Revenant
ONE / ONE
By the time Taemin steps into my office I already know he’s a ghost of himself, too far gone, a loose fragment, living every day doped up on medication, surviving on frequent plastic surgery trips, bottles of water, and dancing, deteriorating legs. It’s apparent that Taemin’s already blind — the cameras have been flashing in his widened eyes, the headlines have been smashed into his face, and the words SHINee and nutcase have been seared into his pupils, permanently burning a home just underneath the surface.
His skin is translucent — invisible, almost — and I can see all his pulsing veins, desperate to find a new home that provides it with nourishment, and, I know if I look hard enough, I can see his burdens, too. But I don’t; I cross my legs and watch as he lowers himself into the armchair across from me, smacking his lips once he finished taking a swing of his water bottle. He closes the top with this arrogant look in his eyes, almost like all of the rumors and reprimanding and cruel words has hardened his once soft, reachable personality from just only a month ago to something tough and irreplaceable — plaster.
Taemin’s eyes raise to the large, square window behind me, peeking out at the buildings surrounding mine. It’s quiet in my office, aside from the constant ticking of the cat clock up on my wall (it exists simply to entertain my younger patients). My blueberry-scented air freshener is fought and defeated by the copious amounts of cologne the young man is wearing, and I can nearly smell his strong, minty breath, too.
“Jonghyun said this would be good for me,” Taemin suddenly begins, shifting awkwardly in his seat, bones audibly cracking, crumbling, dissolving. “He says I have to find meaning again.” He rolls the water bottle between the palms of his ghostly hands. “And my dignity, too.”
I nod, slipping my clipboard onto my lap, and I write a very brief scribble about how he’s dead, probably too deep in this purgatory to reach. He sits there patiently and I can feel him watching intently as I jot this down, the constant ticking of my clock filling the silence.
“Are you tired of being Taemin?” I finally ask, glancing up at him. “Is Taemin too much for you?”
Taemin seems put off by this question; he stares into my eyes, widening his own, and his bottom lip parts from the top, flashing some teeth. There’s a soft, slight quiver of a noise in his throat before he replies, eventually, “Excuse me?”
I pause to shift in my seat, running a brief hand through my hair to make sure it’s properly smoothed back. I let the clock tick four more times, and then look him back in the pale, translucent face. “Do you think you’re trying to get rid of yourself, Taemin? Is it too stressful being you — especially with all this media coverage? With all this attention almost always on you?”
Taemin lowers his gaze, long, spider-y fingers dancing on the top of his water bottle. I notice, from the bottom of my eye, that his fingernails are blue-ish, hinting on gray, somewhat. It’s stupid, but I fear that maybe he can’t reply so well because he’s half of what he’s used to be, almost teetering off the edge of a heart attack, frequent hospital visits, and, maybe even death. I make a very discreet examination of his legs — they’re like branches clad in dark wash denim, and it’s scary, really, because I wonder how he’s able to carry himself around, let alone dance on stage with his other band members.
“Are you feeling pressured, Taemin? Is there something you’re trying to prove to your fame? Your management?”
Taemin almost scoffs at that, very arrogant-like, and I realize that this whole transformation really has changed him. Shaking his head very slightly, he licks his dry lips and says, “You don’t understand, do you?” His dark eyes raise to mine, and its feral, just about, all wild and glowing and protecting something so desperately that it makes me a bit frightened. “You’ll never understand unless you’re trapped in this business, trapped in this endless cycle of — of torture, really.”
“Then explain to me. Tell me what it’s like to be you, Taemin.”
He scoffs again, running a hand through his wavy, auburn hair and then instantly looks at his fingers and picks a few dead strands from it, letting it float to the navy blue rug beneath us. He leans farther back in his chair and folds his hands on the right armrest, crossing his branch legs. “There’s this specific look, Mrs. Gwok. It gets more and more specific, and it keeps nagging at you, it keeps telling you you have to stay relevant, you have to stay relevant, because there’s new groups all the time. And they’re out to steal your stage, to steal your spotlight.”
Taemin licks his lips again, looking over my shoulder and out the window again in thought. And then he shrugs curtly, a wry smile twisting on his sunken face. “I’m not trying to be someone else. I want to be Taemin. I am Taemin. I just need to be a better one.”
“A better what?”
“A better me.” The wry smile seems to turn bittersweet, his eyes flickering downwards before returning to staring out the window. “That’s what this fame is all about. You have to be better. You can’t fade, or else you lose it all. I can’t fade, Mrs. Gwok.”
He suddenly looks at me, and it’s almost like the plaster instantly melted and chipped off; his dark, surgically-enhanced eyes turn glassy, wet, needy and desperate. His parted lips start to quiver, and some color actually rushes to his cheeks, albeit it isn’t much.
And then, much softer and longing than before, he repeats, “I can’t fade, Mrs. Gwok.”
I watch him as he watches me. He’s looking at me so intensely now, as if I can swing my hand and make him better. As if I can just scribble on my clipboard and he’ll be the Taemin he wants to be, aside from the plastic surgery and the days without food and the photos spiraling of his vomiting habit and the rumors of his curious sexuality and the late nights spent trying to sing with a scratchy throat and trying to dance with deteriorating muscles. He’s looking at me like my title and degree has given me all the answers.
