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Red Lights 캉박

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"I cannot breathe without you being right by my side.

I'll die."

(Stray Kids - Red Lights)




The moment the door was shut, the house became silent. If I wretched my ears, I could hear his footsteps, slowly fading away.

Shakily inhaling, I stumbled back. My back hit the wall and I slid down to the floor. It was cold. The wall, the floor, even the air was cold.

I didn't dare close my eyes. I stared at the white paint on the ceiling. I tried to find something new on it, maybe stains or cracks, but I only saw the whiteness I was so familiar with. So I examined it again. And again. Then the walls. And the floor.

Everything was spotless, completely in order. So emotionless, so clinical, like a hospital room. A temple... or a mortuary even.

The left corner of my mouth pulled up at the thought. How fitting. 

I chuckled, though I didn't feel happy.

I turned my head to look at the mirror on the wardrobe door. I hoped if I looked at it long enough, it would reveal the truth. From where I sat, by the front door, it reflected the living-room. I wanted to see the tables broken, wazes in pieces, curtains torn. I wanted to see violence and destruction. I wanted things in there to be dead, not living.

My limbs felt heavy as I stood up. Something clinked under me. I looked down, but the chains I felt weren't there. Not there, not in the mirror. But their weight was real. They pulled me down, rattling with every step I took.

Halfway to the kitchen I stopped. It was quiet. White. Dark. Light.

I blinked.

My hand was on the doorknob. Oh yes, the kitchen.

I stepped inside. The lightbulb flickered. Black, white.

I pushed the door shut. Warm liquid trickled down my hands, leaving red prints behind. I pushed my index and middle fingers to a clean spot leaving some distance between them, then drew a half circle under the dots. A little smiling face that soon turned sad as my blood began to flow down, making it look as if crying.

I erased it with a wipe of my hands, although the original pattern stayed visible where the blood dried.

I tripped on the edge of the rug or probably my own foot. Stumbling forward I had to grab the edge of the table to keep myself upright.

My gaze fell onto the drawer in front of me. It was the one where cutlery were stored.

I pulled it out slowly and it didn't make a sound. Spoons, forks… and knives. Small ones and big ones. I grabbed the one that looked exactly like what Michael Myers had used in the films. The blade was long and sharp.

The light flashed out for a second before coming back again. Black, white.

I held the knife in my hand, as I stepped out of the kitchen. The handle was already slick with blood. In the living-room, pieces of white, lightly painted china lay on the floor. I didn't remember the original colour of its patterns. Right now, it was mostly brownish, a bit of crimson here and there. 

I hauled myself to the door and collapsed in front of it. The knife coated in blood slipped out of my hands, loudly clanking as it met the floor. Blood dripped from my hands, soaking the sleeves of my shirt. It uncomfortably was sticking to my arms.



I squinted as I opened my eyes. He was here, I didn't need to see him to feel his presence. 

The ceiling was still the same.

"How could you do that?"

Here we go again. I sighed and turned my head, fixing my gaze on the table.

When did his voice turn from concern to accusation? I couldn't remember.

"Do you have any idea how worried you made me?"

Oh yes, it's my fault. It's always my fault. I'm sorry. This was the last time. 

The knife shined under the lamp. It had been cleaned, and sat there in its spotless glory. You made me do it. If only you weren't so beautiful. I'm addicted and you know it.

"Tell me what's wrong." I glanced at him before turning completely away, facing the back of the couch. How can he be so bright? Shimmering blue eyes stared at me, framed by gracefully arching eyebrows, long, blonde hair, straight nose and an expression full of tenderness. How can you smile like this? Is it because you stole mine as well? How many have you taken already?

"Tell me what I did wrong." 

I'm sorry…

He inhaled deeply. I didn't like the frown forming on his face.

"You left again."

The chair under him creaked as he turned to me. His icy eyes burned my nape. But I didn't turn toward him. I couldn't.

"We have already discussed it, haven't we?" 

I annoyed him. That's not good. Why did I say that? Of course we have talked about it.

I stayed quiet. I shouldn't spout more nonsense.

His hand touched my shoulder.

"Hey, at least thank me for patching you up again. What did you want? Cut off your hands?"

I groaned my thanks and he seemed satisfied with that. I didn't have the energy to say more.

I had to close my eyes for a bit. Black.

I heard him shuffle with his bag. He always had it on him.

"Here's a pill. Take it and sleep. You will feel better when you wake up."

I'm sorry…

I finally turned to him, my arm stretching for the pill.


The blade ran into his flesh with hardly any resistance. His breath hitched, a moment later mine followed.

I'm so sorry…

My trembling hands released the handle, the knife stayed in his body. What have I done?

Blood dripped on the floor, the flow becoming stronger and stronger.

I have to call an ambulance. I wanted to get up to run over to the phone, but my body didn't move.

He stared at the knife embedded in his stomach, then with surprising ease, he pulled it out. A voice in my head wanted to stop him. It was best to keep it in until the ambulance arrived, but in the end, I said nothing.

I watched silently, as the blood soaked his clothes and pooled on the floor.

My eyes darted over the room, only to notice the state it was in. Curtains shredded, ceramics shattered. The phone lay on the rug, keypad smashed, cables cut.

What had happened?

My head hurt. Was it always this bad?

Once again, the knife fell to the floor. The sound startled me.

We both stood up. What for? I didn't know anymore.

He groaned as he stumbled back and down to the tiled floor. His upper body lay on the rug.

Finally, my body awoke, and I rushed to his side. His face was pale, but his eyes still recognized me. The corners of his lips pulled up. How can he smile like this?

"Come here, darling." His hand twitched, but he couldn't lift it more than a few centimeters.

Kneeling by him, I bowed my head to his, putting our foreheads together.

"-m sorry, darl-ng. I re-ly lov- y–..." His chuckles gradually stopped, the brightness in his eyes faded. A last streak of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth.

I only now noticed that I was sobbing. My tears fell to his face that still had the shadow of his smile.

Why are you saying things like this now? Why now? Why not in the morning or yesterday?

"Me too." I whispered between two sobs.

My eyes prickled, as I looked around the completely destroyed living-room. 

I heard the sound of sirens from the distance. Was it the police? The ambulance?

It didn't matter.

They couldn't save anyone.