curtain call • seulmin

iii. the virtuoso

a study on park jimin (2)

the gun in jimin's hand is simply a tool to him in this artistic little game-but, admittedly, a beautifully crafted one. gold text is inlaid into the burgundy metal, spelling out his initials (p.j.m). this gun is precious to him, in a way many things aren't. golden honey-like trims trace the outlines of the firearm, creating a sense of regality and sophistication in an object meant for brutality and chaos.

he wipes the gun's stock a billionth time. park jimin is a perfectionist, yes. he cleans his weapons many, many times, in hopes of removing any form of dirt that dares to stain it (but he is yet to clean the blood in his hands). doesn't matter that he hadn't used it to blow a person to pieces and create an abstract of utmost pulchritude. doesn't matter that he was only going to stow it in his little treasure chest in the end of the day, never put to use.

park jimin is a perfectionist, yes. none of his weapons could go back into the treasure chest without being cleaned first. none of his weapons could taint themselves with the blood of innocents without being cleaned first. only his hands can touch the purest of things without being cleansed first (for they cannot be cleaned anymore; there is no hope for these bloodstained hands, after all).

when his weapons are clean and at their finest condition, everything is wonderful. fine brushes bring the best out of fine artists. fine artists bring the best out of fine pieces. his ally had been generous to him today, he admits.

the precision, range, and the scale of this gun of his makes most of his works with other weapons greatly insignificant. it is why he cherishes this weapon so, so, much. nothing is comparable to this special little weapon- well, most probably because he uses this gun the most. if he really thought about it, all of his brushes can be shaped to create perfection; park jimin is a virtuoso, after all.

'beautiful,' he thinks to himself as he twirls the long gun in his hands, mock aiming it at the head of the nameless girl that is quietly sleeping in his bed. ah, no-- sleeping wouldn't be the right word, judging by the carmine hues that decorate her body and the white sheets she had wrapped herself in before impending death. cursive writing is carved into her abdomen - done as carefully as possible with his finest blade - , 'love hurts' etched on porcelain silken flesh. did he mention that he enjoyed irony?

there are candles surrounding the body, rose-scented as it blends with coppery scents. his signature decoration, the rose petals, spill all over the bed and off to the floor, resembling the prettiest of blood (in the language of flowers). a madonna song plays in the background (la isla bonita, he thinks?), courtesy of the radio the hotel staff was so generous to supply to him. pearls, so many pearls are sprinkled all around the body, creating the glamorous kind of dazzle he wanted to see.

he smiles, sweet like the most tempting of candy. the gun is pulled back, and his fingers stray off the trigger as he traces them on his carved initials.

he calls this paintbrush the queen. it is fitting, is it not? the queen of hearts would've been much better, considering the iconic off with your head line that came with the name, but that would be much too mouthy for him, and the police. park jimin is a considerate man, yes.

the queen held quite a lot of shots, but jimin pitches in the effort to save them, for each shot is always worth a million. each bullet is perfection in its finest form, the paint from which his art would flow. each bullet is a masterpiece, used to create a larger masterpiece. it didn't just cut apart flesh, organs of the like; it rearranged them, distorts and shifts into prettier, abstract forms, enchanting and terrifying all the same.