He Will B.O.Y.
✖✖✖
Damir remembered it being his fourth year as an instructor at NYU that he met Kim. The boy was just a freshman then, painfully gifted like the other hundreds of students he had the privilege of teaching.
Here was the truth: he wasn’t anything special. Kim was painfully gifted, and painfully normal, and he wore sweatshirts every day of the week, and he never bothered to put a brush to his hair, and his freckled face was pale and dry, and he liked to smoke after lectures; he didn’t stand out. Never did, never would.
Yet Damir found himself just the littlest bit intrigued. Maybe it began when Kim was ten minutes late to morning lessons on the third day of the fall semester. Or it was most probably when he began to come in almost an hour into lessons on week three, his sunken cheeks swollen like sacs and eyes a terrible blood red. All he’d say was, “Sorry,” and then his scrawny legs stumbled to find himself a place in the tightest crook of the class, unseen and unheard.
“Start coming to class on time,” Damir would tell him in his best stern tone, and Kim would blink, nod, and soon after disobey. Most days he stopped coming at all. His grades dropped to shit levels. His instructors grew increasingly concerned.
Then Kim was in danger of being removed from NYU. See — he never showed the passion the other students did for any of his classes. He slept in Calculus 2, was caught passed out on the desk in Ortho Chemistry, and could barely keep his head up in Damir’s class. He was fantastically pitiful in everything he lacked passion in, and the only thing he could ever accomplish was barely passing, smoking, and stinking of barf.
Second semester he’d been given the nickname Bootleg. Damir doesn’t understand where it came from, nor did he really care; his main concern was keeping Kim afloat. He ignored the puke smell, the lack of passion, the messy hair and passing out and obsidian eyes full of death. He just wanted to see Kim succeed. And this urge only intensified every moment he saw him cast off, always by himself, always seconds from crumbling to the city’s sidewalk and never waking back up.
✖
The affection came later. Fall semester, sophomore year Damir was keeping himself involved in Kim’s studies and his overall wellness. The boundaries were being pushed with every minute he spent with him outside of instructional time, but he felt this was what Kim needed; someone to make sure his sanity wasn’t completely lost.
Kim never seemed to mind. He’d grown numb to changes long before they met, and whatever Damir wanted Kim gave.
“Don’t push yourself too hard.”
+
"Right."
Kim couldn’t get any worse than he already was. He’d hit rock bottom long before they met.
✖
One day Kim just told him everything. Everything that came to his mind he said, and he babbled hours upon hours on his leather couch — about the bullshit, about the negligence, about how he was haunted, about how nothing ever stayed down long enough to digest, about how pills were taken and chicken bones were swallowed and thrown back up and how he could always see death in his future but never close enough.
About how he didn’t know why he was here.
About how he didn’t know why he was loved.
About how he didn’t know about anything
anymore.
And Damir told him he mattered, and he held his face in his hands, and he kissed him, and he told him he loved (?) him,
and Kim told him,
“Stop lying.”
And that day was never re-lived.
✖
It was ironic. Kim told Damir one day, a week before his sophomore spring break, “I know how I’ll die.”
When Damir asked, “And how will you die, Kim?” with venom and eyes iced over, Kim shrugged, flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette, and said, “My stomach will rupture.”
It was ironic. The only thing — literally the only fucking thing — Kim was absolutely certain of, never happened. He didn’t die from the starving, from the purging, from the gorging, or from a ruptured stomach. He didn’t die from too many pills, or a knife to his gut.
Kim had already been dead before he died. His physical life was taken from a truck driving a few too many miles over the speed limit,
and Kim had happened to step out into its way.
Damir didn’t cry at the news, like he thought he would’ve. Instead it was a hollow ache, a month of sleepless nights, a few days without food — and then relief.
He didn’t have to taste puke in his mouth anymore.
Neither did Kim Won Jung.
✖✖✖
Here was the truth: he wasn’t anything special. Kim was painfully gifted, and painfully normal, and he wore sweatshirts every day of the week, and he never bothered to put a brush to his hair, and his freckled face was pale and dry, and he liked to smoke after lectures; he didn’t stand out. Never did, never would.
Yet Damir found himself just the littlest bit intrigued. Maybe it began when Kim was ten minutes late to morning lessons on the third day of the fall semester. Or it was most probably when he began to come in almost an hour into lessons on week three, his sunken cheeks swollen like sacs and eyes a terrible blood red. All he’d say was, “Sorry,” and then his scrawny legs stumbled to find himself a place in the tightest crook of the class, unseen and unheard.
“Start coming to class on time,” Damir would tell him in his best stern tone, and Kim would blink, nod, and soon after disobey. Most days he stopped coming at all. His grades dropped to shit levels. His instructors grew increasingly concerned.
Then Kim was in danger of being removed from NYU. See — he never showed the passion the other students did for any of his classes. He slept in Calculus 2, was caught passed out on the desk in Ortho Chemistry, and could barely keep his head up in Damir’s class. He was fantastically pitiful in everything he lacked passion in, and the only thing he could ever accomplish was barely passing, smoking, and stinking of barf.
Second semester he’d been given the nickname Bootleg. Damir doesn’t understand where it came from, nor did he really care; his main concern was keeping Kim afloat. He ignored the puke smell, the lack of passion, the messy hair and passing out and obsidian eyes full of death. He just wanted to see Kim succeed. And this urge only intensified every moment he saw him cast off, always by himself, always seconds from crumbling to the city’s sidewalk and never waking back up.
✖
The affection came later. Fall semester, sophomore year Damir was keeping himself involved in Kim’s studies and his overall wellness. The boundaries were being pushed with every minute he spent with him outside of instructional time, but he felt this was what Kim needed; someone to make sure his sanity wasn’t completely lost.
Kim never seemed to mind. He’d grown numb to changes long before they met, and whatever Damir wanted Kim gave.
“Don’t push yourself too hard.”
+
"Right."
Kim couldn’t get any worse than he already was. He’d hit rock bottom long before they met.
✖
One day Kim just told him everything. Everything that came to his mind he said, and he babbled hours upon hours on his leather couch — about the bullshit, about the negligence, about how he was haunted, about how nothing ever stayed down long enough to digest, about how pills were taken and chicken bones were swallowed and thrown back up and how he could always see death in his future but never close enough.
About how he didn’t know why he was here.
About how he didn’t know why he was loved.
About how he didn’t know about anything
anymore.
And Damir told him he mattered, and he held his face in his hands, and he kissed him, and he told him he loved (?) him,
and Kim told him,
“Stop lying.”
And that day was never re-lived.
✖
It was ironic. Kim told Damir one day, a week before his sophomore spring break, “I know how I’ll die.”
When Damir asked, “And how will you die, Kim?” with venom and eyes iced over, Kim shrugged, flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette, and said, “My stomach will rupture.”
It was ironic. The only thing — literally the only fucking thing — Kim was absolutely certain of, never happened. He didn’t die from the starving, from the purging, from the gorging, or from a ruptured stomach. He didn’t die from too many pills, or a knife to his gut.
Kim had already been dead before he died. His physical life was taken from a truck driving a few too many miles over the speed limit,
and Kim had happened to step out into its way.
Damir didn’t cry at the news, like he thought he would’ve. Instead it was a hollow ache, a month of sleepless nights, a few days without food — and then relief.
He didn’t have to taste puke in his mouth anymore.
Neither did Kim Won Jung.
✖✖✖
♠ ♠ ♠
and done. wrote this super fast when i was sad. why do i always only write when im sad?