#pa.necronomicon

[paranoiakrp]

      CITIZEN FILE RETRIEVED: RYU KIHWAN…

STATS

name / ryu kihwan d.o.b. / november 13th, 1994 age / 24  pronouns / he/him job / : raven’s desk - photographer societies / necronomicon groups / : n/a

WHATS YOUR WEIRD?

kihwan’s always hidden himself in flights of fantasy.

it’s easy to do in a town as boring as junae. it’s even easier to do in a town as cryptic as junae — in towns where whispers of ghosts and the howling of wolves ran loud and clear on the wind, even if outright acknowledging such was deemed, quite frankly, stupid. though he was never a reader, kihwan was the epitome of a dreamer for better or worse.

the old, decrepit house at the end of the street wasn’t a house to kihwan; rather, he fancied it as a front for a secret society, sharing drinks and laughs and blood in a silver goblet passed from hand to hand. circles of mushrooms in the woods became bridges to other realms in his mind. by the time he was older, of course, he kept all of this to himself. he could only take so much laughter from his peers, so many silent sighs from the adults around him, and when he got even older he stopped believing, himself.

suffice to say, a small part of kihwan was incredibly revitalized when he found a part of a book, deep in the library. he was only there to pass the time; he didn’t want to go home quite yet, but he didn’t want to stay at his job either. he expected to possibly run into a friend, cracking into a dusty, thick book that seemed impossible to ignore. instead of finding some magical tale in the tome like he expected from the title — who calls a book something like the necronomicon, anyway? — he found pages upon pages on rituals. specifically, rituals to summon demons, objects, who knows what else — things like that, along with the counterpart skills of banishing. kihwan tried to dismiss it at first, of course. who wanted a ghost running amok, especially at the cost of cremation ashes, or blood, or teeth, or tears or flame? still, he could hardly ignore the call for very long, reading and reading for the first time since high school, etching his notes in the margins, ignoring the protests he could still hear from his teachers about putting ink to such a book.

one new moon, he found himself hidden in the woods. far from civilization, far from the town, far from the safety of his home. he etched the runes he was told, drew his circle of blood; the scar from a shaking hand raking a knife against the flesh of his palm was still there. once all was said and done, he spoke his words of power aloud. the creature he was trying to summon was nothing too out of the ordinary, only a feather to see if it would work, something not out of place but not dangerous either, something he wouldn’t be able to mistake if it appeared. 

suffice to say, he got his answer, and a hunger for more knowledge along with it.

if you were to ask him where he went that night, kihwan would just give you a devilish smile and put his hands back in his stupid leather pockets, a hastily scrawled message to the other side pressing into his palm, burning him with the reminder of his plans. “oh,” he’d say to you, nonchalant as he could be. “just a little visit to the wild side.”

WHATS YOUR STORY?

chilly november, 1994: kihwan is born, an extraordinary event for quite the uneventful family. his father, dongwook, was a lawyer. his mother, miyoung, a florist. the two had been trying for a long time, so when kihwan’s cries rung throughout the night sky, neither of them could hold back their tears from joy. he was almost a spoiled child, the only one they had. despite the dreary town, they gave him all the love in the world, sheltered him from all the dangers they could. no going out past sundown, especially not alone, and kihwan had learned that he better savor the time he had to play with the others while it was there.

schooling for kihwan was a little difficult, especially at first. it was incredibly difficult, near impossible, for the young boy to sit down and focus on his work, talking animatedly to the children around him or doodling under his multiplication tables instead. he made his friends and held the bestest games of pretend on the playground — if you asked him, at least. he was loyal, standing up for his closer pals quite a bit, especially as everybody got older and more cruel.

they teased kihwan quite a bit as well. who the hell still believed in dragons during middle school? kihwan pouted, gave them their just desserts, though towards the end of puberty he withdrew quite a bit. he spoke only to those he trusted, keeping his headphones in during the commute to high school and lunch, and any classes where he was actually allowed. even though he had matured, and no longer believed in those stupid fairytales, he didn’t want to give anybody the chance.

