Myungsoo bit his nails nervously as he waited.  Suddenly, the tick-tock­ of the clock became louder and louder, the sound echoing in his ears, matching the drumming beat of his heart.

His right foot shook up and down constantly, tapping the wooden floor nervously. He tried to breathe in and out, struggling to breathe, but the air betrayed him when he needed it the most, choking his windpipe. He bowed his head, futilely attempting to blink away the black that threatened to overwhelm him. The black spatters covered the wall, threatening to overwhelm the pristine white walls.

Please....

Please come out...

My head can't take it any longer.

He groaned, trying to block out the sounds. Oh, how the sounds tormented him so. They seemed to crawl in his ears, infesting and torturing his mind before they exited his body through his painful cries.  His hands trembled at his sides, and he gripped the framework of the bed, trying to stop the uncontrollable tremors that had seized his body. There was no hope, of course.

Because they were here.

And he was alone.

Again.

He thought of the times his mother would close the door to his bedroom, her silhouette becoming smaller and smaller as she took the light with her and left him in the dark.

He remembered panicking that the shadows were getting darker and darker. Like the black on the wall in front of him.  He clasped his hands over his ears tightly, fighting to block out the whispers as his body convulsed as if being electrified.

Oh, the whispers.

No matter how much he tore at his ears; tried to stop the sounds from invading his mind. Red flecks fell from the sky, spotting the unwashed, yellowing white sheets. And the whispers just kept echoing in his ears, as he begged for it to stop. Sweat dripped down his neck mixing with the red, making a lovely shade of pink. It was a beautiful shade of pink, wasn't it, they whispered.

He nodded fervently, hoping that they would leave him alone. All alone. Pink. Make more pink, they told him.

And he did.

His fingernails were ragged with bits of blood and flesh stuck in them. He felt them touching him, snaking around his neck, ghosting the skin of his arm, kissing his ragged flesh.

Lapping up the pink.

More, they said. More pink.

He wanted to refuse, to tell them to stop. He wanted to scream. He wanted them to just go away. But, as if they had read his thoughts, they only laughed at him. Go ahead and scream, they told him, but no one will hear you.

And he knew why.

More, they demanded this time. More pink.

And he couldn't refuse.

The searing pain bit at his torture-ridden mind, making him confused. This was the best thing to do, right? They'll only hurt me more if I don't. They'll only hurt me more.

All they wanted was pink.

If they get more pink, they won't hurt me more, right? They'll go away, right?

Right?

He could barely see through heavy-lidded eyes, barely lift his head—let alone think straight. No, he couldn't think straight. Only twisted.

Because that was how they made him.

How they shaped him. He was like a branch that could only twist and bend under the weight of them. It was only matter of time  before this branch would break. It couldn't stay strong forever, could it?

They grew tired of his cries and left him alone.

For now.

He could still feel their eyes on him, staring at him, taunting him. They were waiting, and he knew it. He breathed heavily, trying to catch his breath.

The door to the bathroom flew open and Sungyeol appeared in the doorway, drying his hair with a towel. The steam from the shower left the bathroom in wisps of smoke, fogging up the all-seeing, reflective glass of the mirror. The steam seemed to choke him; beads of sweat began to form on his forehead (from the heat or fear, he wasn't sure).

He opened his mouth, making sure his vocal cords wouldn't betray him. "Did you always take showers this hot, Sungyeol?" He tried to go for a light, playful tone, but he wasn't sure—couldn't be sure—that Sungyeol wouldn't detect the underlying tremble.

Oh, but Sungyeol, oblivious as always, laughed. "Why? Too hot for you?" He grinned suggestively, and Myungsoo "laughed" in response. Sungyeol headed over to the bed, and Myungsoo hurriedly covered the pink with a blanket.

Oh, but Sungyeol, oblivious as always, didn't notice a thing.

(And Myungsoo wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.)

Sungyeol rummaged around in his drawer for his wallet. Myungsoo panicked. He knew what was happening all too well. "Where are you going?" He asked, trying to chase away the tremor in his voice.

Sungyeol didn't look at him, avoiding Myungsoo's eyes. "Oh, well....I'm going to, uh,  go eat dinner with a friend. Why do you ask?"

