Work Text:
“Checking out?”
Kinn watches the boy fidget—a student, barely out of highschool—seemingly at a loss for words as he stands at the reception desk. The question is one Kinn’s uttered many times before and one he’s sure to ask time and time again; unsurprisingly, a not small number of their guests show up in the morning on time for checkout, the boy being no different than the countless others.
“Yes. I—I want to give life another chance.”
Kinn only acknowledges the admission with a polite nod, busy clicking things on the computer.
“Mr. Hun?” The boy nods. “Here's your ID back. Thank you once again for choosing our hotel, we hope you had a pleasant stay."
It had been weird, the first time Kinn uttered that sentence. He used to think about it—people check into their hotel for one thing only and to greet them in the morning with those words, hope you had a pleasant stay, sounded wrong.
He didn’t know firsthand what a night in their hotel entailed, Kinn wished to think that he never would. But he could imagine, the feeling strangely familiar—fighting your own self throughout the night as you wage whether or not to go ahead with the plan, whether or not to make use of the various methods the hotel provides—ending your life.
The first week of working for the hotel had been the hardest one. Inheriting the place from his parents used to be something he dreamed of, as a kid. But everything after those first few shifts—at times it scared him how easily it went afterwards, how detached he would become each night as he clocked into work.
“Three overdoses, one hanging, and one charcoal burning.” Yok is removing her hair net as she leans against the reception desk, sighing tiredly. “I fucking hate charcoal burnings. Weren't we supposed to get rid of that option?”
Kinn raises his head from the manila folder he was going through, making sure they have written forms of all check-ins and check-outs; something his parents used to be adamant about while they were running the place. “Yok, are you seriously asking me to dictate how our guests can and cannot die?”
Yok looks too close to throwing a proper tantrum. “I'm just saying, they're dying anyway. Couldn't they give us a break?”
Kinn stops the conversation short. “That's enough. Any failed attempts?”
“Not today.”
Kinn feels relieved—there’s no need to stay overtime. “Great. I'm off, then.”
Yok throws him a dirty look before slapping down a stack of brown envelopes against the polished wood before she’s off again, probably to check in on the morning cleaning crew. Kinn takes the bundle and looks through it disinterestedly—for mother, to my best friend, for my daughters—he places the letters behind the desk in a spot designated for outgoing mail.
It’s all mechanical, detached; he doesn’t linger on the distressed lines of the handwriting on the envelopes. He doesn’t even wonder about the content down the lines of the complementary notepad paper they provide for all hotel guests.
Kinn is really looking forward to sleeping once he’s back at his apartment, and as he is about to wash his hands in the small employee bathroom he can’t help the annoyance that colors his voice as a firm knock is heard from outside the door.
“What?”
It’s a young man—a boy, compared to Kinn—who’d only started working there a few months ago. He’s wearing the same white, almost see-through jumpsuit as Yok was, protective gloves on and a face mask covering the lower half of his face. He pulls it down until it rests below his chin.
“Sir, can I talk to you about something?”
Kinn is truly getting annoyed. His shift was over—he needed to get home.
“Talk with your supervisor. Why are you bothering me?” The boy is staring at him, not budging an inch and Kinn closes his eyes for a moment. “Fine, speak.”
The boy walks in, blocking the door. “While I was doing my rounds, this morning—I saw a man in one of the rooms.” Kinn doesn’t raise his head as he soaps up his hands. “He wasn't dead. But it didn't seem like he had tried to kill himself.”
“So what? People change their minds, don't they?” The boy remains silent and Kinn’s annoyance only worsens. “What? Did he check out late?”
“He didn't.”
Kinn stops toweling his hands, the faucet left running behind him as he faces the boy. “What do you mean?”
“He didn't check-out. He's still in his room.”
He walks towards the boy, towel gripped in his palms as the other continues.
“To be honest, he—he looked familiar. Then I remembered that—last Monday, I was supposed to clean his room. I think he's been here for a week now.”
Kinn stares at the boy, arms dropping to his sides in disbelief. What? “Are you an idiot?” He could feel his own voice rising, echoing in the small space, as he tried his best not to fully explode. “You clean the rooms every day and you never noticed someone staying for a week?”
