Book Excerpt 2

Hi guys!

Well, unfortunately I'm on a time crunch for this novel (it doesn't look like I'll be able to finish in time for National Novel Writing Month), and plus I'm sick and am trying to write as many words as fast as I can before it gets ridiculously late. So sorry if there are a lot of grammar/syntax/spelling/passive voice/just bad writing mistakes and am not about to fix it for awhile. I just wrote this though, so its fresh off of my keyboard and I thought I would share it with you!

Warning: This part directly proceeds the excerpt I posted previously, and my male lead is at a really, really, really low point in his life. This excerpt deals with some slightly darker concepts than what I usually write, but fear not! My emotional and psychological health is 100 percent stable! I'm just writing from inside my character's head and trying to give background/make my reader pity him.

Oh, and one word you need to know: Pabo. It means idiot/stupid. Ya is just an expression used to bring to one's attention, used much like we use hey.

Well, here it goes!

The last musical notes rang out, dangling in the air as it clung to life, its vibrant pleas fading softly into silence. For a moment longer, it lived inside the hearts of the fans as they screamed in wild adoration, the noise of their worship climaxing and then fading into a heavy intermingled by excited chatter as the fans tried to shout sense into each other’s deafened ears. The vivid lights grew dim, leaving the stage a dusky gray as the last rays of the limelight faded. Instantly, a group of men clad in uniformly black slacks and black shirts swarmed the platform, dismembering the once lively stage by taking down and packing away what needed removing.

Ha Na looked around her, watching the rows of people file slowly out of the building, some lingering in their seats to talk to friends and the occasional fan jostling against the guards in an attempt to make it backstage. She scanned the crowd, looking absent-mindedly for anything suspicious or out of place, watching the vast sea of people as it oscillated, her brain registering every detail.  Her ears strained, unintentionally retrieving samplings of random conversations, her mind scanning them automatically for suspicious details, probing pointlessly into the psyches of stimulated fan girls.

“Monster looked sooo hot in that song!”

“Can you believe what he did with that cape?”

“Omo, his voice is handsome live! So manly!”

Ha Na sighed, shrugging. Probing into the mindsets of excited adolescents. Sounds like a threat to security.

Detective senses can really be a curse sometimes, she thought.

Beep!

“Kim Ha Na, Hyun Suk wants you backstage now.” Tae Joon’s voice rang over the radio.

Ha Na raised the device to her lips and pressed the little black button. “Copy that, I’ll be right over.”

Stuffing the little black handheld back onto her security belt, she turned around and walked determinedly towards the backstage door….

Monster stepped out of the limelight and back into the shadows, fleeing from the mob behind him. Wiping the sweat from his brow, twisted open a bottle of water and downed it instantly, relishing the sudden stream of life rushing through his body.

Turning the doorknob, he swung the door open, a flood of light falling across the relatively dark hallway. Crossing over to the chair, he sat down, his tense body trembling as he relaxed against its surface. With a shaking hand, he reached up, sliding his fingers beneath the mask, removing it. Staring at himself in the mirror, he allowed his dark mop of hair to fall into his eyes. Slowly, he ran his fingers up his jawline, tracing its abrupt curve upward, brushing over his cheekbones. He noted how the skin stretched over them, thin and weary, as if it would snap over him at any minute and leave naked the inner workings of his being.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her. The eyes. Those luminous eyes that suddenly had called everything he had ever done into account. They haunted him, filling his every fiber with horrid memory. His heart race, the blood pumping into his already red face. His temples thundered, splitting his mind with a penetrating pain. Raising a hand to his face, he worked his fingers into them, trying to massage matters back into normal circumstances.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his cell phone. A picture of Michelle illuminated the screen. His grip tightened momentarily around the device, as if he desired to break it, shattering the image into a million pieces until it mirrored the splinters of his mind, and then scatter them until it mirrored his affections. But he refrained, instead sliding it into the unlock mode and pressing number 2 on his speed dial. Immediately, the image of a sweet, smiling woman clad in a long white coat and holding a clipboard filled the screen. He put the phone to his ear.

“Yebosaeeo?” came the voice on the other line.

“I’m in the dressing room. Come immediately.”

He pressed “end”, eclipsing her reply. He didn’t need to hear it.

Rising up out of the seat, he sauntered slowly over to the counter, bracing himself against the counter and staring at the reflection that gazed back at him evenly. It was the same face, was it not? Only older, the hands of time beginning to scratch their marks across his countenance.

Then why did it seem so different?

He sighed. This is who he was now. A shadow of himself; a mere spectre lurking in the shadows of his own light. His identity. Something he could hide behind. Somewhere he was safe. In the world, yet safe from its prying eyes. Surrounded by people, but alone in any given crowd. Alone with himself, his mind, his secrets, his soul. Alone. Free to live while his true self died.

