A/N: Actually, visit the Asianfanfics posting for the desired result of the formatting. Damn FFN
Memories of Blue and Purple
I
"No matter how much suffering you went through, you never wanted to let go of those memories." -Haruki Murakami
She was lying in front of him, her body sprinkled with purple bruises. Her dark hair was damp and covered most of her face, save for her lips. They were so very blue. He wanted to caress her lips, let the blood turn them pink again. He wanted to warm her, reassure her that everything would be alright from here.
She whimpered slightly and shifted towards him, and he felt endlessly protective. He wanted to shield her from the world's horrors, but he found that he wasn't able to move.
His own pale skin was covered with blue and black specks. His head hurt, and badly. He could barely feel the coagulated blood in his mouth, he felt so cold, so numb. He knew he was bleeding…
"There you are!" The laughter was wicked and harsh. A man's vindictive snarl reached his ears, and he saw the blue jeans launch towards his head…
He desperately wants to hold on to his consciousness.
He wants to.
So badly.
"Hang on, stay with us! Jonghyun!" Yonghwa's voice.
He wants to remember being part of CNBLUE.
Minhyuk.
Jungshin.
Yonghwa.
He also wants to remember being Yoona's boyfriend.
Her boyfriend.
His world.
She was his.
He was hers.
But… the pain, oh, the blinding, searing pain.
Flashes of white.
Then it's so dark, again.
It was overwhelming,
The numbness.
It was taking over him.
Washing over him.
In waves and shocks.
He couldn't do it anymore.
He couldn't hold on to that rope that tethered his thoughts to the pier.
Yoona.
Yoona.
Yoona.
He let go, screaming soundlessly.
Screaming. Soundlessly.
No one could hear him.
Yoona!
Yoona…!
Yoona….!
Yoona…
Yoona.
He was lost, in the deep blue sea.
He loses himself to the world of blue and purple, of his bruises and pain-
The figure thrashed around on his bed.
The dream shifts.
He stops thrashing.
"You know, blue and purple had always been my favorite colors," she remarked casually as she rearranged the books on the table according to the color of their bindings.
He was looking at the pile of books on the table, trying his best not to look at her. The books had blue and purple bindings and were each as thick as the sides of his electric guitar's body.
"Mm," he made a sound of acknowledgement, and took the books from her. He gives a grunt as the weight pulls him down, but hurriedly hides his discomfort with a cough. He didn't want her to see him as a weak man, after all.
"I like blue too," he continues.
He walks in the opposite direction, towards the brown mahogany shelf. A smile played on his face as he thinks of something he's been planning to do for a while-
Jonghyun woke with a strangled gasp, breathing heavily. He shot to a sitting position-straightening his back like a ramrod.
What was that?
He didn't know. He taps his head, trying to think. What was that?
His head was hurting him. It made him wince, and he tugged on his shaggy black hair. What was it?
Then the answer came to him-a memory.
A memory. Wait, that was new. For all he knew, he didn't have memories, save for that… painful little nightmare. He somehow knows that it's a recurring one.
Jonghyun looks around the room. Everything was in black, white and grey. That was slightly discomfiting to say the least. Was everything supposed to be… colorless?
No-his mind presented him with the answer again. His memories had been in color. Not everything should be in black and white. No, no, no.
His head hurt even more as he realizes that.
He gives a sweeping glance across the room. His vision was achromatic. It was bleached, washed out.
He so wished he could see some color.
Wait, there it was. His breath catches as he spots the speck of blue. He gets up and tries walking toward it.
His legs gave beneath him and he stumbled. His leg muscles were oddly weak, almost jelly-like. Then he notices where he had been lying on moments ago.
He was sitting on a bed, with an overly soft pillow and a mattress stiffer than basalt. He supposes that even in a world of Technicolor, the sheets would be white as well. They looked white enough in his grayed out vision anyhow. The bedside table is empty, and stark white.
Where was he? What time was it? He vaguely notes that there was a memory that stretched back to his childhood, telling him to note the '1H and 5Ws,"-'where, when, which, what, who and how.'
None of those questions could be answered then and there.