The kid all but whines, excuses spilling from his lips. “There was a maintenance sign outside his door—”
Kinn pushes him against the wall, rage bubbling underneath his skin. “I don't give a shit! You've really fucked up, you know that?!”
“Isn't keeping track of the guests your responsibility?”
Fighting the urge to strangle him is difficult and Kinn manages to compose himself just enough so he doesn’t do something idiotic like attack one of his own employees. Their fault for hiring literal children. Storming out of the bathroom, he’s off to the sixth floor, stopping in front of room 602. He stares at the handwritten note glued to the door—UNDER MAINTENANCE written down in neat penmanship. He tears the paper away and knocks twice. He tries knocking again and when there’s no reply for the second time, he uses his master key to unlock the door.
The hallway is short, the room visible just a few paces in, with a small bathroom to the left and he stops short once he sees a sprawled body on top of the neatly made sheets.
The man can’t be older than twenty-five—he’s wearing faded blue denim jeans and a white graphic sleeveless tee, headphones around his ears, and Kinn can see the aux cable plugged into a beat-down walkman. An analog camera lays next to him, its viewfinder turned towards the ceiling. He stands still for a few moments, just watching him, before he raises his voice.
“Hey!”
The man in question frowns before he’s opening his eyes, staring at Kinn upside down and removing his headphones.
“Is there a problem?”
Kinn tries to maintain his composure. “Are you here for a holiday?”
There’s a frown on the other’s face again and a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “Do I look like I'm here for a holiday?”
Kinn finds the man’s passive behavior truly infuriating. "Then why are you here?”
There’s a pause, the other contemplating the answer and he speaks it as if it’s just another fact, as if they’re talking about the weather. “To die. Just like everyone else.”
The confession strikes Kinn more than it should have—he knew the reason—and he scolds his features before he starts seeping through the cracks in his façade.
“You're terrible at dying, then.” He almost hates the words as soon as they’re past his lips. “Don't waste my time. I'll ask you again, what the hell are you doing here?” More silence as the man now sits on the mattress, legs crossed; fingers fidgeting with the aux cord.
“Either tell me or I'll call the police. Are you a YouTuber, or paparazzi?”
“Neither.”
“What, then?”
The man looks at him straight ahead, gaze so lethargic it pins Kinn in place.
“I've told you already—I came here to die, just like everyone else.” He runs his fingers through messy hair, “I didn't think I would be here long. I thought this place would be depressing—that if I didn't kill myself immediately, I'd leave. But, sitting in this room—I felt peaceful. I didn't know why.”
Kinn watches as the man gets up and walks towards the window, staring at the bustling street below.
“But then I understood, everyone here at this hotel is—just like me. Just as lost and just as lonely. It was the first time in my life I didn't feel alone. After that, I didn't need to die. But I still didn't want to live, so I just stayed here. I didn't know what else to do.”
Kinn crumples the maintenance note in his palm.
“That's the truth. If you don't believe me—I don't know what else to say.”
He feels the sincerity of those words, he can even sense the desperation behind it all and is strangely keeping himself back from saying anything too hurtful.
“I'm sure you're aware of our rules.” He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair in resignation. “We strictly permit one-night stays only, all guests are temporary.” Something about that word had always felt wrong, and saying it out loud right now, reiterating the hotel rules to the man, felt worse than usual.
“But this is temporary.”
“Everyone who comes here, comes to find peace. Some people have to wait months for their turn. You've had yours, this isn't fair to them.”
There’s regret on the man’s face, eyebrows furrowed in deep contemplation. Kinn takes a deep breath, removes his personal feelings and does his job properly.
“How about this, then? You can stay one more night, try to use it wisely. If you can't kill yourself tonight, then please leave tomorrow morning. Rules exist for a reason. Is that okay?”
All he gets in reply is a curt nod. Kinn wastes no time in excusing himself and leaves the room, closing the door behind him softly. He doesn’t think about the resignated look on the other’s face as they spoke.
He meets the cleaning-crew kid as he’s going down the stairwell. “I took care of it. One way or another, he'll be gone in the morning. I'll talk to the others about this.”
“Sir?”
“Yeah?”
“I hope you weren't too mean to him. He seems like a nice person.”
Kinn goes home after that, leaving work behind as soon as he steps out the hotel entrance. He eats, showers and tries to rest before his night shift again. Sleep doesn’t come.
