The Devil In You

Coma Black

Suggested listening: Marilyn Manson - Coma Black

It was two weeks after the breakup. Hwoarang was smoking a cigarette on the terrace of his motel room, looking into the starless night sky of Tokyo. He had a half empty bottle of gin in the other hand, and from the look of it, it would be empty before the night would end. The Korean couldn't bring himself to rent an apartment, holding a little shard of hope in his aching heart that Jin would call him to talk things through, at least, come back home in an ideal word. But there had been radio silence from his part until that day. "Tomorrow is a new one". Hwoarang went to sleep every night repeating himself that like a mantra, but day after day, all went on exactly the same: nothingness, and numbing heartache. And a lot of empty bottles.

He was taking a sip at his cheap gin, when he felt a vibration coming from his pants: someone was calling him. In a matter of seconds, he had the cellphone in his hands, hoping to see Jin's name on the screen. Instead, an unknown number appeared. "Maybe he's late in the office and calling from there. Maybe I still have a chance". He took the call.

-Hwoarang?- Doctor Bosconovitch's voice was quite unique, and difficult to mistaken.

-...doctor? How did you get my number? And why are you calling me, and at this hour too?

-When we first started the treatment, I asked Mr. Kazama to indicate a next of kin and their number, for any case in which it would deem necessary. This is, I'm afraid, the case.

-What it is? What happened? Is Jin alright?

-He now is at St. Luke's International Hospital. He decided to continue with a new session, we decided it would be today. His heart stopped three times after the treatment, I had to revive him with my machines, each time it took longer. He never woke up, though. So, I transferred him to the hospital, where he is now in a coma.

Hwoarang had no words to say, just a whisper. He stood in horror and the bottle of gin slipped away and onto the floor, crashing in a million pieces. His brain didn't seem to process the information the doctor just gave him, or rather, didn't want to. It couldn't be real. It shouldn't.

-Hwoarang? Are you still on the phone? Did you hear what I said?

-I... yeah. Room number?

-389.

The Korean closed the call. He dressed up again, as he was only wearing kimono pants, and headed to his chopper. He was half an hour away from the hospital, but if he sped, he could be there in twenty, maybe even fifteen tops. When he arrived, a nurse told him visiting hours were over for that day, and to come back tomorrow. He went on his way, as if she didn't even exist.

-Sir! You can't go upstairs, you can only access the E.R. at this hour. Visiting hours are over!

Hwoarang slowly turned to her. His eye had never looked so angry and desperate at the same time in all his life.

-I don't fucking care. I need to visit, and I will.

-Sir, if you continue to act like this, I will be forced to call the police.

-Call whomever you want. Call fucking Godzilla. I'm still going up. Goodnight, ma'am.

And onto the elevator he went. Third floor, ICU, room 389. His Jin was there. Not that he could do anything, not at this hour, not in the day, not ever. But he needed to see him. To hold his hand. To say goodbye, if need be. The elevator doors opened. He started walking the corridor, looking for the right door number; some nurses looked at him funny, probably knowing he was misplaced at that hour, but he never looked anyone in the eye, until a doctor touched his shoulder to stop him.

-Sir, you shouldn't be here. Please, follow me to the exit.

-Doc, I'm dangerous on a good day. And this is a very, very bad one. May I suggest you don't fucking touch me and let me go my way? Or even better: that you follow me and tell me how a patient is doing?

-I... I... okay, sir.

-Attaboy. Room 389. Patient Kazama Jin. Let's go.

They finally reached the room; Jin was laying still on the bed, connected to the bipping machines and a dripping feed. The sole view of him that way made Hwoarang shiver. The doctor started reading his medical chart, then turned to the Korean.

-The prognosis is not good, sir, I'm sorry. Here it says the patient was clinically dead for two times before being successfully revived by his curing doctor. There is brain activity, but we don't know if there has been damage to his brain due to the lack of oxygen. There is no way to tell until he is in a coma. The coma is not drug induced, therefore we do not know if or when the patient will wake up, and in what condition. I'm sorry, sir. I wish I could give you better news.

-There is nothing... nothing you could do to try and wake him up? Nothing at all?

-No, I'm sorry, sir, it doesn't work that way... we have to wait. And hope. If you are religious, pray for him.

-The only religion I have right now is my love for him. And I doubt it could do much.

-Hope and love can go a long way hand in hand with modern medicine, sir. Now, if you'll excuse me.

Hwoarang nodded and sat down on the chair beside Jin's bed. He took his hand and kissed it, crying. -Jin, I cannot lose you, not again. I've already been to your funeral once, and it nearly destroyed me. I had to live without you for months and I felt dead inside too. I can live with you hating me somehow, knowing you're living a better life for the both of us, but I can't go on knowing you're no longer walking this Earth. Please, Jin, wake up. I will be here when you do, and if you don't want to see me anymore after that, I will disappear from your existence. But please, please, wake up. You don't deserve this end. Please, wake up.

And then there was silence, interrupted only by the sound of the hospital machines.