Where was he? What was the date? What was the time? What was he doing here? What is he going to do? Who was that girl? And who was he? He didn't even bother trying with a 'how' or 'which'-again, some childhood memory tells him that he never liked to fill in those two blanks in some worksheet as homework.
He tries getting up again, this time succeeding. His legs wobbled slightly as he stands. He notes that his skin is almost as white as the sheets were. He steadies himself as blood courses through his body to his legs.
Another flash of his childhood comes to him, again something relating to schoolwork. Maybe, that little bit of information didn't come from his 'childhood', more like a teenage memory… A Biology teacher explaining the circulatory system of man, where under systole, the ventricles of a heart would… contract? And the pressure of blood rises so that the blood, upon leaving the semi-lunar valves… would enter the aorta and subsequently join to the peripheral arteries-allowing blood to flow through his legs.
He groans, in frustration more than anything. He could remember snippets of his Biology lessons, seeing himself in a room full of students, both male and female with black hair and wore white uniforms-and he couldn't remember who he actually was? He knew that he was supposed to have a name. Those tags on the student's uniforms so obviously held their names-Jang Hae-mi, Kim Seul-do, Nam Ji-sang, Kim Jun-hae…
Who was he?
The answer didn't come to him, not yet.
He sighs. He thrusts those thoughts away for a moment and went to examine the blue object. It was a blue thread.
A blue thread? He looks down at himself and realizes he was wearing a blue gown. His mind whirled again and he sat down to reorient his thoughts.
Okay, so the gown he was wearing… he concludes that it was a hospital gown. No wonder it felt so scratchy. And was that why the room was so bare? This was most definitely not a home anyone could live in-it was a hospital room. Bare and stripped of all personal additions, with only the basic necessities for… survival. It wasn't a place fit for living. It was the epitome of impersonal. The emptiness of the room got to him; put him on an edge.
He notes that he shouldn't expect much company, if he did receive any at all-there were only two chairs in the room. One was for visitors, or relaxation purposes maybe. The other chair was stiff-backed, but had a cushion on it, and was placed in front of a table.
He deduces that he was in a private ward, but he notices the jarring lack of machinery, save for the CCTV camera on the wall. There wasn't any heart-monitoring machine and he couldn't spy any transmitter in sight. There was also a strange lack of cupboards that he would suppose could be found in a hospital to store spare uniforms and medicine. He saw that there was a button on the wall, covered by transparent plastic and it said "For Emergencies".
What sort of emergencies?
Why was he here?
The relentless throbbing in his head resumed as he tried to figure out the answers to those questions. The headache was really rather intractable.
A persistent question that nagged at him was-what time was it?
SLAM! He remembers another snippet of memory, where he was in a sea of blue lights; he was standing on a stage…
That's right.
He was Lee Jonghyun, the guitarist of CNBLUE.
He gaped at that realization-he was famous. Bloody famous, from the looks of the memory.
He was standing on top of a stage, letting his left hand fly over the frets of the guitar. His right hand held a blue pick and it moved quickly, with unequaled precision, over the strings. The crowd was frenzied and was screaming-though he couldn't actually hear them with his earbuds on. The only thing he could hear were what the other members were playing, Jungshin's bass, Minhyuk's drumming and Yonghwa's crooning-into-the-mic-sort-of singing.
But he didn't mind. He could hear all of them all the same. He was riding on euphoria, their unconditional adoration. He was wondering what would happen if he leapt into the crowd… Not that he would try, of course. Instead, he knelt in front of them, like he was serenading them with the guitar. Their passion impassioned him, made his senses go on overdrive.
He watched as their left hands held a blue CNBLUE light stick and their right hands leaned forward, as if trying to grab him. Maybe that was what they were trying to do…
He remembers having his short blonde hair matted with sweat. He touched his hair once more; it was now dark, and hung past his chin in almost-greasy clumps.
Why was there only one chair in the room? Did his members visit him here?
Just how long had he actually been in this room? Was he confined here?
Then he gulped. Was this some psychiatric ward or other?
He leapt to his feet, and raced for the blinds. He drew the blinds open and looks at the window. It was barred, but it was a window nonetheless. He notes that his room was on the first floor, and he could see that it was bright outside. The static blinds had previously blocked all the light from entering the room, but now, the sunlight filtered in and he could see the specks of dust floating about. He blinked at the light. It looked as if the white of the room was intensified.