—
It is barely 8pm when he’s doing rounds on the ground floor, his shift having started an hour ago, when he spots the man from room 602 at the hotel restaurant, standing next to the curtained windows and gazing out through the pinkish material. He clears his throat softly as he approaches.
“Sorry, the restaurant's closed tonight.”
The man turns around to face him, brows furrowing. “It is?”
“Our chef’s got food poisoning. If you want something to eat, there are night markets nearby. You can check them out.”
The man doesn’t speak for a moment, nodding his head in acknowledgement, before he fidgets with his fingers as he faces the curtained windows once again. Kinn watches him curiously, searches his line of sight for anything of significance that has his attention so strongly and finds nothing.
“This morning—” Kinn interrupts the uncomfortable silence, “—I was a bit rude this morning. We often get curious trespassers here. I thought you were one of them.”
The other smiles softly, nervous fingers going through his mussed up hair. “It's fine. You did what you had to. I broke the rules first, after all.”
“Sure, but—” Kinn doesn’t linger on the reason why he speaks his next words, “—I could have been more considerate. I've been doing this work for a long time now and sometimes—"
The man next to him doesn't move his gaze from the curtains, still gazing outside.
“Regardless—I shouldn't have been so coldhearted. If I upset you this morning, please accept my apology.”
“Porsche,” the other says softly, “If you're apologizing, you should at least use my name, right?”
Kinn watches the soft smile on the other's lips as he says those words.
“I'm sorry, Porsche.”
A loud click of a tongue resonates in the vacant space, bringing Kinn out of his mood. “You really could have been more polite.” At Kinn's guilty expression, Porsche chuckles lightly. "It's fine, though, really. Thank you."
Silence envelopes them like a cocoon once again. Kinn tries once again to focus on whatever Porsche is staring at through the pink hue of the curtains, and comes up with nothing.
Few minutes pass like that—Porsche staring at the curtains and Kinn in turn staring at him, searching his face for anything but the indifference that seems permanently etched into his features.
As they walk down to the lobby, Kinn fidgets over his words. “If you like sparerib soup, there's a place I can recommend—”
“No need. There's too many people. I'll just go to the 7-Eleven.” Porsche motions with his hand towards the windows.
"Oh, that 7-Eleven? That's a good one. Wide selection.”
Porsche hums a soft mhm in reply. They’re standing facing each other, both somewhat uncomfortable by the closeness but neither steps back. Kinn feels out of his element, talking to a guest like this—he’s not done it before, he truly never even had a chance to do it. And even as the rational part of his brain screams at him to leave, stop talking and leave he can’t help himself as words continue spilling from his lips.
“Actually, I need to go later, I'm out of cigarettes.”
Porsche scrunches his eyebrows in contemplation. “I could—I could buy them for you? You can pay me back later.”
Kinn remains quiet, hands uncharacteristically pocketed. It’s only when Porsche moves to leave, that Kinn talks again, stumbling over his words. “Why don't I just go with you now? I'm due for a break, anyway.”
The tentative smile Porsche gives in return is a genuine one. “Sure.”
Kinn shouts Chan down, announcing his break before he’s walking out after Porsche, the hotel’s neon sign crackling in the soothing warmth of the night air.
—
The store is barely a block away, and they walk in complete silence.
Once they walk inside, Porsche gets distracted by the stack of magazines at one of the stands, curiously flipping through the pages of a photography magazine before he’s off to the instant ramen aisle. Kinn finds him crouching there, staring intently at a no-brand cup ramen in one of the racks.
Before Kinn could ask him, Porsche speaks, nostalgia vibrant in his voice.
“This was my favorite instant noodle as a kid. Haven't had it in forever.” There’s that smile again—reserved for things that obviously remind him of things from the past, genuine moments of carelessness and happiness.
“You should pick something healthier to eat, instant noodles are bad for your health.”
A hint of a smirk curls Porsche’s lips. “Didn't you say I'm on a holiday?” He reaches to take one of the cups, carefully reading the colorful label. “It's no holiday without instant noodles.”
It’s spoken softly, almost inaudible, as if a secret not meant to be shared. Kinn stares after him as he stands up and grips that cup of ramen and walks towards the front to pay. He follows suit, his own cigarette pack clutched tightly in his palm.