He had to accept it. He had to live what little life he had left. And if that meant traveling through life with a heart as cold as his countenance, pushing people farther and farther from the perimeters of his soul, so be it. At least he would be alone.

This is who he was.

But who was she?

The answer reverberated through his mind like a resounding gong, echoing off the walls, poising the question to the air and receiving no reply. That girl. The one with the beautiful eyes that sparkled even now as he remembered them. The girl that haunted his imagination with her presence, dancing up and down the aisles of his memory. For a moment, his heart raced, beating against his chest in desperate hope. He shook his head, tossing his thoughts back into place.

No. It couldn’t be.

The door wheezed silently, allowing a gust of fresh, cold air to seep into the warm room. A set of plain, carefully filed nails curled around the doorway, full, healthy fingers gripping the white edge. A shock of black hair, smoothed professionally into two sections parted directly in the middle, brushed over a white doctor’s jacket that came to the mid-calf. With her other arm, the woman clutched a clipboard to her chest, pen inserted neatly between the clip. Her tan lips parted, revealing a line of perfectly white teeth.

“You did well tonight,” she said, her black heels clacking against the floor as she crossed the room.

He stared straight into his reflection, refusing to look at her as his mouth moved, the words tumbling out of them. “Thanks.”

She frowned, discontent as she grabbed his arm and motioned to the cushioned chair. He sat, allowing his troubled body to sink into about the only thing that would embrace for who he really was.

Well, that and Ji Eun.

Pulling out a rolling chair for herself,  the psychiatrist leaned  slightly forward, hands clasped over the clipboard balancing on her crossed knees. She tilted her head, black strands of hair touching eyebrows furrowed with worry. She studied her patient, watching as he covered his unmasked face with his hand and sighed.

She gulped, swallowing past the concerned knot raveling itself in her throat. “How did you feel about it?”

He pulled his hand away from his face, his gaze falling down to his lap as he tried to gather his thoughts. His nostrils flared, dragging oxygen into his being as he attempted to slow the frantic beat of his confused heart. It thundered in his ears, beating against his bones, screaming, shouting, silently demanding answers.

Silently.

He reached for the bottle set next to him on the glass table and popped the top off, a mad crimson hue flooding his cheeks as he chugged  it down. As he slammed it back down, the glass reverberated with a dull ring, breaking the silence. Elbows digging suddenly into his knees, he leaned forward, eye’s aflame as they met her own. Running a finger over his wet lip, he pushed the alcohol away.

“Why do I trust you, Kang Ji Eun?” he hissed, almost under his breath, his gaze burning as he tilted his head. The pungent scent of hard liquor punctured the atmosphere.

Ji Eun watched every tense muscle, noting the cold, placid strain in his voice. His feet planted firmly on the ground, he studied her, as if evaluating her as a choice of confidante. Twitching in a brief smile, she pulled out the pen from the clipboard’s clip and pinched it between her two fingers, resting the tip lightly against the paper.

His mouth twisted into a cruel, tortured smile as he looked at her evenly, muttering in a barely audible voice. “What could you understand of me? What do you know of war? Or imprisonment? Have you ever cowered behind your own walls, waiting for them to fall upon you? To crush you, to kill you? What do you know of those?”

He shrank back in his chair, covering his eyes with his hand.

Ji Eun sighed, reaching over and clasping his hands in her own. She felt them shake as they wrapped around them, the clammy sweat bleeding into her own as he clung to her. As his hands shook, she could feel the walls of his existence cracking as if they were about to crumble in her palm. He was like a fortress engaged in battle, the undisputed ruler of his domain.

But in this moment, she knew that she was the only one he had ever allowed so close. Close enough to see the cracks in this stoic fortress. Close enough to peer through them and see the human towering in his own desolate castle, everything he had built crumbling to meaningless ruin. His kingdom, so powerful to everyone else, was naught but sand to him.

Although the wall between them was crumbling, she could do nothing but strain her ears to hear above the din of the battle and listen to his silent cries. And although her heart bled for him, strained out to touch him and heal his dying soul, she knew that the trembling gates remained closed for her. That although he shouted to her from across the wall, she could only watch it fall upon him. Slowly, gradually, the stones of his pretense piled upon him, burying the true man beneath the weight of his secrets as the world trampled them in rejection.

She looked down at her clipboard, scribbling down a few notes, her pen soiling the white paper, separating words into categories. Words. That’s all they would ever be.

She set the pen down and looked back up at him. “Is there anything I can do?”

He pointed abruptly to the door, refusing to return her gaze. “Go.”

“Do you want to – “

“Go!” he barked at her.

