Black and White {KaiSoo}
of shattered stardust and midnight dreaming {EXO drabble collection}
A/N: this is pure word vomit. :)
Black and white. That's all I see. As I scan my surroundings, everything seems painted in dusky hues of grey or sharp black edges. Devoid of colour. Devoid of life. It used to be alive, full of vibrant reds and yellows, shaded with purples and blues. I know. I remember.
But that doesn't exist anymore. The memories of it are vague, and all that I have left to hold on to are images pressed in the back of my mind. Just snatches of memory pressed into the seamless edges of cold harsh reality. I walk forward, shoes scraping against colourless pavement. Sometimes I wish I could just experience it for real just once. The colour in life. Just like the smiling people, walking on the streets. Living in technicolor. They have no idea. They wouldn't be able to imagine what I see. They would never need to wake up to grey and black. Grey and black. Grey and black.
My only solace is music.
Be it the spiralling tones of ivory keys, or long bass notes floating in the wind, music gives a colour that isn't a colour. Each trilling note breaks the monochromatism of life and brings in a fresh, enticing swirl of indescribable warmth that swells in great crescendos or dances a low, steady heartbeat of sound. Snatches of forlorn emotion harmonise on wood and string as I sit there and watch, almost mesmerised.
I close my shop early on Sundays, clothing it in the dim light filtering in through dusty windows, so I can listen to him play when no one's around. The tired musician, always clutching his smooth, varnished violin, wearing a ghost of a smile.
Under the tall oak tree he'd sit, away from the laughter and joys of childhood play. Slowly, carefully, he would bring out the meticulously carved wood, fitted with taut strings. Gently he would rest it on his shoulder, securing it with his chin. With elegant sweeps of his arm, he would create intricate patterns woven in impossible knots, haunting lullabies sung on repeat, fast, rushing rivers of notes, trickling into a waterfall of crashing bass.
I sit beside him again today, silently settling myself down against the worn tree trunk. I come without fail, and so does he. This time, the melody sounds sad, devastated, even. Tears of quavers and crotchets jumbled up pour in torrents down polished wood, crying out in great crescendo and sobbing their staccato grief.
By the time he's finished, tears stream down his face, choking sobs wracking his lean frame. Blue, he tells me, is like the drab shade of sky after a heavy storm. He says he's blue, and I try to imagine it, but I can't. Not quite.
I return to the seemingly monotonous task of nudging paper-bound tales back into their rightful places on shelves, humming a soft tune as I do. Laughing tinkles ring, signalling another presence in the dusty shop.
He sits down at his usual seat, a plush couch near the window, and no words are exchanged as I automatically go to brew him his favourite tea. Soon, swirls of liquorice twine around a mid-autumn breeze, ribboning in mindless circles. Sheets upon sheets of notes and rests are spread messily on the tiny coffee table, the cup of tea precariously close to the edge, and he begins to work.
Line after line after line. His pencil out quavers and minims, retrograde inversion flying everywhere, full of furrowed brows and liquorice tea, crisp autumn and forlorn smiles.
"Jongin," the name rolls off my tongue like honey.
"Jongin," I'll never get sick of the name," It's closing time."
Jongin mumbles a response, gathering his papers and stacking them neatly. As he's about to leave, lightning strikes, lighting up the dim street. Rain pelts down its rage, soaking the road with saltless tears. It's painfully obvious that anyone heading out wouldn't make it back home without destroying their belongings and drenching themselves. Nevertheless, Jongin moved to open the door, attempting to leave the warm, cosy bookshop.
"You're not going to make it back in this weather," I state the painfully obvious truth. "You can stay tonight, until the storm ends," the sentence comes out like a plea, desperately trying to cling onto escaping remnants of the peaceful day.
Jongin smiles, bright in contrast to the darkness outside. He trails after me, ducking slightly into the small room behind the bookshop. It seems as if the room has been compressed to make everything fit in the cramped space. I usher Jongin to my bed, and pull out the spare mattress from behind the closet. Laying myself down, I sigh and close my tired eyes, sinking through the mattress into warped dimensions of violins and liquorice.
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