Chapter Text
February 2, 1943
He used to say he was death itself, that he was misfortune in its purest form, the cursed word haunting the minds of the disturbed. I know this because I would always find him delirious in the dark corners of the streets, feeling like a prostitute condemned to suffer for eternity. He cried, knowing his fate was tied to an empty funeral and the blessed rain that would celebrate finally ridding the world of Han Jisung. I know this because every Christmas Eve, his mother would proclaim that he was the denial of Christ.
And I am certain of his sadness because the first time I saw Jisung breathing without carrying the guilt of crushing the world with his unwanted birth, he was far away from his mother.
March 15, 1943
I saw him making mistakes I had never seen before. The boy, who always took too long to put out the fire, who blamed the wind simply for blowing, was refusing to be cautious in order to fill his heart with false roses. Foolish, far too attached to the first and only happiness he had ever known in his miserable life. This deviation from his true obligations, however, had a name. It had a name and a mediocre build, dark blond hair, despicable brown eyes, and a smile that not even I could have imagined being the cause of the sharp ache in Jisung’s chest.
He did not know he would become the cause of his death, but I did. I have always known everything about him.
April 21, 1943
The boy, Jeongin, played the guitar. An instrument for fools, far too sentimental, one that simply exposed the idiot’s lack of musical technique. Even so, irritatingly enough, Jisung swayed along to the clumsy chords.
Jeongin never tried to make things easy, he offered conditions impossible to refuse. Sometimes, he would suggest that they run away from Seochon, as if he were not the bourgeois heir carrying his father’s three companies under his own name. A liar and fearless, yet Jisung never trembled in the boy’s presence.
It kept growing more and more, and I could see his pain in allowing himself to open up so deeply. He wanted to grow tired of it, but he could not. He loved him.
My sweet Jisung, why fall in love with an endless war, as though you did not know you were living only to die?
I never feared that Jisung would cease to be mine. I will always wait for him, even from afar. My greatest concern upon waking, in truth, was whether he knew just how much I love him.
May 5, 1943
I never had any plans to tell the truth to Jisung. He did not even know my name or my face. That did not hurt in the slightest. I know that what I transmit to him brings grace to his days.
June 18, 1943
He did not know that staying alive was a continuous decision. He still believed he was making an unbearable effort simply by existing in this world, surrounded by angels like Jeongin and demons like his mother. He used to say it was all too heavy, that he wanted to be forgiven for being a loser, for always carrying fantasies he had created himself only to drown inside them.
He liked to believe he belonged somewhere, that his name could belong to someone, and that this way he would not have to carry his own curse alone.
At eighteen years old, his heart was far too slow. I witnessed every mistake he made since he was fifteen, yet I can say with absolute certainty that he remained foolish.
July 4, 1943
He kissed someone for the first time on that cold, rainy day, with the center of Seochon dressed in melancholy, the closest reflection of his miserable mind.
Jisung managed to repress his sadness for only five minutes when he felt Jeongin’s unbearably warm hands against his thin cheeks before their lips finally met.
Well, truthfully... I cannot say much about it. The only person I have ever loved was Jisung. But we are not very different, so I suppose I would end up vomiting too if I kissed someone for the first time. Poor boy. He held the rotten substance gathered at the back of his throat until Jeongin had gone away, and then that warm, slightly sour stream escaped him, bending his small body over the lake he used to stare at so often.
I cannot deny that I laughed.
September 26, 1943
That damned Jeongin never once left his mind. He praised every smallest detail about the boy, from his pink knees, which I had already noticed in the baby pictures Jisung burned three years ago, though I managed to steal one before he did, to his enormous, frightened eyes. I found them fascinating as well. The way his face was so delicate and naturally marked by fear, Jisung made himself beautiful within the plague of being death incarnate.
The fool, on top of everything else, belonged to the aristocracy, naturally. Conservative family, clothes that always smelled pleasant, hair constantly brushed back... that was how he convinced Han's mother that he was worthy of asking for her son’s hand in marriage. Not that she cared about passing Jisung’s curse onto another family.
