Pretty | Yoonmin (DISCONTINUED)

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Pale fingers gliding across an even paler keyboard.

Smooth and cool under his nervous fingertips, bitten by anxious teeth, drawn blood staining the supple lip twisted between them.

A brown piano in the corner of his memory.

A brown piano.

With monochrome keys.

He pressed down.

Soft tinkling caressed his ears. A solid note melting just a bit of the suffocating silence in his big, empty house.

No more.

No more gentle humming from the kitchen, a once plain kitchen that she painted yellow, pastel yellow, because it was her favorite color, a great contrast to him, a boy haunted by the darkness, who was afraid to leave his shadow, afraid he would be seen.

He pressed down.

No more warm hands combing through his tangled waves of dark locks in the early morning, waking him up slowly, knowing how easily he was startled, knowing the fear which lurked in his torn heart. How long it had taken him to give her permission to do so.

Could he ever trust again?

He pressed down.

No more reassuring whispers when he cried from his nightmares in the loneliness of the night, nightmares that were simply memories of a broken and bloodied time that had left him broken and bloodied too, no shock in her comforting eyes when his emotionless, indifferent mask broke, no screaming or asking if he was okay, no shouting, just holding him.

Holding him.

Would he ever be touched by another person in such a way?

Would he even want to be?

He pressed down.

No more clicking cameras, the sound of her taking a photo without warning, her wide smile and her laughter at his rounded eyes and parted lips, his grip tightening on whatever was closest to him, glaring at her with a playfulness that he attempted to mask with irritation.

But he knew he could never be angry with her.

He pressed down.

No more Noona.

She was gone now.

Gone like the love from his mother's face.

Gone like the tenderness of his best friend's touch.

Gone like the words spilling from his mind.

Gone like his voice desperate to escape his throat.

Gone like the person he once was.

Gone.

Like everything else.

A perfect painting.

But the color had drained away.

And he was trapped in this desaturated world.

Bleeding out.

When would it end?

He pressed down.

His fingers slipped.

The notes collided together in an abrupt cry of chaotic pain and frustration, the keys soaked through with the memory of his wounds, and the ghost of his misery.

Pretty as a picture.

This picture was broken too.

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