boyhood three

The third time woohyeon met death, it was inevitably, his own.

Freshly seventeen, late april showers that had blanketed everything in soft dewy drops. They looked like little pearls, he had thought idly, watching them gleam in the webs of an orb weavers home.

It was nearing dawn, he knew that, his aunt and uncle still tucked soundlessly in their beds. Slumber never came easy to woohyeon anymore. He envied them. He envied the spider. Knowing nothing but staying alive, weaving patterns into her webbed home.

Woohyeon knew a little about staying alive. And even that felt like he was winging it more than half the time. Staying alive was a struggle. He had lost weight, shrunken in on himself, the indents of his dimples apparent even when he wasn't smiling.

His aunts fingers would close around his wrist and she'd scold him to eat more. But it all tasted like ash on his suddenly thick tongue. Was he allergic to whatever she had cooked with? Was death playing his tricks to make it as painful as possible?

But woohyeon had thought of that already, and poked around until he found his uncles percocets from an old knee injury. Salvation rested in the palm of his hand. He had pocketed them quietly, laid his head on his aunts shoulder and watched the wizard of oz with her. He thanked his uncle for stepping in as both mother and father over the years.

They chalked it up to him being thankful, a good kid. Sensitive. No one could have known what he had planned to do. How could they? In private, Woohyeon's facade was slipping, and in its place, rested deaths face.

He had taken the pills and carefully crushed each one into a fine powder. He had written letters, one to his aunt and uncle, one to his nameless father, and lastly, one he had written to whomever it may concern. The last one stated that all he was due to inherit at eighteen and again at twenty five, would be given to his uncle. Retribution for raising him.

He crept out of the house with a pocket full of powder, and a stolen fifth of whiskey tucked under his arm. The letters lay fanned out on his made up bed, with his grandmothers and mother's pictures laid with them.

badum. Badum. Badum.

He found himself a small alcove to lean back against a tree, digging the powder from his clothing and cradling the bottle between his legs. Woohyeon didn't plan, no not this, he only acted. He funneled the baggie into the top of the whiskey; and poured.

And poured, and poured, and poured. Like a bartender he shook the glass handle until it was mixed and began to drink. Drink, drink, drink. Even though it tasted awful, even though it dribbled down his chin. Death wasn't kind to his mother, why should it be kind to him? His eyes burned, and his throat itched.

But even then, woohyeon didn't stop. He was a lot of things, but he didn't have it in him to quit. He had come this far. So far from the small home in paju, with its worn floor and chipped paint. He could hardly picture it now.

He could hardly picture grandma or mother, or what life was like where it didn't hurt. Where breathing didn't feel like swimming, and waking up didn't feel like being buried alive under the suns glow. He knew his heart rate was slowing, his thin eyelids growing heavier still.

But he didn't stop, wouldn't stop. Not until the last of the liquor was gone, and he couldn't hold his head up anymore. His temple made contact with the damp earth below, cushioning is like he was a newborn fawn.

Nothing hurt anymore, nothing was hot or cold. For the first time, there was nothing. And woohyeon let a smile tug on the edges of his lips as he basked in that silence like a snake on a rock. He was going home. Home. Grandmother. Mother. Death.

He can't tell you the moment he stumbled over the edge of consciousness. He can just tell you that dying isn't like in the movies. There was no white blinding glow, there was no eternal blackness that consumed him. No.

There was everything. There were a symphony of sounds, swirling colors that bled and fed into each other like little rivers until they converged into an ocean of rainbows. There was warmth at the back of his head, and coldness at the heels of his socked feet.

There was no grandmother, or mother. There was only him, he, woohyeon. Dying, dead, death. They were one, interlocked yet interchangeable, yin and yang, sun and moon, life and death. How fitting for him, in his moments of meeting in the there after.

He was alone, but he wasn't. Woohyeon can remember that. He didn't feel alone. He felt surrounded and loved. He felt happiness and grief for himself, but he felt a joy he hadn't known since he had lived in south korea.

Death lapped at his fingertips like a distant shore, nuzzled into his chest like a small kitten. Held him like like a newborn, and kissed the sharp corners of his eyelids. He did it, he had done it. Death wasn't so scary afterall, woohyeon told himself, clutching to the shrouds of black like delicate cloth.

Death was a friend, family; his and his alone. But no one had told woohyeon, not even himself, that death is trickier than one could imagine. A burst of light, incessant beeping, the overheard voice of someone being called.

The puke inching up his throat and the violent feel of it spewing from him. Death had evaded woohyeon, and in its place, left hope. and the slow drawl from the monitor of his heart.

... ba-dum... ...ba-dum... ... ba-dum...

He had killed the broken heart inside of him, and while it beat off tune to the sound of those before him, death had not won out. Woohyeon, honey boy had.