They are barely out of the store before he’s motioning for Porsche towards the side of it and Kinn is opening his pack, lighting a cigarettes; taking in that first drag of smoke as Porsche sits down on some empty crates, eyes firmly set onto the asphalt below their feet.
“Do you like your job?” Porsche asks him as he’s almost halfway done with his cigarette.
"It's okay. It's a job." Kinn lies through his teeth and breathes out—the smoke thickly painting the air above his head for a moment before it dissipates completely, as if it was never there; the lingering smell its only remainder. Porsche watches him silently.
“Actually, my first week was rough. There were protesters outside every day, back then. I even got hit in the face with an egg." They both chuckle at the last bit.
It was worse than that. The first weeks after the law was passed—making assisted suicide available to anyone of legal age—the public was outraged. There were constant protests at almost every corner of the country, constant protests in front of his family’s hotel which was one of the first to convert to this type of service.
“And then?”
“What do you think? Once the news moved on, everybody forgot.” He flicks the ash onto the ground.
“Does your family approve of you working here?”
“My parents—” he sighs as he sits down across from Porsche, “—my family owns this place.”
If the news is surprising to Porsche, he doesn’t show it on his face. Instead, there’s something akin to pity, perhaps compassion as he leans back against the column of the store, eyes now steady on Kinn.
“You know, even though I was never much of a dreamer—I mean—of course, I had dreams as a kid, but the older you get, the more you realize dreaming's a waste of time. Better to live life uncaring about anything. When there’s no expectations, there can’t be any disappointment. And parents—they are always full of demands and expectations.”
Porsche plays with the aluminium lid of the cup ramen. “I wouldn't know. My parents died when I was little.”
Kinn feels guilty all of a sudden. “I’m sorry.”
Porsche shrugs his shoulders. “To be honest, I really envy your outlook on life.”
“You want to be a nobody like me?”
Porsche stands up slowly, walking back towards the entrance of the store where the vending machines are lined up. He stands in front of one that sells tiny figurines. Kinn watches him as he inserts a few coins. “Because no matter what, you're a nobody. At least you don't expect anything from the world. So, you can never feel disappointed.”
Porsche pushes the button as he crouches in front of the machine. “I always felt like my life should mean something, you know? But, no matter how hard I tried—I just never got the chance. You try and you try—always hoping this time will be different—but it never is, is it?”
Kinn’s chest constricts—he knows the feeling, has lived through it many times in the past; waking up to fix your eyes onto the ceiling of your room, wondering what now?
“One day, you look in the mirror and—the light in your eyes is gone. And suddenly, it hits you. How much youth did you waste chasing something that was never yours?”
“Don't say that.” Kinn is struck with the urge to reassure, to say something he’s heard countless times while he was growing up. “You're still young, there's time.”
Porsche sighs as the plastic container with the figurine clatters in the dispenser. “I'm tired. I'm always tired now. I appreciate your optimism, though. Thank you for wasting it on me.”
He stands up and extends his palm towards Kinn, the plastic ball clattering as he offers it to the man. “Here. A gift.”
Kinn takes it from Porsche’s palm gently, their fingers brushing for a split second. “Why?”
“Because it looks like you.”
The smile Porsche gives him is truly genuine, warm and soft like summer afternoons know to be and Kinn offers one in return. “Thank you, Porsche. And—it’s Kinn, my name.”
He doesn’t know why he says it, but Porsche beats him to it as he chuckles, pointing a finger to the left side of his chest.
“I know, it’s written on your nametag.”
Kinn feels like a fool as he laughs. He feels lighter than in months.
They take a longer route back to the hotel—the night warm and quiet save the sound of car engines. The road is bathed in hues of green and brown under the street lamps and Kinn, for the life of him, can’t stop himself from talking the entire walk; Porsche swinging his arms to his side, excitedly agreeing with him.
“Good thing the restaurant was closed, or you wouldn't have found those noodles.”
Porsche laughs for the first time since they’ve spoken to each other. “If I had to eat their pork rice bowl again, I probably would've killed myself already.”
Kinn agrees with a chuckle. “I'm sick of it, too.”
