december 2016

SHE IS DRAINED by the time he huffs and yanks the plug away from the wall socket. She looks, doesn't see, as the lit screen on the synthesiser fizzles out into a blank slate, a square of emptiness that could never be dark enough to mirror the black hole she's relegated herself to. His patience is worn thin, a rubber band stretched so tight it's taut enough for circus troopers to saunter over, and she's too aware. All too aware of the last four hours burnt trying to learn the band's old pieces, trying to fill Yongwon's shoes for however long the band lasts.

 

But she's hindered, stuck at a hurdle she doesn't have the strength to leap over, an obstacle laid by the very person sighing in front of her that refuses, just refuses to swap those shoes for a smaller size just so she could fit in better. 

 

“You just don't feel enough! The song's about feeling! How can you expect to play well if you're not fully immersed in it?”

 

She's empty when the drummer finally surrenders and she imagines him waving a white flag, though it's just him hurling his white winter coat over his shoulders as he gathers the sheets they'd been staring at for the entire day. Barely hears him say, “I'm going back to sleep,” but watches him down the rest of his now-stale extra-strong espresso from the paper cup before it's crinkled and tossed into the trash. Watches him gingerly bookmark one of the scores as he shuts the binder, probably to look over it at a later time, at someplace where her existence wouldn't be there to irk him.

 

And then she's alone, left to pick up the torn pages of what would — could — have been her contribution to the band's upcoming album, the shreds of her dignity now following that empty paper cup in the bin. She doesn't have an extra copy, and she wishs she had told Isang that before he picks it up and rips it apart, but it doesn't matter now.

 

Because she doesn't feel enough.

 

 

–

 

 

She doesn't feel the stabbing guilt in when Junwi brings her into the apartment for the first time, where the members are dutifully assembled in the living room and staring, shooting imaginary daggers at places that hurt her the most. She doesn't feel the unspoken words crammed in her voicebox, yearning to be released in a tirade of I'm so sorry I don't really want to be here all I want is to follow my dream I was dragged into this too. She forces these syllables into her gut when she lifts her head at last to look at everyone in the room and there are grown men scowling at her and stomping off to their own rooms before she's able to introduce herself. She doesn't feel Binna and Chaekyung's reassuring smiles, where she would have felt safe and finally, finally at home.

 

 

–

 

 

She doesn't feel the indignation when the band's all dressed and ready to leave the apartment. No one has tried to wake her up. They're off to see Yongwon for perhaps the last time now, to hear his sentencing and to say their final words. She doesn't feel Junwi's warm hand on her shoulder nor hear his instructions to work on her synthesiser while they're gone,; she doesn't feel the bleak warmth spreading in her heart when Chaekyung lingers behind until everyone's gone and promises her she'd be back with take-out dinner. She doesn't feel the hot tears coming down as the door is locked with two rotations of the key — click, click — as she searches for something, anything that could prevent her from opening one of the windows and leaping her way out of her new prison.

 

She's back in bed, staring at the blank, off-white walls of the bedroom she shares with Binna for the third consecutive hour. She hadn't felt anything when Binna had first brought her into the room and introduced it as the haven away from the men in the band and the boys she'd spread her legs for. Sook should have been concerned at Binna's cursory dating style, but she found herself unbothered by her new roommate's new antics as she settled in the temporary mattress that makes the room smaller, too small for two girls in the same band. She didn't feel, has never felt the sleep weighing down on her eyelids when she's awake all night, the groaning snores from her roommate leaving her nocturnal.

 

Certainly, she doesn't feel the pinch in her gut when the band members shuffle back into the apartment, some teary-eyed, some rigid, some missing. She doesn't feel the pain when she stumbles and her thigh crashes into the edge of the dining table, a bluish-red bruise already blossoming on the white canvas of her skin before she manages to collect herself and sit down. She doesn't feel the rumble in her tummy when her dinner — her first meal of the day — is placed before her, the noodles cold and bloated in the too-salty soup. 

 

She doesn't feel Chaekyung's eyes staring at her while she pretends to eat. Her chopsticks are prodding at the lifeless, stringy mass of flour floating in the take-out box, barely lifting to shove a morsel or two into her dry mouth. She doesn't have the energy to wonder if she'd brushed her teeth that morning, whether Chaekyung can detect her foul breath from across the table; she doesn't have the energy to leap up and rush to the bathroom before she's retching, empty stomach forcing acid up and into her meal. She smells, sees the rancid green bile from her belly now mixing around in the container.

 

She doesn't hear Chaekyung's yelp of concern, nor feel her hands ripping those wooden chopsticks off of her hands before she scoops up the revolting mixture and brings it to her lips.