when he graduated, his grades were so so; not great but not awful. his father was upset, but he understood, and his mother helped him find jobs around the town. they both wanted the best for him, but kihwan was certain college would only hurt him in the long run. reluctantly, his father agreed, and soon after he found a job as a waiter and built his savings. within a year, he had found a real job — working at a music shop, dull but the discounts were incredible, the tell tale heart radio station playing quietly through the speakers, especially in the later hours once business was slow.

the monotony of kihwan’s life continued thus for a few years. work, work, going out drinking or hanging out with friends on occasion, work, work, visit his family…not much changed until around four months ago, a quiet visit to the library — unassuming, but lifechanging.

a discovery of a book, the necronomicon, and later a group of friends. kihwan’s always been a romantic when it comes to life, it’s true, though part of him feels like even if he wasn’t he’d still call it fate. none of them had spoken outright about the mysterious book; the idea of telling someone you were out in the woods collecting bones like a lunatic, summoning imps, cursing your enemies was laughable, and yet despite their enormous differences in walks of life they still grew close, and closer still, woven together with the common red thread of secrecy and knowledge.

[paranoiakrp]

       CITIZEN FILE RETRIEVED: CHOI RION ...

STATS

name / choi rion d.o.b. / 09.01.96 age / 23 pronouns / he/him job / florist societies / necronomicon groups / n/a

WHATS YOUR WEIRD?

if anyone were to ask rion’s parents, they’d say he’s the perfect son. he’s dependable (read: obedient), agrees with all of their decisions (read: a spineless pushover), doesn’t get into trouble (read: boring, also see: friendless). 

as a kid, he was curious and imaginative. he didn’t understand the definition of boundaries, fed to the brim with love and support from his parents who wanted the world ofr him. and so he learned to take it, spoke his mind and questioned everything. 

but as he grew older, time and betrayal made him reserved, taught him to take his words and swallow them, choking on them on their way down. he goes through his teenage years in a haze, punctured with moments of pain, of fury that burned so wildly before being quickly extinguished. 

it’s with the discovery of something new, of the necronomicon, that he changes. with fury as his driving force, he focuses on learning. using circles of blood and ash, rion creates his own punishment, his own revenge, in the form of hexes and jinxs, of bad luck at the long list of targets he keeps in his pocket. the payment is worth it, knows that everything he dishes out always come back to him in the same form but double, and more intense. he learns hard the first time, starts simple intending to trip a lesser victim on his sheet, and finds himself losing his footing on the steps the next day and breaking his ankle as a result. he almost chalks the first time up to coincidence, but he quickly learns there’s nothing like that now in his world.

he knows next to nothing, knows he has a long way to go but he’s prepared to pay in blood and bone to get every name crossed on that list, inflicting more pain the higher he climbs. 

WHATS YOUR STORY?

i. the choi house sits on the outskirts of town, it’s a delicate house with it’s white paint and bright blue shutters. the town talks about it looks like something out of a painting with wind chimes on the front porch, the ivy crawling up the lattice and spreading out to the side of the house, and the giant greenhouse bursting at the brim with flowers year round. 

the choi family itself has been around junae for a very long time, could trace it’s roots back generations, all living and thriving in junae. and in public, all of the members of the family are nice and polite, seemingly the image of the perfect family. 

but inside, well that’s a different story. 

ii. his early memories are filled with nothing but love. from warm hands carding through his hair as he naps on the floors in the summer heat to playing hide and seek with his father in the green house, his giggles filling the air. there’s was a house filled with love and affection and rion felt like he was invincible. 

iii. but things sometimes change slowly, infecting those affected, poisoning them with fear and worries until they begin to turn sour. and just like that it begins to spread. 

as the years passed and rion grew in height and age, the family business began to slow down, until it was left at nothing but a crawl. the passing of his grandparents meant the family obligations fell onto the shoulder of his parents, his father especially. gone were the cheery mornings and warm filled evenings, instead an air of irritation fell over the house like a fog, turning his father from loving man into a monster. 

