Work Text:
There’s an empty hospital bed in the eight room of the ninth floor of a small little building complex. It’s clean and unwrinkled, the sheets neatly panning the expanse of the mattress and the pillow always luxuriously fluffy. The walls of the room are tall and lonely, void of any decorations and are a haunting white. They’re spotlessly clean, shining and dazzling and unsettlingly disturbing to look at. The floors are tiled and clean, shimmering brilliantly in the sunlight leaking through equally neat white curtains, translucent during the day but bone-chilling at night.
It's probably the most well-kept room in the world. There’s an IV drip next to the bed, standing tall. It isn’t connected to anything, though. It stands there, lonely. No one is allowed inside the room.
Only one man ever enters. He’s tall and built, he stands strong with a sword by his side; once upon a time, people called him The Supreme King for his strength and fierce persona in battle. Nowadays, people hardly spoke of him at all. It was all pitying glances and tightly clenched fists as he walked past, shell of whom he once was. His eyes which had burned were dull and always painted red at the corners. His eyebrows, which had always been smoothly arched downwards now lay lax, tilting towards the sky as if admitting defeat. His lips had not changed, his frown still painted across his visage the telling mark of his trials and hardships over the years of the apocalypse.
What hurt the most, probably, were the wrinkles on his forehead and the wrinkles around his eyes- the ones that increased the size of his frown, hurt too.
He entered the room to clean it. He re-made the bed, which was never wrinkled. He did it anyway. He mopped the floors, which were never dirty. He did it anyway. He changes the bag in the IV drip, which is never used. He does it anyway. Sometimes, he leaves a warm tray of food on the bed with a single, red, ripe tomato on it. The food is never eaten- he does it anyway.
When he thinks no one can see, he gently kisses the pillow, creasing it ever so slightly. There are no lips to return his affection, which is vulnerable, raw, clumsy and scared.
He does it anyway.
Sometimes, outside of the door, three little children stare blankly at the bed. A little boy, with tear-stained cheeks and eyes void of life, buries himself deep into a coat which is far too large for his little body. It’s white and old, worn all over and dirty in some places. He doesn’t wash it.
A little girl with short brown hair clutches a phone to her chest, nails bitten and chewed as they hold onto the old thing like a lifeline. It doesn’t open anymore, and it’s cracked practically everywhere. She’d kill anyone who touched it.
A little girl with long black pigtails stands just behind the two others. She holds a small plushie- it’s a squid, pure white and is somewhat ugly. In one of its tentacles it holds a sword. She carries it everywhere.
When they think no one’s looking, they cry. They wail- because they are young, because they are children, and because they have lost something- and they cry. The boy crouches to the floor, drowning in the white coat he wears. He cries out hyung, hoping- waiting for a reply.
The brown-haired girl hunches over, just a little, and cries into the phone which is pressed tightly to her face. She leans into the screen like she is leaning into what was once a warm hand.
The pigtailed girl simply holds the squid to her chest, staring at the empty bed in the hospital room as she cries. She doesn’t make a sound outside of the occasional sniffling, but she curses. In her head, she curses over and over again. She curses someone who will never come back.
Sometimes, there’s a teenager in front of the door. Most of the time, she’s telling the empty room a progress report. How she’s doing in her studies, what she’s been eating, her new favourite clothes or new moves she wants to learn with her sword. Her smile never reaches her eyes, even as she calls out to her ugly ahjussi. Other times, she’s banging the door, screaming, begging for an answer. For a reply. For anything. She threatens and pounds the door harder- never hard enough to break it, but hard enough for everyone on the ninth floor to know that she’s the one visiting.
Sometimes, she apologizes for calling him ugly. He hasn’t forgiven her.
Once in a while, a beautiful woman with brown hair stands before the room. She talks about his mother, and how she’s doing. Sometimes she cracks jokes about a garter belt, other times she cracks jokes at the expense of a man- their old superior at work.
Sometimes, she sits with a computer in front of the door. She cries as she studies, attempting to explain Korean history to the empty bed. Sometimes, she instead cries about how she studies because he’d praised her for her knowledge, once. She says it makes her feel closer to him.
There are times when a man and a woman, hand in hand, stand before the room. The man always wears his shield when he stands before the room, the woman, her sword. They talk about their relationship- their plans for the future. Marriage, this time. They want twins, later on. They want a son after that. They have an inkling on what to name him- but they’re not quite sure yet.
Sometimes, the woman cries. She cries and yells, angry that he won’t attend their wedding. Betrayed that he won’t see the birth of their child. She calls him a traitor, curses him for saving her just to hurt her. She always apologizes, saying that she doesn’t actually hate him- she says she could never hate her brother. Her lover cries too, but he only ever holds the woman in his arms as he thanks the empty room for giving them peace and the chance to love.
Rarely, an older woman stands before the room. She is worn with age, and she is a mother. She never says much. Simple I love yous, and sometimes even small little updates on her life.
Sometimes, she cries as she holds a children’s book to her heart. She apologizes over and over again for her failures. She promises to make it up to him once he’s willing to see her again. She says she’ll keep bringing his favourite children’s book until that day comes.
The pages are a little worn.
The second most frequent visitor is a woman. Short black hair and feline eyes, she always makes insulting jokes at the room. She reads books to the empty bed. Books of all genres. Fantasy, Sci-Fi, Thrillers- and sometimes, Romances. She always makes teasing remarks when reading a Romance, comparing him to the female lead at any opportunity.
Other times, she’s crying as she talks about a story she’s writing. She says the story is about a man- a broken, lonely and pitiful man. A man who doesn’t believe he is worthy of being loved, but who loves more than anyone else. It’s about a man who lies with a big smile- like a rat bastard, she says. It’s about a man who is surrounded by people who love him, and he openly chooses to ignore that little fact. She cries as she explains she isn’t sure about the ending of her story.
She says that when he comes back, she’ll finish it.
The ending isn’t written yet.