he hasn't had honey nut cheerios in a long time.
his mother stopped buying them at the market when the prices went up. something about the the mayor wanting to rob the city of its riches and other things he didn't want to worry about, but did so anyway.
the day he buys a box, with money earned from working under the counter at a deli, a murder happens back at home.
the man on the second floor.
(██████ was the one who drank enough tea for it to consume his bloodstream. cut one line through his skin and apple cinnamon drips. he smelled like hair gel, the one bought at dollar trees, and wore tourist shirts bought at gift stores because they were cheapest on the rack. he wrote stories on his typewriter and hand-wrote thank you letters. thank you for this eternal bliss. thank you).
taeyong asks if the police know who did it, but like he predicts, they say, no.
"what do you mean 'no'?"
the police officer, her eyes look like stopped clocks, says, "we don't have enough evidence. the suspect didn't leave any fingerprints and there was no sign of forced entry through the doors or windows. we're scraping the area for clues." she looks up at him for a second and then back down to her notepad. "that's all for now."
"thanks for your service."
he half-smiles and turns away.
when he arrives back at the apartment, he grabs a clean bowl from the cupboards, pouring in the cereal and then the milk.
he drops in a spoon and sits down to eat the memories of his forgotten childhood. taeyong stares at the tiny ring grains, trying to remember what he did, what it was like when he ate sugary sweets and felt summer evening suns.
he scoops a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. it tastes stale. it tastes wrong.
taeyong sits in that empty room, empty eyes, empty soul.
he doesn't feel like eating it anymore.
he throws it out. he can't remember.