and the picturesque house on the outskirts of the town with its perfect shutters and beautiful greenhouse, grew into a nightmare. the sound of unintentionally heavy footsteps, of doors shut a bit too hard, of curfews broken by a matter of seconds, of questions and the sound of voices, ended in a collage of blues and purples carefully hidden beneath the fabric of t-shirts and school uniforms. 

a tide of fear and betrayal cascaded over rion, swallowing him whole and leaving him gasping for air, slowly drowning. 

iv. like the warming of the spring sun on winter frozen flowers, the family business slowly picked back up. the fog lifted over the house but the battles never ended, the water at the back of his throat never stopped, leaving him gasping for breath. 

school was as much of a warzone as his homelife. his father’s anger had left him more with just bruises and split lips, it had caused rifts in his personal life. his friends, the same ones he’s had for as long as he can remember, now steadily avoided his eyes after a slew of harshly rejected invitations with a vice grip on the back of his neck. they took a hint he never intended to give and no matter how many times he apologized, the damage was done. 

but he couldn’t blame them, hoped eventually they would forgive him, they just needed sometime. but rion was so naive. he thought school was safe, a place where he’d have a chance to finally breathe. but he was wrong, oh so wrong. he thought he was invisible, untouchable, ignored by most of his classmates and teachers. but he soon learned that the pain of anger and heavy hands was so different than the pain inflicted by strangers. 

it must have been something that he did. maybe said something mean, looked at someone the wrong way, cut off someone in the hallway, ate the wrong lunch. but they never told him, no matter how many times he asked (no matter how many times he begged). instead they tormented him everyway possible, pinches hard enough to bruise, freezing water so cold that it drenched him from head to toe leaving him shivering in a puddle of ice cubes, and the list goes on. 

v. he grows older, he learns that nothing ever changes. no matter how hard he works out, how many videos he watches or lessons he attends to defend himself, it’s useless against the assault of so many classmates against one. 

he learns that no matter how many times he visits the teachers, they’ll never do anything. you must have done something wrong, they say so many times that rion struggles against believing it. he graduates and expects everything to just right itself, but it never does. 

vi. he grows quieter, angrier, a fuse just waiting to blow. he expects the anger to fade away but it never does. it plants roots in his stomach, grows up through his chest, and waits, bides its time and more importantly it never forgets, anything. 

he takes up shifts at his family’s florist shop, spends evenings pulling roots in the green house, and weekends with his nose buried in a book at the library. he spends as much time as he can away from the house, avoids crossing paths with strangers and familiar faces alike. lost and waiting at the same time. maybe it’s luck, or maybe it’s fate, that on a warm and rainy afternoon, he finds himself buried in the stacks, looking for something new to bury himself in. fingers skimming the worn covers of hardback books, lost in the musky smell of paper and ink, his eyes catch on a book with an interesting cover but as he pulls it out, a part of an unbound book topples to the ground with a resound thud, it’s binding thread loose and tattered.  curious, he doesn’t hesitates, simple hides it in a larger book and takes it home with him. 

vii. he doesn’t know how to explain it, but he knows that it’s a book that brought them all together. drawn in like moths to the flames, each with missing pieces of the puzzle, with a clear desire to put it back together. and suddenly for the first time in a long time, he feels more than anger and less like he’s drowning. instead he feels, curious, alive and found, like some part of him was tucked away in that library just waiting for something to happen. 

and the more they learn, some unknown feeling unfurls in his chest, another flower this with another purpose that he struggles to understand. and the more he does, hands stained in ash and blood, the more he uncovers the truth, finds himself staring into the darkness and coming back with a name for the delicate deadly floral, revenge. 

[paranoiakrp]

         CITIZEN FILE RETRIEVED: DO ROMI ...

