Black Orchid | BEOMKAI

Chapter 4

I remained something of a tightly wound ball for the rest of the day and played my guitar with a fantastic amount of procrastination.

Checking my bank balance again, I was appalled to find that more money had come out of my account from some online subscriptions. I cancelled them all but was left with a rounded zero staring back at me. I liked zeros in my account, but preferably with six other numbers in front of them. I had to wait until next Monday for my allowance to replenish itself. No doubt my father was keeping an eye on the accounts too, silently watching me struggle while he sat happily upon his millions.

It was now the evening, I had finished another bowl of unsatisfying ramen and was beginning to feel bloated. I turned a beer bottle over in my hands, watching the bubbles slip down the inside of it as I began to stare off into space and fuck, I was bored. My guitar wasn't proving to be the outlet I hoped it would and music was beginning to leave a flat note in my ear. As I rehearsed the love songs Soobin had written for our band, I now truly knew none of them had ever been about me. I tried to play them and block this fact out, but my mind wouldn't shut off.

Speaking of things that wouldn't shut up–

That neighbor and his persistent whistling and humming didn't let up for hours. It was why I began playing guitar, to drown him out, but he was still there when I finished.

What was he even doing? Was he the local undertaker? Digging graves for all the soon-to-be deceased of the ageing population of Julian? He should dig one for himself, while he's at it. Might make the days a bit quieter.

After finishing my beer I went to bed for an early night. What the hell else was I going to do?

***

I was exhausted the following morning at around ten when I dragged myself out of bed. Not for any lack of sleep, but the opposite entirely. I discarded my shirt in the middle of the night, the warmer temperatures of the season now becoming unbearable. I glanced at my reflection within the mirror of the in-wall wardrobe.

I was tall. Averagely so at one hundred and eighty centimetres tall. If I was honest, my upper half I was never completely satisfied with. I was very narrow, mostly due to my small, sloping shoulders. I traced my hand down my flat torso, feeling a few ribs under my fingertips. My mother's voice rang in my head about not eating enough vegetables. It's not my fault they're disgusting.

My face though.

Dark almond eyes- compelling enough to make the Pope, himself, question his faith in a single glance. A model nose that kept plastic surgeons in the business of trying to recreate. Shapely lips as kissable as a newborn baby's cheek. And a triangular jawline so sharp it could slash the phonebook of China in half.

Perfect. So symmetrical. Not an angle out of place. Just ask anyone. The answer will always be the same: I was the prettiest motherfucker you'd ever lay eyes on.

With another flick of my hair, I walked out into the kitchen when I saw something sitting up against the sliding doors outside.

A shovel.

I wandered over, pulled one of the doors open and let the wooden handle of the garden tool fall into my hand. It was a lot bigger and sturdier than the one I had broken the previous day. It seemed old and very used with how much dried dirt was stuck to the end of it. But its quality outweighed almost every ounce of anything I could have found in the department store.

I slowly drew my gaze up to the neighbor's fence.

Had he left this here for me?

My stare at the wooden barrier that separated our houses quickly became a scowl.