longer than that, his control over his emotions slowly slips between his fingers like sand. The alcohol corrodes his rational mind, his identity, and his promises.

He breathes a deep one, each air only seems less and he can’t breathe. His mind’s racing a million broken, disjointed thoughts. He rubs his forehead, legs unbuckling at his weight as his strength drains like the colour on Yeon-hwa’s face.

He stutters of air and meaningless words. Eyes darting from the floor to her. He’d expects her to leave him, after that outrageous display. He knows better. She’d foregone things she held dearly to her heart for him and the throne. She chose him.

She helps him, and they make their way to the bed, surrounded by countless bottles. She’s careful, steers them away from shattered glasses. And she lays him down, no malice in her movements. Pulls the blanket over his body, and sits by him. Her head’s in between her hands.

He rolls to his side, his left leg knocks lightly against a bottle of soju, untouched. It slips out of his mind (again) that he hoarded from the previous night. He stretches his hand, yanks the bottle away and brings it to his lips … he has to stop drinking.

“Here,” he mumbles, heat spreading from his neck up to his face. It’s great luck that his face’s all flushed from today’s fill of drinking. His hand and the bottle hanging in the air.

Keeps his eyes at a random point in the room, and he whispers, “Finish this for me, will you.”

She glances at his hand, curiosity dancing in her brown irises. No such hint of the fire of defiance or fear ever present in her eyes. Only a brow arched questioningly.

He doesn’t say, I apologise for being difficult. But he forces himself to mutter, “I detest for it to go to waste,” instead.  

Yeon-hwa receives the bottle with caution sits between her brows. Swirls the bottle in her hand, sniffs the mouth of the bottle before she takes a large gulp.

She drinks, and he closes his eyes.