STATS

name / do romi d.o.b. / 12.02.91 age / 27 pronouns / she/her job / promotions manager at a theater societies / necronomicon groups / n/a

WHATS YOUR WEIRD?

power comes with a price. that’s what everyone says, right?

power comes with a price, and discovering the worn pages of the necronomicon only proved this to romi. a power in the form of mysticism. a demand for something in return. something born from brutality. what she read spun out stories, teachings of bones and predictions. actions in exchange for remains. 

the problem with bones is that they’re hard to come by.

she had to get a bit creative. exploring the thick woods, combing through overgrown vines on a hunt for old bones. snake’s vertebrae, the cycle of life spun through. but it’s hard. and, eventually, romi realized that human bones produce more power than anything animal. had gone through a socked away collection of her own baby teeth.

and, undoubtedly, others were more powerful than teeth.

it led her to the graveyard late at night. a shovel in hand, an overlarge sweatshirt with the hood pulled high to obfuscate. 

but now she has a thirst for it, that power. she feeds of hatred. something vile that lives in her. resentful and filled with spite. she wants to lash out. and she doesn’t really care if she hurts herself in the process. 

WHATS YOUR STORY?

there’s a way about small towns.

a way to do things. a subdued culture to follow. traditions, and expectations. something ingrained into a bubble of society. because without tradition and an expectation for the similar, what left is there? a monotonous plodding toward the future. a future that is often assumed should be exactly the same as the now.

a backwards sort of thinking as far as romi is concerned. as far as her father was concerned, too. contrary to what might be assumed now, looking at how the town interacts with the do family now, they have lived in the town for quite some time. her grandparents themselves having roots settle into the foundation of the town.

but why let thing settle and stagnate? why not go against the grain? that was the kind of sentiment that floated around her house growing up. her mother always seemed neutral about it, her father’s mindset. not that romi could discern that when she was young. but as she got older, it became apparent. she put up with his whims. 

those whims turned into plans though. and eventually, that neutrality turned into resentment. that came later though, after everything collapsed.

it started when romi was a child. tucked in pretty dresses with ribbons in her hair. scolded when she turned up late with dirt smudges and tangled knots. her father would laugh, and her mother would shake her head when he did. but her reaction was more aghast when, one day, her father told her that he was planning to run for mayor.

preposterous. junae had theirs for as long as anyone could remember. had anyone ever ran against him, even? her mother had said as much.

romi hadn’t really understood the severity of the situation at the time. a situation that likely shouldn’t have been severe in the first place. but it was. he wanted a change, and he ran. 

he was, summarily, rejected. he lost in an obvious landslide. predictable. but the animosity that cam packaged with it was perhaps less so. maybe if he could have forseen that, he wouldn’t have bothered. would’ve kep his head down, kept his dream locked up. spared his family from the domino effect of his decision.

but he hadn’t, and so everything spun out of control.

they became a stain to the town. dark sheep that roamed the outskirts of an insular society. romi didn’t have the capacity to understand why birthday party invites from her classmates no longer extended to her, or why there was a ripple of hushed whispers whenever they went into town together.

but as she grew, it became more apparent. they all learned to cope and adapt in the own ways. her father tried to ignore it. the fact that his reputation was damaged. try to make the most out of his life. but it was hard to make ends meet and contemplate moving when they were being somewhat shunned. her mother grew bitter and resentful. blamed her father for his mistakes and how their lives ended up. despite knowing they couldn’t, she constantly referenced moving. eventually, romi’s father made a permanent relocation to the couch.

romi herself went through a myriad of emotions, phases as she grew.at first, she was shy, during that awkward period that spans childhood through those awkward pre-teen years. it morphed. briefly attention seeking with reckless behavior. and then that classic teenage solution of become as promiscuous as possible. a phase that her mother detested. but it continued on, eventually spanning to a forced disattachment. trying to distance herself from her life, into a space where nothing mattered.

like he mother, she bred resentment. but not toward her father. no, she’d always been closer to him. instead it was for the town itself. the people that lived there. a vendetta formed. something she clutched and held tight to, even when the scandal somewhat lessened. an act not forgiven, but somewhat looked over. not entirely. never entirely. they’re still an outcast family, to some extent. 

not that romi was involved in it, and it gives her some more room than her father might. she got a job. she got an apartment of her own even – if only to distance her somewhat from her immediate history. but it’s still there, all that history. it can’t be escaped while she’s still lodged inside of this snowglobe of a town. and it’s hard to save up enough money to move on a small town movie theater’s managerial budget. it’s hard to tout herself as much of anything when her work experience is lacking, and her degree comes from a small college, one that most would need to look up to declare it’s real. 