Outside, he could see a garden. A garden with a small fountain and six huge trees, with people milling about, and most of them were laughing as they strolled languidly along the garden's cobblestone paths. He spies a sparrow twittering about in a branch of the second tree from the right.
He smiles slightly at the sight of two children running after a small Pembroke Welsh Corgi, its short, stumpy legs attempting to flee from the obviously sticky hands of the children. The dog is finally captured by the children and it makes an expression of mock pain as the children display their exuberance by embracing the dog, but it seems to be yelping in joy.
He abandons monitoring them and looks at the sky. It was so very blue. He wonders if he going to be able to see purple? His theory- the girl in his memory said she liked blue and purple, and since he was able to see blue, he might be able to see purple as well.
So far, he didn't spot anything purple yet. Would it kill those people to wear something purple? He sighed. They wouldn't know that he was dying to see someone wear something purple.
What was the time, exactly?
Then a knock sounded. "Mr. Lee, you have your visitor for today!" The voice was falsely cheery-A nurse who worked here, but couldn't wait to find another job and never set her sight on another hospital again.
The door opened with a loud creak and he winced; the door was really in dire need of some oiling.
A person walked in, wearing purple shoes. Even from watching her walk, he could instantly tell that she was nervous. He lets his eyes travel up her purple sundress and the white cardigan shrouding it. His eyes come to rest on her face. He almost recoiled at seeing the purple that she had worn, but her name jumps immediately into his head. Im Yoona.
Was the cardigan actually white? His frustration grows at not knowing. It might be white. Then again, it could be cream colored, or light blue, or light lavender…
He doesn't know what to say. He didn't even know who she was to him. He knew she was famous, that much was sure. His teenage memories told him that even during his school days, she was a famous idol. What did 'idol' mean anyway?
"Hello, good morning Jonghyun," she smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes.
"Hello," he returned. "You're wearing a purple dress."
He thinks that she's really rather gorgeous. No, he corrects himself hastily. She was beautiful. Look at her! Her eyes were perfect, the asymmetry making her gain a perpetual inquisitive and curious look. Her nose was small, refined and well defined all at the same time. Were noses able to exude feminineness? He doubted that it would in any other individual. Her mouth was perfect, a soft, pink little bow.
She looked at him with a strange expression. Maybe he shouldn't have been staring, especially not with such intensity. He shouldn't scrutinize her, not when she was simply visiting him.
They motion for each other to sit down before she speaks first, "Yes, I am. The weather's still fairly warm for late September. How are you doing today?"
He shrugged. "I'm not sure. But wouldn't you tell me your name?" Then before she could reply, he continues, "But you're Yoona… right? If I'm not wrong, you are Im Yoona."
She nods, her eyes looking more fearful than before. He's thrown off by that, he's not sure why she looked even more nervous and terrified. She looks almost like a cornered mouse. She looks ready to cry. The brown orbs in her doe-like eyes reflected her tears, and her mouth was quivering at the edges. She was keeping a façade for him, he realizes. Why?
"Yes, I am Yoona." She acknowledged that and nodded at him.
The air was tense, but he gave a response to her first question, "I don't feel well. Not… in a bodily sense, you know? Nah, maybe you wouldn't know… but I feel as if something is wrong with me, more precisely, my head feels off. I don't think that my world is supposed to be all grey and non-colored…"
"It isn't," she confirmed, her voice… was now harder. It was almost as if she was forcing her voice to stay steady, and overdid it. It amused him, just a little bit.
"But I see colors. Blue and purple," he looked at her squarely in the eyes, and she doesn't look down. Her gaze was almost challenging, somehow. "Those are the only colors I see. Blue and purple…" He doesn't divulge that in his memory, a girl was talking about her favorite colors being blue and purple.
Then it hits him, it was her. The voice belonged to her. He speaks again, before she could and this effectively shuts her up. "But they are your favorite colors, aren't they?"
"They were my favorite colors…" Her voice was soft and quiet, and held a hint of nostalgia to it. She finally looked down, losing their little staring match.
He wonders what had happened to change that. Wasn't she wearing purple right now? Then again, no one wears their favorite colors all the time. He changes the topic, "How long have I been… here? This is a hospital right? Why am I here?"
