happenstance {expect the unexpected}

i'm out of touch, i'm out of love
i'll pick you up when you get down
and out of all these things i've done i think i love you better now
LEGO HOUSE/ED SHEERAN

Memories, elusive, like fog in the stillness. There are the steady palpitations of his heart: all wrong somehow, all seemingly out of place. As he treads gingerly through the sightless pitch, he feels like a blind beggar. One who can't thoroughly interpret threats—disclosing vulnerability, augmenting fear.

And the irony of it all? No one will be there to see it, no one is ever there. Just me, myself, and I, he maintains, excluding nurses and caretakers (whom he vehemently shuns), and the occasional Youngbae (whom induces distraught fits of screams and sobs).

He doesn't remember being "normal". If he had a means of conforming to that fragile-melded bubble of social propriety and dizzyingly exalted standards, it's been long since banished from his mind. Commit it to memory, they press, whenever it involves cramming in the long hours of night for college entrance exams; but Jiyong would much rather savor droplets of freedom, catching them gingerly on his tongue. Like the beggar, again, he muses, tantalized by the remnants of a light-falling rain.

Life has been uneventful, since he first arrived. To put it kindly, not miserable. Still, he wakes only to endure another day's worth of bleak nothingness, to squint under the hard gleam of buzzing florescents (that don't belong in a home), to squirm upon the rigid mattress (that doesn't fit a real bed). Sometimes, he'd like to forget he's here. Pretend in his sleep that he's loosened the binds on his arms enough to fly. Far, far, far, he imagines, maybe to skim the tops of trees, maybe to land amongst the moon and the stars and make a home there.

They could insist that this hellhole was his home all they'd like. Regardless, he'd vowed never to concede.

Not with the swathe shoved too far against the back of his throat, dry and brittle and perilously near suffocating. It's all Jiyong can do to abstain from retching so hard he'd double over coughing, or thrash wildly and screech at the top of his lungs, hurl strings of vulgar curse words at strangers. Until that faceless proprietor would come and strike him hard enough to stain the lurid floor a vibrant red, until his eyes stung with tears, wracking his gaunt frame; so he'd recede into a corner, jaw-to-knees, resolve all but extinguished from his jaded eyes.

"Progress," says the doctor, "you've made progress, Mr. Kwon."

Jiyong nods, thinking he'd rather burst into useless chortles over the absurdity. Clearly, they know nothing of progress or healing. If anything at all, he's certain he's worse off—driven so forcibly into such a foreign routine, he swears he's
grown madder. Farther from humanity, at the very least. Stripped almost bare of it.

Just when he's considering suicide as the only panacea to his seemingly irretrievable happiness, there is an unexpected occurrence: an invasion of the undead upon the community of the living, armed with an unquenchable thirst for blood (or brains, to be precise). Now there are wary eyes all around, but they are poised to satisfy their own necessities and to watch their own backs. Patients and staff alike gossip nonstop with the legitimate prospect of the zombie apocalypse at hand. 

(It's the most excited Jiyong's ever been for anything, in all his life.)

"I think it could be an adventure," he proclaims, "to meet a real one. In person."

Youngbae is there when he says this, sitting across from Jiyong at a table in the patient visiting area. As if to respond, he opens his mouth; but of course he shuts it again since he is Dong Youngbae who never argues with anyone, ever. (Especially with the nutcase who can rant on and on for hours regarding even he isn't exactly sure makes sense.)

Instead his (former? maybe, since he's here thanks to him in the first place) best friend shoots him a glance he despises to no end—a brief flash of what Jiyong reads as exasperation. Raising an eyebrow, Youngbae asks him why.

"Well, I dunno." Shrugging, Jiyong slinks back further into his chair. "Not even, like, to kill it or anything. Since you know I'd probably be helpless… but might as well lay eyes on one before I die. Maybe having my brains devoured would be pretty painless considering I'm ed anyway. Being left to rot in this god-forsaken place and all."

The scathing edge in Jiyong's tone causes Youngbae to tense visibly. Instead of saying anything (no apologies, no arguments, and god, he supposes he's not worthy of acknowledgement, even), Youngbae looks away and tilts his cap so that it shades his eyes.

"So… that's it, huh?" Jiyong pipes up. Rejection, fury bubbles within his chest, and before he knows it he's on the brink of explosion. " you. Did you even consider what I felt? Hell, did you even care?!"

"What else could I have done?" Youngbae says hoarsely, sheer remorse evident in his tone. "I'm sorry, Ji. I want to make things better-"

"Liar! No you don't! No you don't!" And there are startled gasps from all around, and moisture slicked down the bridge of his nose, all static and an unintelligible blur. When he's finally conscious again, there are forceful grips on his arms and a table with smashed legs on the floor. Crouched beside it is a shuddering Youngbae, fear blatantly contorted on his features. Seeing this, Jiyong inadvertently relaxes. All right, he thinks of it, guess that's one step toward feeling, again.

