diet of lies

Chapter 1 ~ P'il Chae

     THE WIND IS HUNGRY. It's rowdy breath ravages knots in my jet hair. The extent of its strength veers the smoothness of my cheeks a flushed coral. My oversized-boots skidding against the bleak sidewalk is dreary with the night, but I keep my mind busy by counting the number of dark rain spots growing on the cement. Warm neons bounce within the shallow darkness of a rain puddle beneath my toes. It's tangerine ripples reflect crescents of sandy oranges on the material of my boots. I stop walking and soak in the atmosphere with a sharp breath. The pungency of the storm, wet and acrid, follows the wind as if it is its spouse. It is harmonic, but leaves the forlorn feeling that clings around like a predator bereft in the air.

When I look up in the sky, my eyes catch rain drops but still manages to make out the blurred words, 'THRIFT STORE'. The sign flickers ardently, with the same tangerine ambiance against the cold downpour.

***

        A chime sings to me when I push open the front door, and the overpowering musk of the entire building wafts up my nose: the smell of ripened books and musty clothes.
On the floor space around me, collections of various nicknacks, hand-me-down clothes and used furniture sleep with no real home. Slowly, I brush raindrops off from my windbreaker. The rickety floor creeks with any small step, and echoes terribly off the singed brick walls.

    I move into one of the last aisles, spotting a crate of dusty VHS tapes banished awkwardly in the corner. I crouch and drag the crate towards me. They seem to be forgotten about, judging by the thick worth of grime piled atop them. Gently rubbing away the crud, handwritten labels come to light for the first time in years.
    "Are these... Home videos?" I mutter. But why would a thrift store keep these? Like a flash, the mood is enigmatic, my hands are grabbing tapes, one after another.
Counted for, there's exactly seven of them. All identical, with barely anything on them allowing me to separate one from the next. There's only a dingy label with scraps of numbers, not even arranged in any familiar patterns like a timestamp or date. They're just long chains of random numbers.
I flip over another tape.  "14-1-13-10-15-15-14." I read it aloud, but it doesn't make any more sense than how I read it in my head.

A rounded coldness abruptly lingers above my left shoulder, followed by a hard squeeze. I yelp, loosing my balance and falling onto the hard floor. I blink rapidly, there's a stranger hovering over me. He chuckles deeply before speaking.
    "Having fun there?"
I crinkle my face worse than tissue paper. The man is wearing a crew-cut shirt, failing to cover a tattoo. It's a noticeable patch of ink, that sprawls its way across his clavicle then branches slightly onto his neck. There's also a small tag pinned to the fabric. 'HOSEOK' is written on it with a red permanent marker.
"Lacking a sense of humor, aren't we?"
He chuckles with the absence of my reply.
"Yeah ha, lacking common decency... aren't we?"  I crack back.
     "Gee, I only touched your shoulder."
"I wish you didn't." I tort.
     He smirks and reaches out to me but I push away his hand.
    "I just thought you'd be much happier standing." He shrugs, backing off.
"I'm more than capable," I mumble.

I curl up, and sit upright. Taking a short breath, I file the tapes back into the crate.

"Found those VHS Tapes huh?" His voice sounds oddly defensive in the way he states the question.
     "Yep." I keep my back to him.
"You gotta' name?"
I stand up carefully with the crate and place it on top of a dark-wood dresser beside me. I clap my hands to spell the dust off of them and glide my palms smoothly down my pants to get them clean. Maybe he will walk away? I hope.

He clears his throat impatiently.
    "So why are you here Miss 'no name' ?" He interrogates.
I continue to ignore him, continuing to brush myself off. He scuffs his shoe across the floor, kicking a dust bunny under some furniture. He laughs, and then it goes dead silent.
Suddenly he  grabs my waist and spins me around til I'm face to face with him. His eyes are shaking, scanning my own eyes. Interrogating, going from one eye to the other.
    "I'm talking to you." His voice is deep. Deeper than before. It almost sounds like a growl. I choke back the fighter beating from within the prison of my rib cage.
"Who are you?" He spits.
    "You don't need to know my name." I strain in his firm grasp.
His face tenses.
"Who are you?" He asks again.
"Your ears must be defective, 'cause I already told you, you don't need to know."
I slip away from Hoseok's grip, and reach for the tapes. But even before a measly finger nail could touch the crate, I'm ripped away from them. I'm slammed into a vintage white armoire, It's golden handle nailing the center of my back, perfectly hitting that special nerve that triggers everything below my knees to go numb.  I bite on my lip to stop a hiss from expelling out my mouth, but instead there's a subtle whimper.