She nodded, smiling in the kindest way possible as she gathered her things. Standing up, she pressed the clipboard against her chest again. Striding over, she patted his shoulder, her hand pounding against him in light, rapid succession.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” she said. “You’ll be alright. Just forget about tonight.”

He listened, his chapped lips kneading against each other in deep thought. Nodding, he reached out to the coffee table, his grasp curling around the green glass surface of the beer bottle, white flesh haloing his fingertips in righteous frustration. His arm began to contract, pulling it back to his lips.

Deftly, she wrapped her hand around the bottle, suspending it in midair between them. Surprised, he looked upward.

“I need a drink,” he said, pulling it aggressively towards himself. You’ve never stopped me before.

Pulling it from his hand gently, she placed it back upon the coffee table. “Not tonight. The Hyun Suk wants you to meet the new crew. You should be sober for that.”

He shrugged her comments off his shoulders, as if that would keep them from ringing about his empty skull.

“Go!” he said, flicking his hand towards the entrance.

She nodded, squeezing her pen tightly between her fingers. She hesitated, looking him over once again, her doctor’s mind mentally calculating his furrowed brow, his eyes glazed with absence, his tensed fingers coiling into the muscle of his relaxed arm.

She sighed. Fine.

“Take care of yourself,” she said, her heels tapping the ground as she turned to leave.

Clack, clack, clack.

The tick of her shoes against the ground echoed in his head as he listened to her retreat, the cries of his soul trailing behind her. He leaned back, closing his eyes as he attempted to shut out the noise of the world.

Ya, pabo.

His lips moved slowly, forming the quiet words as they slipped from his lips, falling into thin air. He should have just done it. He should have told her the whole story; why he was like this. Why he had to hide. The specter that haunted him even in his dreams, her laugh ringing joyfully in his ears, resounding in his mind. How she waltzed towards him, the green, lively stems of a rose bouquet ensconced between her hands. How, night after night, he reached out to her, longing for her warm little body to press into his own. How the heat rose in his being as anticipation filled him. How his arms extended, empty, the cool breeze pinching them lightly just as he immersed himself in the fact that maybe this time it was actually real. Maybe this time he could start over. Maybe this time she would run into him and throw his arms around his neck, her sweet lips kissing his warm cheeks. Maybe this time….

But no. She would run into his arms, her eyes twinkling with life. The roses in her hands would turn to blood, dripping between her fingertips as her healthy skin grew pale and her cherry red lips turned a bruised blue. Then she would fall over, stabilizing herself by planting her hands against his chest, staining his purely white shirt crimson. She would gasp for breath, her entire body heaving as blood crept to the corners of her lips, dribbling slowly down her chin. He would listen to her, chills suddenly traversing his body as he shook, frightened. Suddenly, she would collapse, lifeless into his cold arms, stiff and lifeless. He would sob, his screams for help rising in his chest and pushing against the barrier of shock holding them back, containing them, strangling the life out of them and leaving them silent. Suddenly, as the sobs subsisted, he would notice a black instrument resting in her grip, a small, rolled up letter tied with a scarlet ribbon fastening it to its stem. With flaccid fingers, he would pry her claw-like grasp from it and unravel the ribbon. Pulling the pieces of paper apart, he would read the single word, scratched delicately, hastily up the paper.

Goodbye.

Even now, he winced, wishing himself not to go on. But he knew the rest of the story.

He would grasp the black stem of the instrument and raise it his head. He would bite his lip, a crimson spring cleansing his tear-soiled face as he dug into it. The gentle, cold press of the metal barrel against his prickled skin. His finger curled around the lever.

He would pull it, a thud running through his body. And then nothing. Nothing but the darkness that surrounded him when he jolted awake, frigid sweat bathing his small being and seeping into the blankets he desperately pulled at to cover himself. To hide his sin. To remind himself that it was all only a dream.

Or was it? The death of a child, the death of a man.

Maybe he should have told her.

He glanced over his shoulder, staring at the cool, clear liquid still swimming crazily in the confines of the bottle from its contact with the coffee table, wishing he could drown himself in its roiling depths. He licked his dry lips, saliva sipping into the cracks as he savored the memory of the sharp sting sliding down his throat. The pain, followed by the numbness. A numbness great enough to dull the pain of his aching heart.

And then sleep. Deep, eternal, drunken sleep, devoid of any memories or haunting dreams. Only him and the blackness that already surrounded his soul.

He reached over, fingers curling around the green bottle once more as he pulled it to himself.

He couldn’t tell her. This was life. Or the only life he was allowed to live anyway.

Twisting open the cap, he brought it to his lips, enjoying the familiar, vibrant sting as it slid down his throat, pinching him. This was good.

I’m still alive, he thought.