"Attention everyone: patients, faculty, staff. Just now, we've been notified that there has been an attack on the guards protecting the entrance. Be watchful. In the midst of this grave peril, we urge you all to please remain calm…"

Jiyong is seated and perfectly fine upon the cheap cot in his desolate prison, the volume cranked up too loud from his shiny white Beats by Dr. Dre. Obliviously humming the refrain to his favorite Wu-Tang track, he doesn't move for the next hour.

It doesn't take long for the undead to stalk their way to the first-story wing where Jiyong resides. One could easily deduce that they're on one of their hunting sprees, based on the fact that they're moving in groups. Still, Jiyong fails to discern their low grunts and groans, the way they trudge clumsily through the halls, as if treading through swampy depths. Only when their presence begets the first scream does he switch off the music and glance around confusedly at his surroundings.

"Anyone there?" he calls out, voice quivering slightly. Trepidation seizes him, initiated by the barren silence, void of a single utterance of reply. At loss as to what else to do, he opens his mouth to shout again; as he does, he catches sight of the first splotch of crimson from the edge of his peripheral vision.

Blood. It is trickling and streaming in every direction, reeking nauseatingly of rust and salt. Instinctively, Jiyong freezes, a terrified scream mired someplace between his throat and each panicked thud of his racing heart. In spite of overwhelming odds, he reacts swiftly- rolling onto the floor behind his bed and crawling into a fetal position. Soon after, he hears the first animalistic moan, the first steps forward (too dull and slow-footed to be human), and that's when he tries to remain as impeccably still as possible. 

From a distance, the creature might pass for a human being. Jiyong ascertains this quickly, based on its significantly more intact appearance. Even so, there are the tattered, red-stained garments, the stilted movements, the bloodless, gray complexion and emaciated bone structure. Jiyong scans over the onyx bangs, the penetrating gaze, and the repulsive patches of decomposed flesh on its nose and jaw- marring what seems formerly chiseled, attractive features. Was this a student or a businessman, perhaps, when death took its toll? Jiyong doesn't consider much beyond that, only plugs his nose in a vain effort to suppress the unbelievably rancid stench. The undead stink- literally, he thinks, snorting a little too loudly at his own pathetic jest- thus, rendering himself the center of the zombie's attention.

"," hisses Jiyong, painstakingly aware that this incredibly stupid mistake would be the death of him. As the the zombie stumbles toward him, arms outstretched in a fatal embrace, Jiyong retreats until he's backed against the far wall, crying profusely from fear and desperation.

"P- please," he chokes out, not even fully conscious of what he's pleading about, "please don't."

The zombie halts unexpectedly in its tracks. Jiyong rants on and on, scarcely aware of it. "I, I, if it hurts too bad I don't want to die. I'm terrified, honestly. Maybe it'd be better if I did, but could you do it quickly?" Eyes glistening, he looks up just in time to see the zombie making its way out the door again.

Puzzled, he calls out recklessly, "Wait! Mr. Zombie!" He runs up to the figure, finds himself tugging at its sleeve. "Y- you can eat me if you want. I'd rather you do that, really." Tears smart in his eyes, trickling down his cheeks like rain over a glass windowpane. "At this point… it'd be for the best. I'd rather be anywhere but here, even if it means death."

Wordlessly, the zombie (a term which feels increasingly misplaced) firmly pulls away and starts in the other direction, ignoring his sniffles.

"What's your name?" says Jiyong, hoping to stall it. A thousand inquiries flutter throughout his conscious mind then, but of all of them he manages to voice this alone. If I asked why I wasn't eaten, would it end up changing its mind?

Hearing him, the zombie pauses again; this time he glances back in Jiyong's direction and displays a tense, lethargic nod. "Se…Seung…Hyun."

"Seunghyun?" he inquires, vainly awaiting an answer from the otherwise unresponsive creature.

"I- I'm Jiyong. Kwon Jiyong," he supplies. There's a wad of chewing gum wedged behind a grouping of his left side molars- he's forgotten about it since the very first ominous notion he's received. Cracking it precariously now, he pulls down his headphones so they rest against his clavicles, grinning somewhat nervously at the the significantly taller other. "Don't look so damn surprised. This is a mental facility, yes, but we can have logical conversations. I mean, I'm misunderstood, and so are you. We're misjudged by society. Maybe I'm crazy for implying that we could get along… but hey, we can be hipsters, we can play it by ear. Who says we're required to conform to what society deems acceptable? Let's be independent thinkers!"

Seunghyun emits a sound that resembles a gurgle, which Jiyong decides is an expression of ardent enthusiasm. "That's the spirit," he says, nodding approvingly. Contrary to his outward behavior, he's still rather shaken up. Actually, it takes incredible self-restraint not to run away screaming. And while his instincts unnervingly contradict his attitude, he's shocked and simultaneously grateful that this zombie has spared him his life. Therefore, he remains calm because he is both mildly curious and immensely happy.




{ to be continued... }  O.O