so she’s resentful. of them. for the possibilities and what if’s. so it’s made her vicious. hidden rows of teeth behind her smile, hoping to rend and make bleed. perhaps that’s why a piece of the necronomicon made its way into her hands. or perhaps it was all just coincidence. luck.

but she wants to use it to her own advantage. wants to fulfill grudges. wants to make the town in its entirety pay. it shouldn’t exist to continue the path of old traditions. maybe it shouldn’t exist at all. 

maybe she could’ve been more. or maybe it would’ve been the same. a resentful girl filled with anger and loathing. something she hides just out of view. volatile, and looking toward a potential destruction. cruelties hidden behind those plastered on sorts of smiles.darkening slowly, easily turned toward the corrupt. 

a nice enough girl, if only her father hadn’t…well. it’s a shame. she’s pretty, maybe someone will marry her.

and that’s the gossip of the town.

but romi isn’t particularly nice, or pleasant despite the airs she puts on. she tries to tuck it away. but it’s been bleeding out lately. goaded on by a book that brings out the worst in her. she doesn’t mind the rumors. they’ve surrounded her like white noise for her entire life.

[paranoiakrp]

         CITIZEN FILE RETRIEVED: AHN KIHA …

STATS

name / ahn kiha d.o.b. / 11.29.97 age / 22 pronouns / he/him job / bartender societies / necronomicon groups / n/a

WHATS YOUR WEIRD?

tw: self harm.

loneliness makes monsters of us all, and this is no less true for boys wandering through too-silent libraries, searching for spaces to fold selves into; origami with paper-cut blood staining corners carefully creased before being thrown into some pyre burning into the afterlife.

the tome is thick, heavy in his hands. he curls the title around his tongue, slow like bladepoint around teeth. necronomicon.

it tastes half-acidic, burns his mouth. there’s his grandmother’s voice, reminding him of demon-things and the different kinds of hellfire awaiting him.  

grief makes fools of us all, and this is no less true for boys flipping thick covers open, minutes turned to hours turned to days of visits, of stays poring over pages with scripts spiralling.

the first time he draws blood, it is almost too easy. the red slides across wrists and runes look almost beautiful, even with clumsy fingertips.

blood sacrifices are nothing if not greedy. it demands vein, asks for arteries, pleads for the rivulets of self spilled in library back-tables, shaking hands turned steady with the years of practice.

it allows you to be the same – what do you wish for, boy?

at first: the return of parents. they always come back hanging, swinging from rafters and tree branches, howling. begging for necks snapped, for hellfire or purgatory; anything but this half-being he so greedily asks them to relive, again and again.

( keep the screams, the spells in back-pockets for rainy days. he asks them every variation of why and they never answer; string them back out of bitter anger rather than answer at this point )

and now: for grandmother’s tonics to be as magic as she claims, for the company ghosts, for the flame-touch of another in secret, for always-full tip jars, for the fraying edges of his grandmother’s sanity to unravel under his red-stained fingertips –

claim that it is well-deserved, that bloodied runes drawn at dusk are mere shortcuts for endings he was to reach anyways – there are worse ways to be using blood, worse ways to have to explain the scars that mars wrists, forearms, chests.

stare at it too long and it becomes beautiful, becomes him; red worn too well, too worn against skin.

practice it for too long and knifepoints become familiar, becomes a comfort a body shouldn’t know.

magic demands an intimacy that is nothing if not invasive and he is nothing if not bared open for a harvesting.