May 10, 1944
I had a very bad feeling that day. Something that, even running through my entire blood, was impossible to put into words. It was suffocating. As if fate had been written too late, and now it was no longer under my control. It tore me apart.
I had known for months that Jeongin and Jisung were engaged. It was true that I learned it even before his parents did. They were happy to welcome a boy like Jisung into the family, even though he himself could not even speak of his own past.
I was certain they did not understand. It was not just my thoughts, my word against theirs. I was not convinced by divine answers. It was the complete opposite, in fact. That answer had been at the tip of my tongue since the moment I saw Jisung. And he knew it too, of course he did. If he did not, he would not feel his skin, each passing day, more and more repulsive, as if something were crawling beneath it.
It must be why Jisung died on April fourth, nineteen forty-four.
…
Haha.
I used to think nothing could compare to a fever dream. Until I saw Han Jisung dead in front of my eyes.
May 21, 1944
What a great day. Not for me. Never for me. Soon, it would have been two months since looking at my own face became terrifying. Metallic objects irritate me now, my reflection is dangerous, a threat, a way of reminding me that now, without Jisung, I no longer have any face to look at. I loved him so much that I liked to lie to myself, saying that his thin skin was mine, that his nose had been shaped by me, the way I wanted, and that the broken knees from that day meant absolutely nothing.
I am not hallucinating. They tried to convince me countless times that the person writing these records has a name behind him, that I could not escape my own identity. Nonsense! Jisung was my identity, my way of breathing, he was my entire system.
I only wish he had warned me a little earlier before disappearing and leaving me alone in this world.
May 22, 1944
Listening to myself in this dark room has become difficult. It feels like the world outside is taking shapes never seen before, but I remain here. Trapped.
I had nowhere to sink into; everything here already felt like the depths of darkness. It is even hard to breathe.
I am terrified that Jisung, at some point, might have known something I did not. It was the only explanation for this happening, for him appearing in front of me and then escaping from me. The only time I could see my muse up close, he refused, without any humility! I do not understand what happened. I thought I had made it clear that I would allow Jisung to fly with my wings. I would probably set myself on fire if he asked me gently.
So why?
May 23, 1944
Maybe it was your fault, Jisung.
I only wanted to see you again. Like before.
I thought silence was comforting. I gave you all the space you wanted. I listened to you wish for death while I planned your future years.
But you wanted everything.
You did not even want to see your reflection in my eyes. So dead and rotten you were. Ungrateful.
May 24, 1944
I am sorry. I hit my head yesterday.
March 28, 1944
What a grand ceremony it will be. I found out on an afternoon filled with wind, mixed with small drops of rain. Jeongin held that guitar with fervor, desperate to drag Jisung into some corner and devour him with kisses. He only waved his hands, forcing a yellowish smile. It seemed he used Christian dogma to escape Jeongin; apparently he was still recovering from that first disgusting kiss.
It was not that everything the boy did was completely insufficient for the malignant Jisung, but he discovered too late that he truly could not escape the dark truths of his life. Now, marrying Jeongin was only a way to detach himself from his mother and, of course, accept that he would tremble for no reason every morning, because physical symptoms of stupidity arrived faster than mental ones.
They still slept in separate rooms, fortunately. And that was why Jisung could take that notebook with yellowed pages from the drawer and read it. Perhaps that was the only item of Jisung’s I could never get my hands on. I was never sure what he carried in it so strongly. Just thinking about approaching it, I felt his lifeless eyes chasing me. Or worse, discovering that there was a man like me watching every step he took since… always.
All I can say about this situation is that I knew from the very first glance between them that neither Jeongin’s touch nor his words would ever be able to fill the emptiness in Jisung’s heart. Poor thing, waiting every night for some seed to be planted in him so his life would magically gain a purpose beyond his own death.