꒰୨୧◞ ₊˚ ᶜʰᵃʳᵃᶜᵗᵉʳ ˢⁿᵃᵖˢʰᵒᵗˢ koo nanseol ⁰¹

i think i'm gonna start writing for my guys whenever the inspiration strikes! think little looks into their pasts and/or their everyday lives; things that inform their character independent of a thread where things can sometimes be hard to squeeze in. sometimes they'll be dark, sometimes light-hearted. depends on the vibe, depends on the chara

first up is the oldest (creation-wise) of them all: nanseolie! sorry about your life nanseol xo

tw: mentions of abuse, death, implied murder

-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-

nanseol's rapidly beating heart clouds her senses as she runs, each unsteady footfall carrying her through the tiny alleys that weave a complex web of paths throughout their neighborhood. the only other sounds she hears are distant cars, those goddamned stray dogs, her own panicked breathing, and the wet slap of her bare feet on the concrete, all harmonizing in a chorus with the torrential downpour that finds respite in every dip and divot of the poorly maintained street.

it washes away the blood on her hands, her arms, her face—the cute little cat paw stationary knife that she couldn't resist buying, white-knuckled in the palm of her hand. all of the mess slips away in rivulets of pink, though something tells her she'll never be truly clean again. it seeps into her clothes, the oversized tee-shirt that's riddled with holes and the too-small shorts from middle school clinging to her form like a second skin. bloodstains bleed deeper into the fabric, pretty pink Rorschachs that she'd probably interpret herself into a free ticket to the nut house with. , she thinks. she should have packed some clothes. she should have stuck around longer. to...to call the cops or an ambulance or, or...god, she should have made sure he was dead.

he was dead, right?

he had to be.

if he survived, she was ed. if he wasn't dead, she certainly would be.

just the thought sets nanseol's heart on a quicker pace and she hardly registers the dig of a few tiny pieces of broken bottle in the soles of her feet. her eyes dart around as she tries to form a plan. any plan.

just when she's about to lament the hour, and everything besides the GS25 being closed, the 24/7 laundromat—a beacon in blinding, flourescent white—slides into her field of view. she surges forward, relieved at the sight of the empty store through its poster-dotted windows, and forces the notoriously sticky door open to slip inside. rather than the snoring attendant in the backroom, she's greeted by the jingle of a bell above the door, the ambient hum of a few running machines, and whatever's playing on the nearly muted tv.

the door clacks shut behind her, bell trilling once more while her feet carry her to the "lost and found" rack, leaving bloody-water-logged footprints in her wake. a heavy coat that smells of a heady mix lavender and the lingering signs of a smoking habit replaces her useless clothes just as the largest flood of adrenaline leaves her body, reminding her just how cold it is outside. and that cold sinks into her bones, wrapping them in an unforgiving vice.

while willing her body to start reproducing some heat, she gathers up her soaked threads and carries them to the nearest washing machine. the clothes drop into the drum with a pronounced splat, she shuts the door, and starts the machine with some abandoned change before sinking onto the uncomfortable bench just behind her.

the washer slowly fills with water and she watches it, transfixed until her eyes unfocus and she catches sight of herself reflected in the fingerprint-smudged glass instead. she looks like hell. inky black hair plastered to her skull and face, making her look like a pathetic cat that's fallen into the bath. her cheek is swollen and starting to bloom with an unsightly bruise, her lower lip is busted. she can faintly see finger-shaped bruising on her neck, peeking out from behind the collar of the too-large coat. everything hurts, especially as a startled gasp exasperates the pain in her ribs.

he'd been so much worse this time, even brandishing  a kitchen knife with threats against her life. if not him, it'd have been her. she had no choice. she finds the little knife in her pocket, fingers brushing its plastic casing as she remembers how it felt using it as a weapon. how easily it snuffed out a life. how easily she'd freed herself. how it cleanly sliced through his–

"no!" before her thoughts can spiral too deeply into what she'd done, the 22-year-old slaps her hands over her ears, jagged, broken nails digging into her tangle locks to ground herself. her voice comes out roughly, throat raw from the screams that had previously echoed throughout her ty apartment, falling on purposefully deaf ears. she swipes roughly at a stray tear that escapes, but its fruitless against the onslaught that soon follows. the ambience of the liminal space is broken by her hushed sobs, muffled by a hand pressed firmly against as she realizes one thing.

as scared as she is—as uncertain as she is—she is relieved.