WHATS YOUR STORY?

tw: implied suicide mention

childhood is smothered in sage and burnt lichen; grandmother’s houses and mobiles made of animal bone and playthings of berries he crushed into bowls but was told never to eat. heels are mud-slicked in the summer, palms red-purple-green stained and trekking water into small houses by mountainsides.

easier memories. they become jagged-toothed when he remembers the bedtime stories grandmothers used to tell him; devils at one’s doors and the smiles they wear when they ask to come in; skin-wearers that prowl the forest at night; witches and their greed for human flesh between their teeth –

( how much of it has become him? )

perhaps concerning, parents consider, how the little boy runs not home at the end of each school day, but chooses instead to trapeze forest paths to reach grandmother’s cabins. knows to wait outside should she be seeing another client; rewarded by the tussle of hair when she bids them farewell and welcomes him in.

perhaps concerning, but there are worse things for boys to be playing with. they laugh at dinners, proclaim that perhaps junae has a new medicine man in the making, at the rate in which he follows his grandmother’s footsteps – it won’t be long before the townspeople make the trek to the edge of junae to see him for the sicknesses that city medicine does little to aid.

it is as much of an ideal as one would get in a town like this.

a luxury, still, to dream of such. junae demands blood and bone for dreams, don’t you know?

it’s a tuesday evening when the normalcy of elementary school / grandmother’s place / home for dinner / fairytales before bed / repeat / repeat / repeat is quickly halted.

he claims to not remember the bodies hanging. no one asks if he does or not.

what he does recall: the hems of his mother’s skirt as he reaches up to tug it, the cold hands of his father, how broken necks angle faces downwards so that he has the perfect view of glassy eyes looking back at him.

( does it last hours or minutes, this staring contest? it might have been twilight or midnight by the time he dials the only number he can remember )

his grandmother calls the police. it’s almost dawn by the time the bodies are removed from the living room.

it takes weeks before the smell begins to dissipate again.

-

little is considered unusual in junae, but whispers are inevitable in a town as small as this. it is the only way it knows how to stay alive.

the case is open-and-close, but still, the whispers are quick to question what has a couple coming into work one day just like any other, only to return home to take their own lives – what has them leaving a son behind, why there was no note, why the front doors were left unlocked and chairs tucked neatly to the side –

kiha pretends he does not hear the words staged or murder when his grandmother picks him up after school now.

make it easier; boy leaving classes earlier and earlier in the day, knocking on his grandmother’s door and receiving nothing but open arms despite the too-soon hour in which he returns.

they follow like ghosts, quietly into adulthood. the whispers simmer, but it still lingers behind backs, in memory; forests housing gravestones murmuring a dissent he doesn’t quite make out the words for.

( so we spill blood for answer, as we always do. the ghosts remain stubbornly silent )

grandmothers still whisper hushed reminders of fairy-stories; the spirits in the mountain that took parents’ breath, the beast in the underground that eats their buried bodies, limb by limb.

careful, dear child. she smells of rosemary and mint, stringing amulets to windows; protective. secrets are always hungry.

he wears long sleeves in the summer, hiding scars, hiding runes until he takes the corners of her vision to see him only as the memory of a purer thing, before all the blood spilled.

my baby boy, i fear only that this town will take you away from me too. listen to your grandmother’s warnings carefully, won’t you?

he’s almost sorry for all he’s yet to do.

[paranoiakrp]

         CITIZEN FILE RETRIEVED: LEE MARISOL ...

STATS

name / lee marisol d.o.b. / 06.21.94 age / 25 pronouns / she/her job / projectionist at a theater societies / necronomicon groups / n/a

WHATS YOUR WEIRD?

finding the necronomicon is like a promise from the cosmos that the world can be better. she’s been a burden, a tempest in a teapot, since the day she was born. there has always been too much inside her to contain, lashing out in fits and starts. emotions that burst electric and crackling from her unbidden, the vacillation of fierce pride and utter self loathing. like a wind chime in a storm she shakes and sings, a furious clang and clatter more discordant often then sonorous. 

the book becomes her conduit. she pours over the pages that teach her ancient runes and long lost symbols, a language relegated to the depths of time. the witches’ alphabet, theban script, the inscriptions of lines and angles and circles that channel that overpowering and overwhelming will of hers into something useful, a focused stream of ability and desire. 

becoming a witch is based in will and want and marisol has been overflowing with desperation and desire for as long as she can remember, and it becomes a promise of something greater on the horizon. her stomach turns the first time she slides a knife over her palm to give of herself for this magic. the charcoal that often etches over the woven length of canvas now graces the wood flooring of her room, inscribing circles and runes, a deft and delicate hand intent not to smudge or obscure the lines lest the incantations run awry, the effects dimming. 

she takes, and takes, spends days in bed or bandaging her hands as she trades of herself for good fortune, for favor, for financial security. she secures for herself the things she thinks she deserves. she delves deep into the arts of summoning, never attempting but always tempted, the promise of the otherworldly too enticing, piquing a desperate curiosity. who could she help with this, and who could she hurt? 

