cracks on the surface

Part 1 of 3

In a world where creativity is shunned, one man struggles to hold out for another man’s sake.

***

She sits motionless in her revolving chair with her talon-like fingers curved roughly around a bundle of papers. Her blood red lips pout alarmingly in contrast to the pale whiteness of her face. She is made of harsh lines and angles; not a single curve softens her cruel contours. Her cheeks are high and hollow. Her eyes are narrow and unmoving; grey, mechanical eyes blend in with the utter colourlessness of her being. Long, glossy hair trails down her long neck. It could have been beautiful, but her pinched jaw and frowning forehead assures its plainness. She has a broken chin and a broken heart.

(She is broken.)

(They broke her.)

If she were a painting, she would be delicate of white and grey. Perhaps, she would be flecked with drops of black. She would never be bold of red and yellow. She would never be fluid of green and blue. If she were a painting, she would be abstract; selfless, formless and admirable. And perhaps, just perhaps at one corner of her canvas, she would be a clumsy circle of a dull violet splattering in different directions. Memories of a battle she once fought.

(And lost.)

He sits before her nervously. His palms are sweaty and his throat itches. “Good morning, Ms. Lee,” he greets. The voice that leaves his throat is not his. She looks at him appraisingly. His frame is stretched and skinny. He has wavy brown hair framing a small face. There is no hint of stubble on his broad jaw. She watches his rough lips part and he introduces himself; Choi Minho. For some reason, the name slips through her memory and falls away. Curious, she thinks. Her memory usually never fails her.

She notices that his mouth has a tendency to curve upwards. She resents it. She notices that his eyes are wholesome and colourful. They flash with spurts of inspiration and happiness. He has tanned, golden-brown skin and hazel eyes. She frowns at the life in his eyes.

(They smile back at her.)

She realizes she hates him.

(Because she likes him.)

He leans forward and deposits a thick bunch of papers before her. She notices the way his eyes lit up and his teeth gleam. She catches the scrawl of a hasty hand, the pouring of emotions and hours of toil on the sheets before her. “Would you take a look at it?” His voice struggles to repress his growing excitement. “Perhaps if you liked it, you could edit it for me.” She notes the wistfulness in his tone and shudders inwardly. Under his expectant gaze, she casually thumbs through his story. Each page, she realizes, holds a piece of his heart. She runs her fingers over the unfamiliar words and the curious story. It’s beautiful, she thinks and her heart burns. She feels the rawness of the narrative pierce her. She feels a quality about the story that mesmerizes her.

(The quality is creativity.)

She realizes that he’s unbroken. She realizes that she needs to break him. She holds the book at arm’s length and murmurs, “It doesn’t speak to me, your story.” She has never told a whiter lie before. “It needs more emotion, more passion.” She pauses, “More creativity.” She leans back into her chair and watches his eyes first grow wide and then regress to a dull droop. “You have the potential, Mr. Choi. Now give me something I’ve never read before, something that will make me shiver in anticipation. Give me the rawest of your emotions, the most banal of your feelings. Give me your soul within the covers of a book.” She is pleased with her little speech.

(She doesn’t know it yet, but she means every word of it.)

He doesn’t answer for a long time. He stares into oblivion. The clock ticks into the beginnings of a new hour. She wonders if he is broken already.

(She wishes he isn’t.)

Slowly he shakes himself into consciousness. The fire returns to his eyes. His palms clutch the table tightly; his fingertips blush a deep red. He bows his head. His words are heavy and measured. “I’ll try my best.” He stands up and leans forward to retrieve his manuscript from her. Talon-like finger nails scratch at his hands. He looks at her incredulously. She coughs. “I’ll keep this with me, if you don’t mind. I haven’t gone through it properly yet. There might be something to work on.” He shrugs and walks out. He thanks her before he leaves; thanks her for beginning to break him. She clutches at his manuscript with feverish hands.

(She needs it; she doesn’t know why.)

Shards of glass pierce through her skin. They cut through her flesh and tear through her skin. She cries for help; no one saves her. She feels the warmth of her being fade away. She stares fearfully at the punctures in her skin. She wonders why not a drop of blood flows out. In a moment of resplendent beauty, the glasses all shatter in a single motion. She watches as the shimmering dust floats down silently. A thought strikes her and she looks down at herself. She howls.

(She has shattered too.)

***

Every time she breaks someone else, she breaks herself too.

***

She locks up her office and hides out in her home. She draws her curtains, lights herself a cigarette and curls up in her sofa. His rough, scrawling manuscript is cradled in her lap. She reads it. She reads it through the night. She feels the shards of glass gently fall off her. Her shattered body pieces itself together. The cigarette stubs accumulate through the night. Come morning, and they smoke as guilty evidence. She cries several times through the night. In the morning, her lips can still taste the saltiness of her unshed tears.

(She reads the book a total of eleven times through the night.)