“You should add it to the other menu, you know.” Porsche stops in his tracks and spreads his palms in the air as if presenting a banner, "Comfort Food for a Comfortable Death."
Kinn ignores the tugging in his chest as he lights another cigarette. “That’s not a bad idea.”
The rest of the walk passed in comfortable silence, and before they knew it they were walking into the hotel once again, Porsche nervously rubbing the heels of his palms against his jeans.
“Thank you—for coming with me. It's nice to have some company.”
“No problem. If you need anything, just— just call me at the front desk.”
Porsche grins teasingly. “Like a pork rice bowl?”
It steals a surprised laugh out of Kinn’s chest. “Not that—” he watches the blooming smile on Porsche’s lips as he drops his gaze to the ground, cheeks coloring a soft red hue, “—whatever you need.”
“I'll tell you if I think of something.”
Kinn feels strangely light as they stare at each other for a moment, mind buzzing from the oxygen of their short walk.
“Goodnight.” Porsche breaks eye contact first as he walks away towards the stairs in the lobby.
“Goodnight.” Kinn watches him ascend, and bows his head in return to Porsche’s soft wai before the other is turning the corner, out of Kinn’s sight.
Chan is at the front desk as he finally stops himself from looking at the stairs. He doesn’t speak, just eyes Kinn knowingly, gaze hardened and full of warning. Kinn ignores him as he walks behind the front desk and starts busying himself with paperwork.
—
It’s 8 minutes to 1am when the hotel phone rings, pulling him out from whatever he was reading.
“Front desk.” He greets mechanically but stands up straighter at the voice on the other line, a smile making its way on his lips.
‘It's me.’
“Oh—hi. Well? How were the noodles?”
‘Just okay. I think they tasted better in my memory.’ He can hear the chuckle in Porsche's voice.
“The memory's always better than the real thing, right?”
‘I guess so. Life—really is bitter.’
“Bitter?” Kinn smiles as he allows himself to relax further, his voice taking on a flirty tone. “Should I send you mints?”
There’s a soft sigh on the other end of the line. ‘Actually,’ Porsche pauses and Kinn awaits like a taut string. ‘I wanted to ask—if you could send some razor blades up.’
Kinn stands straight, eyes on the wall full of clocks of various world capitals. He counts three seconds on one of them before Porsche speaks again.
‘I know there's some in the room, but—I can't seem to find them.’
For a split moment, he struggles. For a split moment, he sees himself denying the request with a we’re all out excuse urging to slip past his lips and in that split moment Kinn sees himself doing what his very soul is screaming at him to do. Instead, he tightens his jaw in sync with the fingers of his other hand tightening around the wood of the front desk.
“No problem.” His own voice is strangely unfamiliar as he speaks. “Do you have a brand preference?”
Porsche is quiet on the other side for a moment. Kinn grips the wooden surface tighter. ‘What do you recommend?’
“Gillette is sharper, Schick lasts longer—both are pretty good.”
Another beat of silence.
‘Gillette, then.’
Kinn’s throat feels too tight as he swallows. “I'll send it up to you in a bit, they’re running an errand for another guest at the mo—”
‘Uhm, Kinn?’ Porsche interrupts him, urgency evident in his voice, as he speaks his name for the first time. ‘If it's not too much trouble, could you—could you bring them up yourself?’
It takes him far too long to acknowledge Porsche’s request with a soft mhm before the line goes silent.
He walks towards the back office and finds Chan, one of the senior managers, busy with paperwork at his desk.
“Chan, I have to deliver something to a guest. I'll be right back.”
Chan eyes him curiously, eyes raised from his work. “Personally? Why?”
“The guest asked me to.” Kinn knows it to be a weak excuse and Chan sees right through it.
“It's that boy, isn't it?” Kinn feels a rush of defiance at the way Chan speaks those words but before he could turn away and leave, Chan beckons him to enter.
“Before you started working here, we had someone else at the front desk. Worked here for a while, your parents really liked her.” Chan digs around the desk drawer and hands Kinn an employee ID. “Malee, she was a good girl, took her job seriously.” Kinn hands him back the ID and Chan returns it to the drawer with a sad look.
“One day, a woman came to stay. Malee and her got along very well, she said—the woman reminded her of her own late mother. The two of them—they spent the whole night talking in the lobby. I don't know about what. At the time, I heard her laughing like never before.” Chan smiles softly at the memory it elicits in his mind.