WHATS YOUR STORY?

the first thing her mother gives her is a burden. 

a name to bear like a cross. 

marisol, marisol. 

a strange name for a strange girl, stumbling in too many syllables to trip up a tongue. it’s heavy. it bears the weight of her mother’s expectations and of her indifference. 

marisol is an infant and unassuming, unimportant. round cheeks and a squalling, healthy cry and a mother who is happy to begin smoking again, to return to the bottle, to lose the baby weight. she will always bring that up, she will always tell marisol - as she strokes waving, tousled hair, as she bandages her knees and elbows, smothers her in sunscreen, as she makes halfhearted bibimbap from leftovers - you ruined me, little girl, she’ll say to her. singsong. musical. she smells of whiskey and cigarettes and musky perfume. 

the wallpaper is peeling. just a little bit in the corners, where few would notice, but marisol does. marisol sees the tarnish on her mother’s jewelry and the threadbare bottoms of her socks. marisol is hawk eyed attention to detail. picking out weaknesses in the facade of a woman who paints herself as someone bigger than the world. 

she watches her mother as one might a performer. 

lee minyoung has a damningly average name and disposition and intellect and beauty. in all respects she is exceedingly, incredibly typical but for one desperate need, an overpowering urge to be beloved. she desires power and adoration and builds herself, to the best of her ability, into the image of that. soft silks and glasses of champagne, expensive bags purchased with maxed out credit cards, a score that begins to drop. layers of makeup painting heavy over flaws both imagined and existant. 

marisol is born a burden and a stain, a tarnish on her reputation. the divorce follows swiftly after her birth, a man who becomes a child support check sent from busan every so often, a check that lines her mother’s pockets with borrowed finery, while marisol listens to her mother twitter and laugh on the phone, in the hall, in the living room. 

lee minyoung has a reputation around town. little tweaks and fixes here and there have earned her a greater beauty than she once boasted, and there are plenty who are happy to buy into her delusions of presented grandeur, her falsity of regality and noblesse. lee minyoung sweeps around the room as if on a film set, black and white film reels of leading ladies inspiring the grace and poise of each gesture and movement. affected and fictitious but in a small town like this no one bothers to look too deep. they’re happy to coo about her lost love and how cruel it was of him to leave her, how unfair it was for him to take her youth and leave her with a child to raise alone. 

and lee minyoung uses that sympathy to work her way upwards. it’s a slow and steady move, with many heights and hollows, peaks and valleys, and marisol learns to focus on other things. to take the gifts when they come in an attempt to curry favor with her mother ( as if her mother were to care a bit for her opinion )  and to turn a blind eye when things fade. she learns that her mother will always define herself by the power of others and she learns to believe it pathetic, affected hubris that churns her stomach. 

her mother is a tyrant in her life, a figure that whispers in her ear so sweetly, oh marisol, you ought to watch your weight. oh marisol, darling, shouldn’t you do a bit better? oh marisol, you stupid little thing, shouldn’t you know better than that? marisol, don’t you see how hard you’re making things for me, your poor dear mother? marisol, can’t you be a good girl, a kind girl, can’t you be my dear little sunflower and listen nicely, sweetly, shine brightly? 

marisol learns to hate the sound of her own name. marisol learns to hate her mother, a revulsion for the pathetic creature that she is, so pitiably dependent on the world around her for validation. she stomps through the greenery of the forests and rolls across the cobbled hills with the clack of skateboard wheels, wind in tangled hair and the sun painting red across her cheeks, freckles blooming in place that her mother advises her to have removed - laser treatments aren’t nearly so expensive these days. 

