consequences of a tongue slip (act i)

[ppaprika]

yunho/jaejoong, changmin/yoochun
hard R; 1,180 w
suspense, mystery, romance
warning: incest, graphic violence

summary: He talks too much' was the single clue his tormentor has left Yunho after he has been forcefully caged in a makeshift prison for fifteen years of his life only to be released on the rooftop of a building; now he will hunt down the man who has destroyed him, track down each and every person involved in his abduction alongside a mysterious, young chef, whose face Yunho finds too familiar.

The Consequences of a Tongue Slip. ACT I If they had told me it was going to be fifteen years, could it have been easier to endure? Four walls, a television, a bed, a toilet and a steel door and a plateful of dumpling. A makeshift prison. It looks like an ordinary room, one that looks homey and warm but it's far from it. He shudders through the pain as he carves the inked end of a spring—one that used to bind together a notebook—onto his own skin. I’ll be out. I’ll be out. He chants to himself, watching the small, vertical lines multiply on the back of his palm. One, two, three, he counts. Three years. Neither had he seen the sun rise or set nor had he felt rain or snow on his skin for three whole years. The only thing that reminds him that this isn’t a dream is the pain he inflicts upon himself: punching walls, smashing glass with his bare fist, and inking himself with the spring. Sometimes he hallucinates of ants crawling from underneath his skin, and he wonders if this were a sign of him going crazy. He likes keeping close to the television. The television is his clock, his calendar. And the television is now telling him how a woman had been brutally killed in her own home with her missing husband being the primary suspect. He cocks his head to the side, thinking how much that woman resembles his wife. Seconds after, smoke is entering his prison again; as the music sounds, the smoke puts him to sleep. When he finally wakes up, he’s been properly bandaged, with his hair neatly cut (he doesn’t even like the style) and his clothes changed. Yet, he wishes they’d just kill him. Why did they take him? Why is he here? Four, five, six. Six years have passed. He bites at his lip, twisting his wrist for a better angle as he juts down the names of people he’s done wrong in his life. Twenty, thirty, fifty, then a hundred multiplies to a thousand. He had once thought he was living an average life, but he never realized how much he’s sinned. Yoo Heungsam. Lee Sooyoung. Kang Changseuk. Who among them has he angered so much? Who among them would’ve locked him up? Whoever it is, he’s going to rip him apart and no one’s going to find his body. Because he’ll chew it all down. Seven, eight, nine. Nine years and he’s dug a hole in the wall using a spare chopstick. The hole’s big enough to fit a fist and he’s getting close. Getting close to his freedom. He punches the wall forty times a day, and blood splatters onto the wall, onto his face and onto the floor but he doesn’t care. His muscles flex and grow throughout months and years. He’s going to use all this training to destroy the man who has now stolen nine years of his life. He hears the music again and pushes the bed towards the small hole. He wants to dream of green grass and bright sunrays but instead, he dreams of a faceless man. Ten, eleven, twelve. He chews a piece of dumpling from the meal they’ve given him. He’s been eating them for twelve years now. Twelve years. The chopstick has shortened; the hole has gotten bigger, big enough to fit his head and one arm. His body is firmer than before but he feels subtle folds forming on his forehead. Wrinkles. He’s thirty-seven now and still locked up inside this dreadful prison. I’ll be out. I’ll be out He chants again as his fingertips touch the wall parallel to the one hole he has dug, the last wall separating him from the outside world. One more wall and he’ll be out, he just knows that behind the final wall is the sunlight and the green grass. One or two more years and he’ll be out. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. There’s fifteen lines of the back on his palms now. He feels rainwater on his palm and he cries. He’s finally dug a small hole in the other wall, his chopstick now only half the length of his longest finger and only one hand fits through the hole. It was raining when they had taken him. He remembers buying his son a pair of fake wings for Halloween. He remembers how cops had dragged him to the station because he’s too drunk to walk, his friend—what was his name? Junho? Juwhan? Ah, it was Junsu—had picked him up and led him to a phone booth. Oh yes, the phone booth, and he had scooted away a little, hugging the wings to his chest as Junsu told his family that he’s fine and he’s on his way home. He hears the music again so he retracts his hand from the hole, pushing his bed to cover his plan. Flopping down the bed, feeling the springs underneath the cheap covers and falling asleep with a smile, he continues chanting I’ll be out, I’ll be out. He doesn’t care if he’s on the fifty-second floor. He’s going out even if he dies doing it. Jung Yunho is going out of this hell. -- The bed dips a little, and in Yunho’s hazy state, he makes out the face of a woman. She is mumbling words he cannot understand but his body is responding to her little instructions subconsciously. “Right now, you’re lying on a plain.” Yunho blinks the blurriness from his eyes. Grass and more grass carpeting the ground where his bed is supposed to be. He blinks again and the woman has disappeared but her words linger, “when the bell rings, you will turn your head and look down” He hears the bell from a distance, “The sun is shining bright and there’s a cool breeze” Yunho’s breathing falters, are they going to kill him now? He can’t breathe, can’t, can’t, can’t. He’s suffocating; he doesn’t know why because he is seeing the grass , the trees and the sun. And his eyes snap open. There’s only darkness. He gasps loudly, feeling the burn in his lungs as they constrict for air. But there’s only darkness. Where’s his bed? His T.V.? Where’s his prison? It’s so dark and narrow, and it’s so difficult to move. He kicks and kicks and light breaks in. Brightness permeates his eyelids but he keeps them tightly shut, coughing and wheezing until he can feel air filling in his lungs again. That’s a suitcase where he had broken free from. There’re clothes and shoes inside, enough to last him a few days without laundry. He squints his eyes, his sight still unstable and he’s a little dizzy. Yunho runs a hand through his messy locks and twists his head left and right to relieve the knotted muscles. He parts his lips, breathing the breeze through his mouth. He’s on top of a building, he figures when he sees skyscrapers at eye level. He’s been set free…but Yunho doesn’t feel joyous a single bit.