Author's Notes: PoV two, this time from the scruffy korean punk. Thank god for that kid.
Er. Short and to the point. Disclaimers and warnings still stand, save for the addition of drug presence, deep angst, and a total lack of resolution. I'm just spinning through the boy's head, and playing a bit. Please don't hate me?
Chapter 2 - Morning View
Who can Love you and still be standing?
To the boy sitting on the sill, days are sometimes too long.
He is quiet, one foot resting against a low table, slim hands folding and unfolding slowly, a tidal motion against a battered scrap of newspaper. A half-smoked joint rests behind his ear: something he saves for the days he really feels like shit. (Not that he likes the stuff -- quite the opposite, really. He views the drug as more of a self-inflicted punishment for allowing himself to slip into stupid moments of depression. One, he feels, should always show a pleasant face, no matter how one feels. Even if it means deceiving friends. /Even if it means deceiving oneself/.)
He ponders the newspaper and the engraved silver lighter in his pocket. Not his -- something so clean has no place in the lifestyle he has chosen of fights and thievery -- and for perhaps the thirteenth time this morning, his mind passes over his memory of 'that person'.
It makes him feel helpless. It makes him feel dirty. (One should never taint the love of the fight with . . . more personal matters. This is what he believes.) And it serves in its own small way to fuel the obsession that has haunted him since the first violent encounter that was too many years and scars ago to count.
(/One ages quickly in these times/, he reflects with a wry smile.)
Things never work out the way they are supposed to -- this thought amuses him as he sits and watches dawn explode outside his window in a riot of color. Vengeance is a simple thing; an integral part of human nature. Something hurts you, hurt it back. These days it sometimes goes by the name of justice. Hatred, too, is not unique.
He wonders when it stopped being these things.
This . . . This, he does not understand.
So he sits there, listening to the sounds of Pusan in the morning, half- muted behind the dirty glass.
He's waiting, and he doesn't know why.
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