She tore her gaze away from him and looked out of the window. "You've never opened the blinds before three in the afternoon before. Never." A moment of silences passes before she continues even more quietly and answered his question. "Three years."
His breath hitches. Three years? He's been in this… this place… for three years?
Impossible.
~oOo~
She continues looking out of the window. For three years, ever since they were both declared 'healthy' enough, he's been here. She scoffs at that notion-healthy? Right. Physically, they might fit that criteria. But dredge up the mental or psychological issues and they might just require a sanitorium.
It was her fault that he was here.
The people who had decided to ruin their lives had come for her, to take her. The security was slack that day, it being Chuseok. They had all been dying to go home, to return to their families. They had all wanted to celebrate the holiday and were rather impatient. After all, no one had tried to breach security for the past few years; surely, they wouldn't try to harm Im Yoona now?
"The truth is, unless you let go, unless you forgive yourself, unless you forgive the situation, unless you realize that the situation is over, you cannot move forward." At least, she had read about that quote from Steve Maraboli online during a period of mental convalesce-which had largely failed. Jonghyun had always searched up quotes, and that habit rubbed off on her.
Yoona never wanted to blame anyone, but it was hard. Considering that one party's remiss, and the other's flippant decision to commit such an act of aggression, had tormented her for three years and eight days.
The Chuseok three years ago, she and Jonghyun were in the same building. He was helping her organize her books, and he had been reminded of the colors she liked best. A little late for her boyfriend of a year eight months to inform him of such a trivial fact, but he had known nonetheless. She had never explicitly told him that she liked blue and purple before that day. She assumed that he would know, the internet did announce it to the rest of the world after all.
They were laughing, cracking merry jokes. He seemed to be hiding something from her though, but she didn't know what. She didn't mind, it didn't seem as if it was something all that serious for her to be concerned over.
Then the door was flung open and a horde of men barged in, grabbing her forcefully and then dragging her away. Jonghyun went ballistic and launched himself at them. He knocked quite a few of them down too, she remembers sadly, but with a touch of pride. He lashed out at them viciously, aiming to harm as many of them as possible as he protected her.
He was like a whirlwind, punching and kicking. They fell like bowling pins to that heavy ball. But, the sweeper swept everything away in the end. The men outnumbered him too greatly. She remembers screaming as they started to hit him, tried to beat him within an inch of his life.
He never cried out, never winced. He never betrayed the pain he felt as they did so. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. Her heart broke as she witnessed his battered form.
Then they launched themselves at her as well. They shoved her against a wall, and tried to pull… her pants down. She screamed. She screamed a lot that day. She tried tearing herself free…
It seemed to last forever.
Then, she heard him cry out, furious. No, he was roaring. His anger was unbridled and it blazed in his eyes.
His mouth was shattered; his dark hair (re-dyed from its previous blonde) was matted with sweat and crimson red blood. They didn't touch his nose-it was still unbroken, still straight. His eye was beaten black, of course. And it had already begun to swell. She saw ugly gaping wounds dotting his arms and legs, the blood that spouted had stained the ground around them, dirtied his designer clothing.
But he was still her angel.
He fended off her attackers furiously, and then wrenched her free. It had hurt when he did so, but she supposed there was no other option he could've taken. A few bruises on her wrists wouldn't hurt too much. They ran down the stairs, and they had reached the second floor, before three of the men caught up with them.
She watched, petrified, as he used the reserves of his strength to knock them out. She collapsed, and so did he, onto the ground. And that's when he, the mastermind of her misery, walked in, and delivered a swift kick to Jonghyun's head, sending him down the stairwell.
Tumbling.
He hit his head, and she screamed again, agony ripping through her. His eyes were closed. His pallid skin drained of color, only color being the blue-blacks, the purple bruises.
The broken ragdoll that was her boyfriend, lying on the ground, unmoving, muted her instantaneously as she froze on the spot.
The next second, she snapped. She pushed her assaulter backwards, and he fell too. But he caught himself before he plummeted to ground where Jonghyun was lying- No, no, no! He wasn't dead! She had refused to acknowledge that he was dead.