“However, the next morning, when the cleaners brought the woman's body out—she had nothing to say. After that, she stopped coming to work. We didn't see her again, until—she came one day as a guest at the hotel.”
Kinn listens attentively, body rigid.
“Kinn, forget about him. It won't have a good ending. You have to remember, we could be burying him tomorrow. Burying a stranger—is much easier than burying a friend. Do you understand?”
Kinn replays Chan’s words in his mind like a broken record as he stands in the storage room. He replays them as he goes through the drawers and picks up a pack of Gillette blades, staring at them as if they contained the answer to the unspoken questions in his mind.
He replays them as he walks to room 602, taking the stairs so it takes longer, so it steals more time. The door to the room is ajar as he walks up to it and pushes the hardwood with his palm. He walks two steps into the room and stands transfixed next to the wall, the pack of blades seemingly digging into the very flesh of his tight fist—Porsche is sitting on the bed, legs crossed at the knees as he rests his head on one arm, the other one holding a silver microphone.
He is singing with his whole heart it seems, yet so soft and quiet despite it being hooked onto the karaoke screen in front of him. Kinn recognizes the song three lines in and something painful constricts in his throat and chest, something threatens to unfurl and expand and explode—he tampers it down.
The melody to Shirley Kwan’s Forget Him fills the room like spring—heady, soft and reminiscent—and Kinn watches as Porsche sings the final lines, eyes fixated onto the screen.
Porsche looks up at him, a shy smile on his lips and Kinn wishes he hadn’t disturbed him. “Why'd you stop? You have a nice voice, you should sing more.” Kinn doesn’t admit that it is him who wishes to listen.
Porsche stands up and walks a step closer to Kinn. Kinn grip the pack in his palm one final time before he’s extending it to Porsche who takes it with a hint of reluctance, ever so gently.
“The blades you wanted. Be careful while opening them, they're sharp.”
Porsche meets his gaze, knowing, as he in turn grips the pack now. Kinn doesn’t allow his eyes to linger on the action.
“Well? Have you decided?” He asks, detached; he at least hopes it will come across that way.
“Not yet.” Porsche shakes his head gently, a small smile on his lips. “I'm gonna take a bath first. See how I feel.”
Kinn offers a smile in return. “Sounds nice. Well—I'll—I’ll leave you to it, then.”
He turns around to walk away, but before he even makes a single step, Porsche is tugging at the back of his uniform, stopping him in place. Kinn doesn’t breathe as a soft cheek comes to rest against his shoulder and warm hands circle his waist in a tight hug.
“Thank you.” Porsche speaks softly near his ear as he tightens the hug and Kinn feels his whole body disconnect from reality. He swallows heavily as Porsche lets him go, feels like he cannot breathe as he makes a step forward and stops—pinned in place by something invisible, something he’s trying to fight off.
He turns around and is met by Porsche’s soft brown eyes—there’s a question in them, there’s hope and Kinn—
“What's wrong?”
—Kinn stares for a second longer before he snaps out of it, lips morphing into a smile against his will. “Nothing.” He shakes his head as he feels his own insides drop through the very floor.
Porsche’s eyes turn even softer, framed by a twitch in his eyebrows as he asks another question, as he bites the corner of his lower lip with enough force to leave an indent. “Are you sure?”
All that leaves his lips is a barely audible “Mhm.”
Porsche’s expression changes at it, mouth raising, eyes crinkling at the edges.
“Goodnight.” Kinn doesn’t know how the word escapes his lips as they stare at each other for a while longer.
“Goodnight.” Porsche replies, lips stretching around a smile.
—
He is awoken by poking at his forehead as he rests his head on his forearms, sleep clouding his mind. He barely even registers the morning cleaning crew in their white uniforms and surgical masks before they are chuckling at him and moving away from the front desk.
As he’s trying to regain his senses, his eyes fall onto the little figurine on the desk. It’s out of its plastic container and standing at the desk—Kinn doesn’t recall unpacking it the night before. Chan was at the front desk with him but he never touched his stuff.
Before he has any time to focus on it further, the cleaning crew kid is shouting his name at ear-proximity and Kinn flinches with the force of it.