I lower my head, shake it side to side, and tap the tip of my pen on the practically blank sheet of paper. “You’ve already faded, Taemin.”
His expression breaks.
“The moment you thought you had something to fix, you already died.”
His skin is translucent — invisible, almost — and I can see all his pulsing veins, desperate to find a new home that provides it with nourishment, and, I know if I look hard enough, I can see his burdens, too. But I don’t; I cross my legs and watch as he lowers himself into the armchair across from me, smacking his lips once he finished taking a swing of his water bottle. He closes the top with this arrogant look in his eyes, almost like all of the rumors and reprimanding and cruel words has hardened his once soft, reachable personality from just only a month ago to something tough and irreplaceable — plaster.
Taemin’s eyes raise to the large, square window behind me, peeking out at the buildings surrounding mine. It’s quiet in my office, aside from the constant ticking of the cat clock up on my wall (it exists simply to entertain my younger patients). My blueberry-scented air freshener is fought and defeated by the copious amounts of cologne the young man is wearing, and I can nearly smell his strong, minty breath, too.
“Jonghyun said this would be good for me,” Taemin suddenly begins, shifting awkwardly in his seat, bones audibly cracking, crumbling, dissolving. “He says I have to find meaning again.” He rolls the water bottle between the palms of his ghostly hands. “And my dignity, too.”
I nod, slipping my clipboard onto my lap, and I write a very brief scribble about how he’s dead, probably too deep in this purgatory to reach. He sits there patiently and I can feel him watching intently as I jot this down, the constant ticking of my clock filling the silence.
“Are you tired of being Taemin?” I finally ask, glancing up at him. “Is Taemin too much for you?”
Taemin seems put off by this question; he stares into my eyes, widening his own, and his bottom lip parts from the top, flashing some teeth. There’s a soft, slight quiver of a noise in his throat before he replies, eventually, “Excuse me?”
I pause to shift in my seat, running a brief hand through my hair to make sure it’s properly smoothed back. I let the clock tick four more times, and then look him back in the pale, translucent face. “Do you think you’re trying to get rid of yourself, Taemin? Is it too stressful being you — especially with all this media coverage? With all this attention almost always on you?”
Taemin lowers his gaze, long, spider-y fingers dancing on the top of his water bottle. I notice, from the bottom of my eye, that his fingernails are blue-ish, hinting on gray, somewhat. It’s stupid, but I fear that maybe he can’t reply so well because he’s half of what he’s used to be, almost teetering off the edge of a heart attack, frequent hospital visits, and, maybe even death. I make a very discreet examination of his legs — they’re like branches clad in dark wash denim, and it’s scary, really, because I wonder how he’s able to carry himself around, let alone dance on stage with his other band members.
“Are you feeling pressured, Taemin? Is there something you’re trying to prove to your fame? Your management?”
Taemin almost scoffs at that, very arrogant-like, and I realize that this whole transformation really has changed him. Shaking his head very slightly, he licks his dry lips and says, “You don’t understand, do you?” His dark eyes raise to mine, and its feral, just about, all wild and glowing and protecting something so desperately that it makes me a bit frightened. “You’ll never understand unless you’re trapped in this business, trapped in this endless cycle of — of torture, really.”
“Then explain to me. Tell me what it’s like to be you, Taemin.”
He scoffs again, running a hand through his wavy, auburn hair and then instantly looks at his fingers and picks a few dead strands from it, letting it float to the navy blue rug beneath us. He leans farther back in his chair and folds his hands on the right armrest, crossing his branch legs. “There’s this specific look, Mrs. Gwok. It gets more and more specific, and it keeps nagging at you, it keeps telling you you have to stay relevant, you have to stay relevant, because there’s new groups all the time. And they’re out to steal your stage, to steal your spotlight.”
Taemin licks his lips again, looking over my shoulder and out the window again in thought. And then he shrugs curtly, a wry smile twisting on his sunken face. “I’m not trying to be someone else. I want to be Taemin. I am Taemin. I just need to be a better one.”
“A better what?”
“A better me.” The wry smile seems to turn bittersweet, his eyes flickering downwards before returning to staring out the window. “That’s what this fame is all about. You have to be better. You can’t fade, or else you lose it all. I can’t fade, Mrs. Gwok.”
He suddenly looks at me, and it’s almost like the plaster instantly melted and chipped off; his dark, surgically-enhanced eyes turn glassy, wet, needy and desperate. His parted lips start to quiver, and some color actually rushes to his cheeks, albeit it isn’t much.
And then, much softer and longing than before, he repeats, “I can’t fade, Mrs. Gwok.”
I watch him as he watches me. He’s looking at me so intensely now, as if I can swing my hand and make him better. As if I can just scribble on my clipboard and he’ll be the Taemin he wants to be, aside from the plastic surgery and the days without food and the photos spiraling of his vomiting habit and the rumors of his curious sexuality and the late nights spent trying to sing with a scratchy throat and trying to dance with deteriorating muscles. He’s looking at me like my title and degree has given me all the answers.
I lower my head, shake it side to side, and tap the tip of my pen on the practically blank sheet of paper. “You’ve already faded, Taemin.”
His expression breaks.
“The moment you thought you had something to fix, you already died.”