In the stories, there’s always a price. This is the story of a boy, the same boy, who must have been once bright-eyed and full of hope. And yet some people are, however, into unfortunate circumstances. Because life hasn’t been kindest to everyone.

Rarely has the circumstance ever been on his side. Ever since his first breath—Jung Taekwoon, forsaken since birth and having no place to call his home—the concept of a mother for him was the universe mantling his youth in star-clustered heavens, the cosmos bearing light in the void to salvage the rogue children she once penanced to wander through oblivion. She lulls him to slumber every evening and verses him in the similarities between his scar and those carved out of moonstone, his irises and the ghost of the Earth’s havoc. His BOYHOOD A WAXWORK OF FATHER'S ARCHITECTURE, MELTED AND MOLDED ACCORDING TO HIS DESIGNS, The city—BLUEPRINTS SCATTERED ACROSS THE BOARD WITH THE GRIDS CONCOCTED OF A CHILD'S SINEWS AND MUSCLES.

He thrived with the belief of greatness, as if it were embedded in his genetics and in every nook and cranny in his blood. As if the pattern of his fingerprint and the complexities of his irises were engraved one of a kind and into the stars. And maybe he was, maybe he had actually been the fortunate and sweet kid in the foster system just brimming with dreams of being brought into a loving family and whatever else naïve children thought about. But he was growing older and was facing the quickly diminishing chances that a family would even consider him. He didn’t mourn the facts all that much. He had other, more pressing matters to contend with, primarily surviving. So he had been surprised when at the age of 14 his belongings were being packed and he was introduced to a couple. His adoptive parents were pleasant, but he was ignorant and in the future he would wonder if he had not gone with them if he would have been better off. Ignorance of the world after all, leaves one at the mercy of its malice.

The counterfeit parents told him he was special, that he’d do very big things when he was older. And the naïve boy believed every word, thinking the universe had something special in its plans for him. Never would he think it’d be his own downfall. A gullible, sacrificial lamb, living day to day, just waiting for the lies to spill forth, and for the dagger to stab him through the back. He had learned the circumstances of living with them soon enough. Forging all adoption eligibility, the couple was in fact, in great debt, being far too involved in heinous crimes. Adopting Taekwoon into their household, just meant termination of financial assistance from the government. Their voices soon started echoing darkness in his head, in his new home. And Satan (father, on formal documents, regardless, he is the exact replica of hellish Satan) threw him rather kindly into the life of crime; infusing more and more darkness into his veins, until he became one with his own fears. It starts like this: whether it be lying, stealing, hacking, fighting his way to what he needed, he did it. He has been taught all the characteristic litheness of a boy raised by concrete mattresses and winter’s cyclical embraces. Soon, it became a principle to be consumed by adrenaline that burgeons through withering veins at the pace of untamed wildfire. Sooner, Taekwoon became more of a monster. That used to be the algorithm of his entire existence: get a contract, kill the target, get paid. And he has then held the universe in his hands, far too many times, and watched it shatter each time. On entirely too many occasions.

The only constant thing in his life was running. Running is easy. Running is what he’d done for months; this is the tapestry of being a fugitive, this is the firmament of being on the run. In the midst of it all, he meets an enigma. God, she disoriented him, in many many ways. She portrayed the epitome of adoration. Flower girl reminded her of what he once was, genuine, tender, peppered with innocence—everything he wasn’t at the moment. And so he stayed. He dreamed. A home, in a forest, by a mountain... but that was once a long time ago, before he lost the love of his life pregnant with his child. Because those who dream, end up paying the price. He could never have imagined how things would change. Now he realized, what a folly it could have been to believe he could disappear. There’s a phantom ache in his ribs that flares with every inhale and his fingers twitch at the memory of a moonless night, a caveat that he is quickly reminded of that evening. There she was, the woman he loved; in that cabin, alabaster skin was painted in angry streaks and splatters of crimson; blood flowing underneath like red satin. He would never forget how he lost his wife, his child. He had lost everything including himself.

 

 

 

 

mmm . dd . yyyy

 

 

 

 

 

status here

 

TO BECOME SPRING, MEANS BIDDING FAREWELL TO THE WINTER. SEASONS CHANGE, COME AND GO, AND MAYBE MY HEART KNEW TOO MUCH, THAT LOVE HAS AN END LIKE ANYTHING ELSE—THAT IT IS NOT A PERPETUAL KIND OF PHENOMENA—IT TOO, ALTHOUGH MIGHTY AND GLORIOUS, IS GOVERNED BY THE THE LAWS OF THE UNIVERSE, JUST LIKE YOU AND I. I REMEMBER BEING IN ONE PLACE AT A TIME, I REMEMEBER JUST REMAINING, JUST EXISTING. AND THEN YOU MOVED ME. IS THAT TOO CLICHE?

It’s with a clouded mind that he wanders, slowly inhaling the crisp night air of the city bustling with life, busy streets filled with conversation and laughter. It is a world he has been a part for longer than most, but also a world he feels incredibly distanced from. Perhaps his existence had been progressing for too long for him to appreciate it. Lips purse briefly, stopping by the next crosswalk for the lights to change color. He keeps his hands tucked into his pockets, the weather quite accommodating, that thought alone brings a barely-there smile to pale features. However, it fades quite fast when wandering hues of coal catch something strange. Hues narrow for a moment, and the nightwalker wonders if his vivid sense of imagination is playing tricks on him again. But when it does not fade, he is intrigued. No matter how hard he tries to shut out possible mental influences—there she stands, on the other side of the street. Even after he blinks. The image doesn’t distort into nothingness. His dead wife. Surely a mirage. Not real, right?

Fusce sed dolor nec libero pulvinar egestas. Etiam sed pretium mauris, et interdum erat. Morbi sapien diam, tincidunt sit amet lacus a, fringilla pretium lorem. Donec ut vehicula lacus, cursus maximus libero. Morbi consequat laoreet interdum. Ut ullamcorper eget arcu vitae aliquam. Nunc augue nisl, vestibulum vel dui id, feugiat tempor lectus.

Duis placerat eros et consequat egestas. Pellentesque quis est porttitor, congue diam ut, imperdiet ligula. In semper porta dolor, eget dictum metus convallis in. In hac habitasse platea dictumst. Duis pulvinar hendrerit risus ac dignissim. Etiam tristique, purus porttitor luctus laoreet, est diam fringilla erat, eu accumsan erat risus sed purus. Sed velit lorem, facilisis in dolor at, posuere semper sem. Donec et viverra arcu. Nam pellentesque orci velit, sit amet commodo turpis condimentum non. Aenean at sagittis arcu. Suspendisse iaculis gravida iaculis. Suspendisse blandit erat sapien, id tempor mi bibendum quis. Curabitur et dapibus nisi, eu malesuada est. Ut tristique sollicitudin blandit.