lost boys | jeongcheol

|reoccurrence|

"Important encounters are planned
by the souls long before the
bodies see each other."
- Paulo Coelho

- 03 -
|reoccurrence|

The air was clouded by a thick, white haze and the bar smelled like nicotine and vodka. It was overly crowded for a weeknight night and while it seemed like a good idea initially, it might not have been the best time to get shit-faced drunk.

I was hunched over the counter, my head resting in my arms and my hair stuck to whatever the hell kind of substance had been spilled there.

The bartender hovered above me, either judgement or pity running through his head. He set down my drink, tapping his long, manicured nails on the counter.

"If you're gonna look depressed, go do it somewhere else." I heard the familiar voice of name I hadn't bothered to remember. I looked up and watched his sarcastic and somewhat harsh expression change from annoyance to mild concern.

My face looked hollow and empty, on the other hand. My eyes had bags under them and my skin had grown even paler than it was before. Not only that but my hair was oily and knotted and it looked like I hadn't slept in weeks. In reality, all it took was a single restless night for my face to look like it aged ten years.

"What happened?" The man asked, although I wasn't sure of his sincerity. He was familiar, yes, but not in a way I'd like to remember.

"Nothing." That was all I could force myself to say, although it felt somewhat unfair. I knew this man's life story and I couldn't even tell him what had me so bummed out.

"Don't give me that bullshit." The man leaned closer and inspected my face while jutting out his bottom lip and pouting like a child, "You used to be so beautiful. What happened to that youthful glow?"

What he said would've been creepy had I not known him, even then I couldn't help but shudder a bit. It sounded like something you'd say to a dead person, and as much as it would've been nice, I wasn't exactly dead.

"How do you remember me so well?" I asked and propped my head up with my shaky hands, staring at him with my lifeless eyes.

"You saved my life, of course I'd remember you." Those words struck a cord with me and I broke eye contact.

It wasn't that long ago, maybe a year and a half, but it felt like a lifetime had passed since that night. I'd come to his hotel room for a job and the door was already open a crack. When I went inside I didn't see him right away, not until I checked the bathroom.

I'd never really seen anything like it before. The bathtub was overflowing onto the floor where the man was laying in his boxers. His wrists were bloody and his eyes were just as red, barley staying open for more than a second at a time. There was a lighter next to him and an empty box of cigarettes surrounded by tiny blue pills that littered the room. He would've died if I'd left him, and what makes me hate myself is that I almost did.

I called the police, turned off the water and dragged him to the bed. While he laid down, I wrapped cloths around his wrists and didn't say a word as he began to ramble. "Let me die," he moaned through loud sobs and his body convulsed as if he'd been possessed, "Please, God, let me die!"

Despite his pleas, I didn't. I stayed at his bedside while he told me about his life. He cried specifically about his dad, a man who'd done unspeakable things to him as a kid. I understood what he was going through in a way and for that reason only I convinced myself to help him.