Myungsoo's heart dropped (he wasn't sure why—fear or disappointment?). He stammered, keeping his eyes cast downward, "Oh, no...I was just wondering. Have fun at dinner." He tried to smile, but he couldn't. He didn't want to burden Sungyeol anymore. He knew what type of friend Sungyeol was talking about, and he didn't want to get in the way like the past thirty-three times. "Where are the others?" He queried, praying with all his heart that he would not have to be alone on this night.

Especially not on this night.

Sungyeol looked happier to answer this question. "Oh, they should be home soon. Any minute now. I'll just be leaving now." Myungsoo watched him go with a sinking heart that dropped into the abyss of the ocean. 

But oh, Sungyeol was oblivious.

Like always.

And Myungsoo was alone.

Like always.

He bit his nails, terrified as one minute gradually passed to become ten. At first, he tried to calm himself by counting slowly to himself. But as one slowly became one thousand forty-two, he huddled closer to the crackling fire, squeezing himself into a small corner so that the looming shadows would not be able to touch him.

His eyes were tempted to close, lulled by the steady crackling of the fire and the warm heat, but to sleep now was foolish. No, he had to wait for someone to come home. He thought about going outside once or twice, but decided against it—the last time he had gone outside alone, they had almost thrown him into the river. Or maybe it was he himself. He wasn't sure. The line between him and them had already begun to blur.

He was walking on a thin, gray line, and he wasn't sure which side was black or white. Everything these days seemed like a fine, gray line. Should he? Or should he not? He fiddled with his phone, trying to imagine Sungyeol next to him. He was safe with Sungyeol. He was always safe with Sungyeol by his side. There was just this...feeling. But it was always Sungyeol who left, taking away Myungsoo's safety.

It was a wonder that Myungsoo didn't hate him. Sungyeol had Myungsoo wrapped around his little finger like a dog, and only Myungsoo knew it. He was at Sungyeol's feet, kissing the ground he walked on, so to speak. Dignity? Myungsoo had none. If he did have any, Sungyeol had already stepped over it all.

He wanted to scream; his head hurt so much. He wanted to tear his head apart just to stop the pain. He wanted air, but there was none. He wanted a Sungyeol, but there was none.

He shivered. Was that a scream he heard coming from Woohyun's room? No, it was the wind. It was definitely the wind. But the wind didn't explain the scratching sound coming from the fireplace, did it? The scraping of nails against brick jarred his broken ears, and he scrambled away from the fireplace, from the glint of eyes shining in the darkness, staring back at him.

He wanted to turn on the lights, and he didn't want to. He was a coward, too afraid to see what might be awaiting his eyes, too afraid to even scream. He would rather be left in the dark, filled with the uncertainty because not knowing is always better than knowing what lay in wait for him. He had  learned that through experience.

There was a frenzy of knocks at the door—or was that a scratching sound? No, he told himself under his shaking breath, it was definitely a knock. Someone was knocking on the door.

Sungyeol.

Of course.

It was Sungyeol knocking frantically. He must've forgotten his keys before he left the house. And now, he was trying to get out of the rain (that's what must've been tapping and rattling the window panes and the roof the whole entire time, right?) . Myungsoo gladly got up to open the door for Sungyeol. His safety had come back to him. Sungyeol had come to save him.

He threw open the door, expecting Sungyeol to smile back at him, but what he saw made his shriek lodge in his throat.

It was raining.

Not heavily, but rather a soft, consistent plip-plop, pattering onto the front porch.

Blood smeared his fingers, and then he realized it.

It was raining pink.

No, not it.

Sungyeol was raining pink.

Sungyeol, who was hanging upside down, his twisted mouth sneering gruesomely at Myungsoo with bloody teeth. Sungyeol, who clawed at the door until his fingernails turned bloody. Sungyeol, whose eyes bled from the sockets. Sungyeol, whose entrails were spilling out from a gaping hole in his stomach.

Sungyeol, who smiled to him and said, "Myungsoo, she's coming." 

author's note

hey guys. now that I think about this, the chapters will probably be short like this. I'm not sure if it started to seem like it was dragging towards the end. Was it dragging? I'm thinking of entering this story into 'give me a year' writing contest. But we'll just see how that goes. OTL -mei 

credits - contradictori