holy ground; p. wonbin

one

—"fragments of inadequacy in each bones
🩰

the unsettling pinpricks of winter breeze had muddle the september leaves, autumn slipped away from her bruised-palm, unable to escape the drowsing fuselage beneath her silky sheer of fabrics which falls perfectly on her figure. cold winter morning kisses the bite of miyeon's feature, a painting mess of perfectly arch lips, a shade of red that is nothing more than befitting of a ballet-doux. scents of flower last spring burn her retinas, an unexplainable ache sits on the sternum of her chest, caging a slender finger around the female's neck, suffocating her in return.

there is two subjects which you'd find in a heart-wrenching painting, an artefact in art gallery. one; secrets buried in only the trouble knows, their body carved in silk and basement as she danced to the classical composition of their sweat essence. trapped in ghost stories you'll hear from the senior and abandoned artworks by the museum; take a peek of her glass heart, they are crafted in thunder and honey. two; salvation housed within a man and woman tangled bones demanding to be felt as the glistening blueberry stardust radiates the taffy grey skies from above. keeping it's arm open for lonely souls like his who cover tear-stained cheeks and hungry heartache with peachy kisses and liquid love.

the subjects are nothing but intricate clandestine reflections stitched into chantilly laced comets that asteria so divinely dived into. thinking they had the universe figured out, evergreen blooming in their dying heart, patiently waiting for it to beat again.

cheon miyeon, figure so alluring; she is more of herself than she ever were as she follows the beats of the composition played for her. the freeing feeling when she's en l'air completes the stitched-organ of her body. a person so terrifying at the mere age of eighteen, cheon miyeon have everything one could ever dream of; money, power, connections. she is perfect in every sense, wait, no. she's merely a dead person trapped in an alive body, a zombie living in earth with no choice but to obey the one holding her string from above, a marionette.

" kwang mirae, is the offer still valid ?" her eyes piercing through the latter, an imagery hole created from the shot. mirae had asked the female to join the socialite party— a party which only the top five percent of the school is able to attend; those with more than fifty billion in assets. creating connections are a must in a heiress life, miyeon feels the need to secure her position before more problems arise.

" of course, it had been for the past three years, i don't even understand why you refuse to attend until now." the latter sigh in defeat of the younger girl's sudden question. cheon miyeon had never been a huge party antics, although young, she's wise beyond her years, mature enough to only look forward to business meetings and gatherings— just the way she had been thought all her life.

how could i forget— kwang mirae, the only daughter of chairman kwang jaehyun and actress lee mina. both families had tied a connection for all the good reasons, automatically making the two female befriend each other.

" just trying to adapt more in this society," a shocking remark, perhaps. mirae widen her eyes in surprise, questioning her for the next ten minutes of their personified called brunch.

cheon miyeon had woken up at dusk, the moon occupying a small significance on her window, sweat dripping down her forehead, panting with wide-eye— she didn't want to ruin the canvas she had so carefully painted over the years; yet october fourteen stayed on the back of her mind, haunted by the idea of what could've happen. what should've happened. the night in which all hell went loose.

her eyes, being held down from the lethargic need to consume sleep, as how she consume energy to dance the night away from imprisonment of one's waking day. once again, the night filled darkness dances on the corner of her cornea, pulling her towards the slaughterhouse she had spend her entire life running away from.

the lingering scent of his ghost follows her everywhere and every-when. warm fingers interlocking itself, cradling her oh so gorgeous strands of hair, succumbing her into a lonely pit of self-guilt and hatred. for he was nothing but a cold body self-certified dead which lies in the depth of her skull because, she was the killer as he was her favourite victim.

knocking could be heard from the corner of her darkened room, she refused to turn on the side lamp her mother had been pestering her to use during the night in which to avoid relentlessness and the drowsy feelings during the morning of each day. the sounds echoes, adding up the paranoid— miyeon had lose the ability to breathe properly as she counts to ten; waiting for whoever on the doorway to open the door itself instead.

no respond was what she was met with; staring at the ceiling-reach door, an acrylic texture, moonlight reflecting on it, she walked the sloped, gaining traction as she feels the ache on her knees, her soles burning as it touches the cold wooden floor. thorns of needles poking on her rib cage, begging to be freed. her bloodied knees are reminders that blossoms like spring against her skin, forever haunt her journey towards adulthood.

"miyeon..?" voice which spooked her, running adrenaline, goosebumps on her spine she felt. she had been too scared to open the door, regrets muddling into remorse. perhaps, avoidance will get her nowhere, although, the term nowhere is the idly epitome of where she sits right now. nowhere.

trembling fingers filled callouses reaching for the metal handle, slowly turning it left side, greeted by a woman in her late forties , the housekeeper which miyeon had practically grew up with more than she had with her own mother.

she opened the door unwillingly despite her current state of mind; met with eyes she loathed to the core. one thing about miyeon, she had a knack to be independent since a young age, thought to not settle for less— a never ending hunger of perfection, an asphalt had already been built for her. she hated eyes which implied pity and worries because then it would mean she wasn't strong enough, it would mean she had failed to keep up the facade she had carefully built, bridges upon bridges; in line waiting to crumble when the time comes.

the housekeeper frowned at her shaking gaze, unstable stand and breathing, however paid no mind to the younger. miyeon was informed that the housekeeper had heard things being thrown and broken vases through the three-story house— in which miyeon heard absolutely nothing; perhaps it was because she was too self-occupied on trying to be warm in all the way the sun could be when indeed she's nothing but a moon.

🩰