she’s twelve when she meets him. with wide haunted eyes and a family shrouded in mystery, in a real wealth. he can be like your brother, her mother cooes at her,  and mari answers with a scowl and fingers pushed back through her hair, squinted eyes skeptical on the boy. she doesn’t want to play this game again. the game of pretending she thinks this is some kind of misguided playdate. pretending that this is simply her mother’s new work friend. that her mother hadn’t taken on this stenographer position in the hopes of working her way up the ladder like this. besides, it’s better than the ones that look at her funny and the anger in her mother’s eyes now, as she grows up. like there’s an unspoken contest marisol was never made aware of, never asked to enter. his father is an overbearing man, powerful and full in the knowledge of that, proud and suffocating. she begins to choke beneath the weight of them, smoke in her lungs. 

marisol learns to find comfort in her own strength. spits venomous barbs at those that call her a bastard child, bruises her knuckles against the jawbone of the boy who calls her mother a whore, screeches and grapples like a wild, rabid thing when the girls corner her to mock her. it goes against the proper and the expected. she smokes until her lungs burn black and acrid, drains the screaming in her chest with alcohol stolen from corner marts. scowls in the back of the living room when the local police officer hauls her home with a warning and lectures her mother, who turns the favor on her. 

her mother would love to say that with age comes a softening of sensibilities but this is in point of fact untrue. with age comes fire and fury, with age comes a mercurial energy that likens her to a wildfire or a sandstorm. she is a scourge, consuming, a frenzy of self loathing and second guessing. she is the smell of smoke and evergreens and honey mint tea. 

she is a creature born of secrets and burden and she grows to find currency in that. to fit together the puzzle pieces around her, to delve deeper into the secrets of a strangeness she has always taken for granted. obsessive she dreams of a greater power and capability. her ferverish passions illuminate themselves in charcoal stained fingers, in smudged pastels. she paints herself as much as she does her canvases, leaves the mark of it in her wake. books fill with scribbled words and sketchpads pile up. she has never been a stranger to expression, this girl who breathes emotions like fire from the mouth of a dragon. she loves ferociously and needs desperately and does this with an intensity that may perhaps astonish. as if the suppressed and cold machinations of her mother must have created a girl who can do nothing but feel and express with the most honest and unflinching expression. 

when fire and fate steal from her the closest of her friends, she sends herself away to a nearby city, to a modestly sized university. for three years she wastes her life pursuing a degree that in the end means less than the paper it’s printed on, she presumes. she crafts herself into something more, and by the time she returns to junae she’s got an apartment leased, the key money painstakingly hoarded. it’s small but it’s hers, and in direct reaction to her mother’s overbearing and crowded decor it is a stark and clean minimalism to be found there. soft fabrics and sharp edges in equal measure. an easel in the corner and a tarp beneath it, a scattering of books on shelves, a two monitor rig on the desk that doesn’t quite fit in the room, but she cobbles together her scraps of wealth in freelance work, graphic design and writing, proofreading and transcribing. whatever she can get her hands on. she wastes  away on endless shifts running the old school projectors at the art house theater in the town’s center, a relic of a lost time. 

she waits and she seethes and she burns, and one day, one day she finds something. 

it’s in the library. she is a frequent visitor of dusty tomes and quiet halls, and there is a moment she stands transfixed, fingers on the papery, thin spine of the book. the words inside are a mangled and garbled expression at first, notes in the margins and overwrought detailing, exquisite coloring and intricate detail. it tells of casting bones, of blood magicks, of secret runes that promise untold power, whisper of fulfilled desires. and she is a greedy thing, this hellion girl, and she falls too eagerly into the waiting trap, jumps into the maw of the beast. 

she takes to witchcraft like a fish to water. that overwhelming will in her finds a conduit in this and she bestows upon herself power her mother could only ever have dreamed of. it is little things at first, small steps forward, and more later. but her greed grows as great as her mother’s ever was, and more, and she drowns herself in the possibilities of it, wades deep and deeper until she is in full over her head.