Fake ◈ Yoonseok

2 « GOOD NEWS

-J.HS

It's 4:30am.

A beeping floods the air.
My 4:30am alarm interrupts the space that not even light had laid a finger upon for hours.

My eyes shift over to my clock. The garish digits hold for a second, but then proceed to flicker like a neon candle.

I laugh sleepily, and it pours out like honey. Heavy.
I just won a staring contest
with my digital clock.

Hello.

I'm tired,
It's 4:30am,
I am called Hoseok,
I live with a man called Yoongi,
I work at a natural history museum,
and I should be asleep.

Yoongi, my roommate, is currently sleeping, and I, too, should really be asleep.
I can't stress that enough; sleep is good, and it makes you healthy,
and happy,
and the opposite of sleepy.

As I rub at my drooping eyes lethargically, the darkness around me feels less like a hug.
I yawn, and I stretch.
It's 4:31am, which is usually when I get into bed, next to Yoongi.

Yoongi, my roommate...
He's warm,
and soft,
and a welcomed contrast
to the cold morning
air flooding my every cell.

   I know I won't be able to sleep; that's such a silly thought, really. My hands set my drink back down on the coffee table blindly, and my body crumbles down into the welcoming couch,
just like before.

4:31am doesn't seem like a peculiar time to watch the news at all, so I find the remote strewn somewhere on the couch,
and click it
on. 

Instantly, the light from the television illuminates the room
and I get a shock at how real everything seems.

My 4:31am self had vaguely stopped believing in real objects,
- just how a lack of sleep does -
after isolating myself in
darkness for a number of hours.

I look at my hands
and remember that I'm alive,

and then I look back towards the news,
to remind myself that my life doesn't matter at all.

It's 4:32am.

I hear a soft beep, and it is my phone.
I grab it without thinking,
and read the text that dances across my lock screen;

Unknown Number
Have you heard the good News?
[attached photo]

My phone doesn't recognise the number.
I open the text message, and wait for the photo to download.

It's a picture of Yoongi, and he's so pretty.

His eyes are as dark
as the room around me,
and I'm effortlessly
mesmerised,
as usual.

His skin
is slightly lighter than ivory,
with a pleasant metallic rose coloured tint to his cheeks,
as usual.

His faultless black hair falls loosely over his ears in slack curls.
His lips are like a frozen rose, dangerous but beautiful.
as usual.

But then I see it. The panic in his eyes.
They are heavy, dark. His eyes lids seem to hold the weight of the world.

Bruises disrupt his perfect complexion,
Lips pressed into a thin line to mask tears.

I'm tired, and nothing seems real,
and I remind myself that Yoongi is alive,
and I am alive,
and I think;
How did an unknown number get such terrifying pictures of Yoongi?

The light from my phone screen wobbles,
jolts,
and then I'm dropping my phone,
panic flooding my veins and making them run cold.

Any attempt at words compile helplessly in my throat, and my pulse drums so relentlessly that I can taste my blood against my tongue.

I slump down onto the couch, not remembering when I stood up. My eyelids droop further, and my energy drains from my body as if the plug had just been pulled. My eyes close, but my ears still remain alert.

White hot anger boils up inside me, saturating my tongue and licking heat out into the room.

Shut up!
Yoongi is in my bed,
I know he is,
and he'll be there when I go to him!

His warmth will be there,
his gentle snoring,
his beautiful body
     and soft skin.

He's in my bed,
   our bed,
       and these photos must be fake.

f a k e

I stand up from my knees,
heart in my throat,
between my teeth,
beating in my own hands,
because how else could they be shaking this much?

I pick up my phone, and my drink of water, too, and make for the bedroom, where Yoongi is.

He isn't missing.
He's right where he should always be.