It Ends with Us • Kim Mingyu

[eleven]

Jeonghan wasn't bluffing about the ultimatum. Exactly three seconds later, another door cracked from down the hall. I could tell by the impact it was some sort of cabinet: the echo was airier than the first three thuds, and I could hear poly-bags scrunching.

Certainly, Jeonghan wasn't unboxing those premium stocks of candies he had collected during his world-tour for a stranger. He wasn't thoughtful enough to fetch some either. I had to go downstairs and condemn his capriciousness, save our toilet and Brownie's dinner — but I'm in my room, on my bed, my fingers hovering over the dial pad of my phone.

It makes sense the stranger is another one of those nasty Manobans still longing for my doom. Guy didn't have a name, no address, no context, insanely good-looking, stood by my brother in the ER without being suspected or even seen, knows my address — I've no reason to think he's someone else likewise. The only male friends I've are the ones I live with; the rest are beyond consideration.

The original generation of hunters might be gone, but Pranpriya didn't mention not having relatives. There might be distant cousins, step siblings — someone who knew about Pranpriya's plan, that she failed, and it was their turn to carry on the legacy.

I finally dial 911, and as I'm about to the press the call button, a gust sweeps across my mind: what if I'm just overthinking? I'm paranoid about anyone unfamiliar, and once I call — friend or hunter — there's no going back. Either the cops humiliate me for prank-calling or I get to die with honour.

I keep the Emergency SOS slider open and secure the phone inside my pocket. The law is more fucked up than the Manobans, but I can't take risks. If one thing I've learned from my past near-death experiences is the law takes convenient truths for granted. They want to see it happen in inconvenient ways until they've no grounds left to oppose it.

Until they're compelled to believe it, regardless of the casualties one goes through to order to make it happen.

I'm down on the last stair tread when a gaudy shamrock-green bottle tumbles across my toe. The tin hits the ground, revealing its label deet-free bug repellent as it cycles back and forth. I pick it up before it rolls over to the corridor. I jam it inside my other pocket. It's heavy — enough to buy time with a solid blow if I'm not as insane as I feel.

The salamander head is bulging out too much. I slide two fingers down to flatten out some space. A rubberiness squashes against my palms when I reach the bottom, flapping a weird heat all over my body. I lurch my hand out. It's viscous with a tint of faded cardinal; something like a mucus and smells of watermelon.

I breathe out a groan and clasp my forehead.

Fucking chewing gum.

I can't even bring myself to look at the calamity on my hands, let alone draw the repellent out of my pocket. If karma's screwing me over for plotting a homicide against my potential murderer, there's a chance it's actually a friend I've overlooked. Maybe he's someone I knew in America, or the underwor — I can't take risks.

Seungkwan's habit of sticking gums wherever he finds the most colorful before his make-out sessions is giving me next-level stress. God, I just touched his saliva.

Maybe both his and Vernon's saliva.

I should go back to my room, change my pants and take a shower. Someone — a couple's chewing gum waste is drying on my palms. I mean, how gross is that? My skin won't stop prickling; the whiff of watermelon is cloying my gut. The tuna oatmeal porridge I had at fucking 7 in the morning is mounting towards my throat.

I bolt to the kitchen. Throwing up an entire meal was never part of the plan. It happened only once when I was in kindergarten. We were inside the science lab and the teacher was showing us how to make watermelon explode using vinegar and baking soda. He said we could have a spoonful of the melon while he prepared the solution.

I was probably starving to finish mine in one bite, not realizing I had also swallowed the seeds until the nerd with glasses bigger than her face next to me gasped — saying the seeds would grow into watermelon trees in my stomach if I didn't get them out within fifteen seconds.

I remember throwing up directly on her lap a minute afterward. The school called my parents because I wouldn't stop gagging, even after the nurse assured that the girl had been reading too much fairy-tales and the seeds would eventually move through my digest tract.

I should've believed what she said. That way, I would've had a normal kindergarten year without my classmates labelling me as 'melon freak' every time we did a science project. Watermelons would still be my favorite fruit, and this high-end sink wouldn't be demolished in my vomit.

I turn on the faucet. My mouth is gravely sour; I can taste the tuna every time I burp as I scrub the chewing gum off my hand. Everything happened in such haste. I couldn't even make it to the bathroom past the kitchen, but it didn't bother me as much as the loose strands of my braid did. They were straggling all over my mouth and into the sink. I could hardly tug them away, focusing on somewhat the physical part of nausea.

My abdomen has never churned like this before, and I can't help but acknowledge the perks of being a supernaturally gifted human I was. It feels like an army of frantic toddlers is doodling circles on my stomach with a geometry compass. I can't stop them. I don't know why they're doing it, why affliction is such a decisive component of their nature and I have to be their subject-matter.

I turn the water off. The ground is almost spiralling beneath me; I have to hold the countertop in case I don't lose my balance — which I do the second I try to stand straight. No, phobias aren't this bad. It was just a chewing-gum stuck in my palms, not a watermelon cube inside my mouth. I'm not supposed to feel this powerless — phobias can't be this bad.

I reach for the cabinets above me, pulling out the pill organizer among the endless boxes of chamomile teas and instant noodles. There's only one bright yellow tablet inside. I've seen it before in a multivitamin advertisement. It's looking at me both like my only hope and definitely not the right one for whatever is happening to me.

I gulp it down anyway. If I don't get some kind of medicine into my system, I'm afraid I won't make it out of this kitchen. I need to prove to myself that it's only worse in my head. I can't think of the number of ways I can be stabbed every time someone unaccustomed walks through the door, and I can't sit around waiting for them to manifest their real self when they could be, as a matter of fact, decent people.

Let's get awkward.