Autumn Angel | JHS ✔

.eleven.

Seung-goon laughs as he takes a step towards me. I take a step back in response. 

"Where are you manners, Dear? Ten years older than you. Remember your honorifics. Remember when you called me "oppa"?" 

I sneer at him. "Respect is earned, Seung-goon-ssi. I lost all respect for you years ago." 

He takes another step forward but my back hits a hard surface when I take my step back. My eyes scan the area, weighing my options. There wasn't anything I could use as a weapon. I would just have to use my own fists if need be. I look up at Seung-goon's attractive face. Why did someone so handsome have to be such a jerk? 

"Happy birthday, Dear. I remembered." 

"I don't want you to remember. I want you to leave." 

He laughs, his deep, silky voice reaching my ears in gentle sound waves. Everything about him was so deceiving. 

"How did you find me?" 

One step forward. I press further into the wall, hoping it would swallow me. 

"I always find you, Dear. You know this." 

I keep my eye contact with him, proving to him that this would not be an easy fight. I was no longer the insecure, naive girl he had dated three years ago. "I don't want you to find me. I want you to leave me alone." 

A final step forward. He hasn't touched me yet, but I can feel him breathe down on me. My chest just barely grazes his. 

"Stop denying how you feel for me, Dear. You need me. Without me, you're worthless." I feel the slightest touch on my inner wrist and freeze. "You stopped cutting. I knew you would come to your senses." 

He grabs my wrist and gently lifts it up in his hand. I take this moment to jerk up my knee, hitting the target between his legs. Seung-goon cries out in pain and bends over, his knees hitting the floor. I grab at the opportunity and step away from him, creating some distance. 

"Don't come here again, Kim Seung-goon. I don't want to see your face or talk to you again." 

Seung-goon smiles up at me, his lips pressed back in a gorgeously evil grin. "You always know how to make it exciting, Dear. That's all you can really do anyway. Use your body, draw men near, deceive them. You're a liar, toxic, abusive. You're always the one to mess things up. I can help you, Dear. I can teach you how to be better." Seung-goon stands up and I prepare myself to throw a punch but he stays at his spot. "How many friends do you have? Just that kid Jay? Only one person? Do people really dislike you that much? Remember how easily he left you while we dated? He's just looking for another person to take care of you so he can finally leave you alone for yourself. You're high maintenance, hard to manage, selfish, and inconsiderate. You think he doesn't know that? Why do you think he left so easily when I took his spot?" 

I shake my head and try to refrain myself from screaming. "He left because you cut me off from everyone else in my life to force me to grow dependent on you. Stop playing your games, Kim Seung-goon. If you don't leave now, I'm going to call 119." 

Seung-goon raises his hands in surrender and starts walking backwards with a grin. "Alright, calm down now, Dear. This was fun. I'll see you around, mmm?" He presses the elevator button and gives me a final wink before stepping into the car. 

I jump up the three stairs leading to my apartment door, press in the code, and push the door open. Without bothering to turn on the lights, I allow my mind to take over as I drop all my things and head to the bathroom. My fingers fumble as they turn on the lights in the small space, open the drawer, and find the silver pencil. I drop to the floor, my legs splayed out in front of me. I don't even both to tug on my leggings. Seung-goon had touched my wrist. He had touched my inner wrist. The skin his fingers grazed feels acidic and I waste no time at all to move the pencil over the canvas. 

Nothing else comes into mind other than continuing to move the brush back and forth, back and forth. I get lost in the therapeutic swaying of my fingers as it continues to force the flat, pointed surface against my skin. 

Autumn, stop. 

The rational side of me is vaguely acknowledged in the back of my mind, but my emotional side is stronger, pushing it away and allowing no positive phrases of encouragement to push through. I shut out the rest of the world and only focus on drawing. Everything else disappears for a moment and the only thing that is happening is my doing something, and the actual results. 

It's not all in my head. Everything I'm thinking, feeling, it isn't all in my head. It's real. What I'm going through is real, and there is proof on my skin to show you. There is proof on my skin to make me feel valid. Lines of red start to form and I continue. 

That's enough, Autumn. Stop. 

I'm conscious of everything I'm doing, but at the same time, I have no control over anything at all. Tears flow down my cheeks and my mouth opens as I sob, continuing to move the silver pencil against the thin paper. It hurts. My skin is tingling, slowly turning into a burn. I'm going to be in a lot of pain tomorrow, but at the moment that seems irrelevant. I don't know. I don't know what to do. There's nothing I can do. There's nothing I can do to make the situation better, to ease my state of mind. So I'm only left to draw. 

Drawing gives me results. Drawing gives me tangible outcomes. It's something I can see instead of just an abstract concept of thoughts. It's real. What I'm feeling, what I'm going through, is real. My emotions and thoughts continue to flow out of me, taking over my mind as I prove to myself through my painting that the things in my head are not just a figment of my messed up imagination. 

My hand starts to itch and my toes curl as I start to feel more pain. But I can't bring myself to stop. The fact that I can actually do something other than just cry, and the fact that I can not only do something but also see a tangible result, makes me continue. I give into my emotions and surrender any control over my hand I had been fighting for. Tears run down my face, gathering at my chin before falling down to mark my dark skin. 

I put down my brush and lean my head against the cabinets. But my mind once again takes over as I pick up the pencil again. Am I crazy? Is there something wrong with me? I continue to draw, paint, brush, until finally, silver slips out of my hand and falls to the floor. I press the heels of my palms to my forehead and allow droplets to fall. 

In the very distance, I hear the six beeps of the keypad and the opening of a door. I should get up. I should clean this. Act nonchalant. Act okay. But I can't bring myself to. Tears continue to roll down as he rushes over to me and bends down. 

"Angel."