“Fuck!”
The kid apologizes as he pulls his mask down. It only annoys Kinn further. “What is it?”
“I've really got to hand it to you. What exactly did you say to him yesterday?” The kid is smiling and Kinn is just more confused, still sleep-riddled.
“What do you mean?”
“You don't know?” Kinn shakes his head in reply, fingers coming up to rub at his temples and running them through his ruffled hair.
“He's gone! Just like you said. We already started cleaning his room.”
Kinn’s pupils dilate, eyes widening as he finally snaps out of his sleep daze. He stares at the boy’s smiling lips then at the small figurine on the table and before he even realizes he’s walking towards the elevator, kid in tow, and he’s pressing the button for the sixth floor.
He can’t help the smile that starts on his lips, heart rate going up as the elevator dings for their chosen floor. Why didn’t Chan wake him for the checkout, he could have—the smile is gone as soon as he steps into the hallway.
He freezes in place as his eyes land on the piece of white sheet covering him at the entrance of the room, laying soundlessly underneath the bleak material. Two members of the cleaning crew bow as one of them rings a bell once, the sound hauntingly heavy as it crashes against Kinn and continues down the hotel corridor.
His jaw tightens as the workers move the body past him, towards the service elevator shaft. Kinn feels his fingers tremble as the sheet brushes against them as they pass by and then they’re gone—he’s gone—with another ding of the elevator.
Kinn stares at the changing number on the top until it reaches the final sub floor.
He doesn’t know why he does it—he doesn’t know why he’s done anything he did in the past 24 hours—he’ll probably never know. But he follows soundlessly as something in his chest tugs him forward, towards the open door of room 602.
Kinn recognizes the smell as soon as he steps into the short hallway, the bathroom door wide open. He can’t help his eyes as they turn left, into the bathroom and fall on the pinkish hue of the water in the bath, in contrast to the crimson splatter and spray against the white of the porcelain. His fists tighten as he swallows heavily and steps further into the room.
He walks up to the nightstand, his camera, walkman and a stack of brown envelopes lay untouched—the white notepad next to them undisturbed save a single dot at the beginning of the third empty line; a thought left unwritten. He stares at it, man transfixed, as the cleaners return and start collecting stuff.
He stares at it, wills it to form a shape, to become a word, a sentence—begs it to become anything but a single smudge of ink amidst so much space.
He stares at it until the analog camera that’s laid down neatly next to it is taken by one of the cleaners and put into a trash bag along with other things from the room.
Kinn grabs their wrist before they could leave with it; the worker says nothing as they pass him the small, plastic white bag containing all of Porsche’s belongings.
Kinn stares at it. He stares at the dot.
A vacuum cleaner gets turned on somewhere behind him as the smell of bleach fills the small room—Kinn tightens his grip on the bag.
—
He misses work for the first time since he’d started working at the hotel.
He lays sprawled on his back, the floor of his apartment littered with things as he rests in the midst of it all—the camera gripped tightly in his right palm as he alternates between staring through the viewfinder and taking a drag of his cigarette in the other hand.
He can’t help the way his thoughts wander; from Porsche’s soft smiles and resigned voice to the way he’s asked, begged with his Are you sure? and the haunting echo of his Goodnight. He can’t help but imagine the warmth of the water as it cascades around his body nor the glistening blade as it pierces through soft flesh and gets drowned in the thick red of the man’s blood.
Was it a straight line, up the arm, across the wrists? Did it hurt, did you hesitate? Did you walk down to find me sleeping and unpacked that figurine next to me and left, determined? Could I have done more, should I have spoken the words that were about to slip past my lips as you stared at me with a hopeful smile on your face?
Shirley Kwon’s voice blooms in his ears as tar dances around his lungs.
forgetting him
means forgetting everything
that means losing my sense of direction
i lost myself
forgetting him
means forgetting all the happiness
that means locking up my heart
living with sorrow and pain
forget him
how could I forget
unforgettable, i will remember forever
and ever
—
Kinn doesn’t show up for work the next day, and the day after that one. He doesn’t show up to work for a month—eyes glued to the viewfinder of Porsche’s camera, cigarette ash sleeping in his unwashed hair.
He shows up to work five weeks later. He hands in his ID and checks in as a guest.
—