 

 

–

 

 

It's another three days before she goes back to the recording studio, towed by a very unwilling drummer acting under Junwi's commands. She hears but doesn't feel anything when he groans about having to sacrifice his day off to show her the ropes, sees but doesn't notice the wary eye plastered on her as he begrudgingly puts on his coat and leaves the apartment, expecting her to scurry after him throughout the five-minute walk to their workplace.

 

She tells herself it's natural for him to feel that way, repudiating the idea of a newcomer at the very same time that an original member lands himself in deep trouble. It's going to take some time. 

 

She barely takes to heart the fact that he's moving as if she's not there: doesn't hold the door open for her, doesn't leave a space for her shoes on the rack outside of the studio, doesn't pull up a chair for her to sit on as they work on the songs. She even gives him excuses for that carelessness, scolding herself for expecting too much and being so spoiled and entitled and that being the newest, youngest member didn't automatically qualify her for special treatment from anybody. 

 

She sits in silence as he demonstrates each piece exactly once on the synthesiser; he's silent too, still pissed at the fact that he's wasting a Sunday break in the very studio he detests, but also unsure about whether he's even qualified to teach a synthesist how to play her own instrument. The notes he plays are half-hearted at best, choppy and unrhythmic at worst, and it's obvious he's trying to make this as quick as a session as possible so he'd at least get some time to grab dinner with Penelope.

 

And so they sit, staring at the synthesiser as if it'd suddenly gained a life of its own and began to play its own tune, the distended chords a far cry from the original songs. Isang is increasingly fretful of the way he's playing, occasionally pressing down on a key as if he's on the drums, but he finds that she barely even flinches, so he goes on.

 

He announces (to himself) that he's going to play Thank U, but begins with the notes to a song that he's still working on and hasn't shown it to Sook before. It's a test to see whether Sook is still onboard after three hours of wordlessness, one that she immediately fails when she stays frozen without the slightest twitch in her eye.

 

If Isang had been pissed about this situation thus far, it's safe to say he's now drowning in full-on anger.

 

Sook is shoved out of her trance when his hand strikes against her cheek, lifeless body tossed out of the door of her thoughts. The sting spreads across her reddening face, but her eyes stare emptily into his glaring ones as he shoves her into the seat in front of the synthesiser and orders her to start playing.

 

 

–

 

 

It's the day of the performance when she watches Junwi demand for the cameramen to focus on anything, anything other than Sook's synthesiser during the show. By now, her fingertips are weeping with torn blisters, a chunky blend of dried pus and blood staining the whites of her instrument keys. Chaekyung's by her side trying to bandage them as much as possible, but she soon realises that mummifying Sook's hands would do nothing to help her when she has to bend her fingers to play the notes.

 

Her hands are bare for anyone nearby to see by the time she's onstage, staring at a twelve thousand-strong crowd at the year-end awards ceremony. For sure, she doesn't feel the cameras and smartphones exhausting their zoom functions to get a glimpse of her, barely feels Porter give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before he assumes his position at the keyboard right behind her.

 

The first song leaps into action with Isang's four-count beat, but she's playing on pure muscle memory rather than listening to the rhythm and the symphony from the other instruments. Binna glances at her several times throughout the first track — out of worry or a sheer stage habit, Sook would never know. It's over before she knows it.

 

 

–

 

 

The spotlight shines someplace else while they prepare for the next number. She's supposed to flip her sheets over to look at the notes for Thank U, but as the papers slip off the stand and scatter around something snaps in her and she feels. She feels for the first time in a long while, the void within her now filled and b with all the emotions she should have been immersed in for the past week, a desert that's now flooding in the rare storm. She feels the punch in her gut when the lights dim for their next number and notices, for just a fleeting second, the glow from fan lightsticks spread few and far inbetween in the black ocean. The other members are busy shuffling the papers on their music stands, and Sook is left alone wondering why the audience in the front seats have their backs facing towards them, the crowd forming an unyielding wall against the band. They're not listening.

 

And neither is she, as she misses the opening beats from Isang's drums and her fingers hover over the keys without playing a single note. She barely hears the urgency in Porter's voice behind her as he calls her name. Sook tries to imagine what's going on in his head: it's your big day, what are you doing? You're here to prove to everyone that you're a capable replacement for Yongwon–

 

 

 

–

 

 

Now she hears the faltering drumbeats when the instrument-playing members at the back watch her dash for the nearest door to the backstage, scurrying past the waiting room where Junwi and Chaekyung are watching, agape.

 

She is in shambles — they all are — and only Kaeden's voice is left echoing without a backing track, in the silence of the stadium.

i. still - loco

ii. thanks - svt

iii. now you can cry - hoya

iv. thank u - millennium

v. you too - loco feat. cha cha malone