cause of death

Kim Jongin had always been clear about two things in life.

One: He was the epitome of all things awkward.

Being home-schooled for the first few years of his non-existent childhood life -- which his obsessed and very stereotypical Asian mother claimed that it would be a good start for him -- the young and intelligent Jongin never really knew how to deal with people in general. To Jongin, speaking to strangers was pure sin, and discussion about socializing with such persons was taboo — a topic unsuitable to speak over the dining table. Thus, this enclosed mindset had led him to multiple misadventures and rather unfortunate interactions. 

Although many, few in his memory seemed to stick out at him.

Like if ever a girl approached him within a 5 metre radius -- a seldom occurrence of course, but nevertheless, it happened -- Jongin’s left hand would go on a twitching fit. Of course, such a strange feature would terrify any young girl, and so many girls of his age had screamed at him and warned their own friends that he was mentally insane in the mind, or as commonly worded by 4-year-olds: "Mommy, he's a murdurer”.

Or how he was rendered speechless when a boy had asked him if he wanted to play soccer with him, to which Jongin replied with a lingering silence and a pair of beady (totally not creepy) eyes. Unfortunately those pair of very-innocent-and-totally-not-intimidating pair of eyes had been mistaken as the orbs of utmost rage and fury, and so with that, the little boy with the soccer ball had run to the land of Far Far Away while bawling his eyes out, producing enough tears to supply the Han River.

And it didn’t just end there. Awkwardness became his curse. It took him a while, but Jongin had realized this when everybody found out about his strange relationship with the canteen lady on the first year of high school. 

Their developments were of no relation with intimacy, but rather, was a relationship which relied fundamentally upon the foundations of: “tip-me-and-I-don’t-spit-in-your-food”. The whole deal was devoid of any emotion whatsoever, but awkwardly, it had been mistaken for something more than he had bargained for. (Yes, everybody thought they both had that inappropriate canteen lady-student relationship.)

Jongin had lasted the rest of his high school life making his own sandwiches, because if he didn’t, he was sure to receive a meal made up of 1% edible mush and 90% , courtesy of the canteen lady’s plump posterior. Plus it would just be awkward for Jongin to see, or even worse, have to speak to the said woman again.

An unfathomable miracle occurred on his second month in high school when the school nerd approached him to ask for notes on the English class he had missed out on, because apparently many others had refused any sort of contact with him. So he gave it, and they exchanged a surprisingly comfortable “thank you” and “your welcome”, and ended it there with no attachments or interest. Or so he thought.

Day by day the nerdy -- yet undeniably cute -- boy would approach Jongin on matters about school and classes, and naturally, they became friends—the proclaimed geek mascot and the #1 dark-horse candidate became two little study buddies; if one must say. If there was one thing that Jongin had learnt that year other than the reciprocal of fractions and maths-related-stuffs, he had a magical power of changing ualities.

His nerdy friend -- well, let’s name him ‘X’ for now -- was a rather touchy person who seemed to like skinship. Jongin was cool with that, at first. But slowly, it started to become worse, and invaded his privacy more than appropriate or deemed necessary. Then all of a sudden, during a sweltering and seemingly normal afternoon, things got out of hand. X extravagantly confessed his undying love for Jongin in front of the entire school assembly. Jongin, of course, did not know what to do and ran away, never returning again. Well, not until the next day of school, when both ran to each other in the corridor as people snickered at them and questioned their ualities. 

Jongin knows he was straight, but that doesn’t change the fact of how awkward the rest of the year became for him, especially when X had been assigned as his science partner for a major task. 

To conclude, seeing Jongin talk to someone was like watching a car accident—it was an utterly horrible and tormenting sight to behold, but a sight one couldn’t keep their eyes away from. He would stutter every second word and when he finished his sentence -- if he actually ever managed to do so -- it rarely made sense or presented a vaguely plausible thought. He wouldn’t even considered as something cool like a wallflower or something; just, well, a flower who needed some serious watering and some serious sun time.

Two: First days are always ty.

Jongin learns this reality late in the morning while laying lifelessly on the ground; when it is some kind of secret tradition for the somophores to be late on their first days after the termly holidays and achieve the best with their half-assed attitudes for the rest of their undesirable and pathetically lame lives. 

“Mum, where are my shirts?!” he yells over the sound of an operating jackhammer in the morning. Damn that new apartment block.

“They’re still in the wash! I told you to hang them up yesterday!”

“,” he curses under his breath as he scampers off the ground to go on a mini-scavenger hunt for something wearable and somewhat presentable attire. If worse comes to worse, he’s going to have to secretly wear that black spaghetti-strap singlet tank top of his mother’s, because it, he’s a somophore and he doesn’t give two s about anything anymore.

Name: Kim Jongin

Cause of death: Social suicide

So with matching navy blue shorts, he slides past the kitchen in his off-white socks and grabs the slice of bread that pops out of the toaster just in time, and slips into his black high-cut sneakers. He hears the faint sound a squish, and feels something cool lather his feet through the fabric of his socks. Though he doesn’t know what it is, he knows it’s definitely not good.

“, , ,” he curses loudly with one hand leaning against the threshold and the other losing its sense and being plain retarded. His face warps into an expression of pure delight and joy—with the sarcasm level soaring high above the stratosphere.

The loud boy’s mother approaches him with a stern look and a tight frown, “Kim Jongin, why are you uttering profanities so early in the morning—”

“Mitty crapped in my ing shoes again.”

First days were always ty, and now, Jongin could take that phrase to a literal sense that nobody else could. 

“Just hurry up.”

So that was how Jongin ended up on a bicycle with slippers on his wonderfully scented feet. Though he is fully aware that it was a health and safety occupational hazard to wear non-enclosed footwear on a bicycle, that soon became the least of Jongin’s worries when an even bigger problem occurred; his breaks wouldn’t work.

No matter how much he pulled on the breaks, its effect proved worthless. Normal people would assume that he could simply place his feet slowly upon the ground and use it as a frictional force to stop the kinetic movement of the bicycle but no. Jongin’s bicycle happened to be speeding downhill, and if he were to put his feet down, he would either; a. burn his feet and be forever feet-less, or b. break his legs and be forever leg-less. In which he wanted neither of that, because he would find the lower part of his body useful in his lifetime. 

In no time, he was due for the front gates of the university campus, right where the hill had reached its bottom. “Dude!” he yelled out to some idiot who decided that it would be smart to walk right in front of an unstoppable force. 

life and its ways to tell you that you .

“GET OUT OF THE WAY—”

saranghae

Two subs already. I feel so loved. Thanks guys.

Can I just say that I am this happy:

Now you know that it's some serious happiness I'm feeling there.

credits - contradictori