She had been shaking so badly then; the terror gripping her, crushing all her other senses.
She didn't know it, but she had been screaming, and screaming, and screaming.
Shaking and screaming.
They came in then, the security. They had heard her cries. They had seen the CCTV footage.
All too late.
Contrary to what most people believed, Im Yoona had never resided in an ivory tower. She was very much human, just as Jonghyun was. She wasn't an elitist, never thought that her fame put her above others. She did not isolate herself, or place herself above everyone else. No, she felt just as anyone around her did; those emotions. Sure, three years after she was now living in a sort of isolation, but that was to be expected.
No one else had lost their boyfriend of eight months in the way she had.
In the weeks that followed that day, they didn't really know what to say to her. One could only take so many pitiful glances, hushed whispers and tense silence. Everyone treaded on eggshells around her. She was furious at them, why couldn't they walk like elephants? It wasn't as if she was going to fucking break!
She blinked.
She was swearing internally. She never did that. Never swore.
What brought about that? Was today different from all the other days?
Yes, yes it was.
She looked curiously at her boyfriend-she supposed he was still her boyfriend. After all, they hadn't ever broken up. Something had changed today, and she knows it. She knows that he wasn't supposed to ask all these questions. And this change frightens her as much as they secretly… delight her.
They both remain silent for a while. He was shaking his head. Then he began rubbing his temples. Two times clockwise, thrice anticlockwise. Just as he always had.
She decides that she should speak first, and she steadies her voice again, "Three years," she murmured quietly as she repeats those two words. Three years that he's been here, in this room.
Was it fate? She wondered.
She felt the weak seams of her heart tearing slightly. Maybe, she never should've told herself that she wasn't coming tomorrow. Fate was giving her too much hope at the moment, daring her to hope that he was getting better. Those threads that held her heart together always threatened to break, they were weak, so very weak. Her heart bled ever so often.
"Three years, and you've never done anything different from the routine."
This seems to pique his curiosity and he asks, "What routine?"
She remembers waking up three years and eight days ago, exactly eight days after Chuseok with everyone by her bed. CNBLUE, SNSD, F(x), her father, her friends…
She had woken up before, but she had never seen Jonghyun by her bed as of yet. Never. The injuries she suffered were painful, but had been healing just well enough. She had wondered what became of Jonghyun-his state was so much more distressing than hers. The memory of his emaciated self flashed through her mind and she had shuddered slightly.
Someone hands her a sheet of paper. She recognizes the man as Jonghyun's father. His face was hard but he maintains his stoic expression. Jonghyun's mother was however, teary. She was dabbing her handkerchief at her eyes.
To Mr. and Mrs. Lee,
Mr. Lee Jonghyun has been sent to a private hospital ward in XXX Hospital, Seoul. Necessary arrangements have already been made by FNC Entertainment to keep him monitored at the hospital for the duration of his recovery.
Status of Patient: Stable
Condition: Memory loss, possessing only his long term memory after waking from 5 day coma.
Thank you.
XXX Hospital, Seoul, South Korea.
She remembers feeling something heave inside her, but she had nothing to hurl, having eaten nothing for eight days. IV drips didn't count as food, right?
She had taken to eating nothing for the next three days. On the fourth day, Minhyuk attempted to force feed her with fruits. She couldn't keep even a cherry down. The fifth day, she decided that she should sort her composure out, and she downed a small bowl of porridge that Krystal and Jessica attacked her with. She put on the mask she had been wearing for a thousand and ninety days.
In the three years, the hospital had come to the conclusion that he did the same things every single day. The first two weeks they had tried interfering with his routine, tried to give him some change, offering to let him do other things. But every day, he resumed his usual tasks unfailingly. His parents rarely visited. They said it hurt too much, to see a ghostly memory of a son who had once been. All his affairs rested in her hands, they had entrusted his hospital records to her, everything-seeing that she was in Seoul and they lived in Busan, anyhow.
Did they never think that it hurt her too?
9.30 AM: Patient 121 wakes up –It would mean that he did nothing till her visit at ten.
10.15 AM: Visiting hours –She would take him to the washroom and have him wash up. After that, he would inquire about his identity, his age. Who he was. She would tell him everything, and he'd apologize for not remembering. He was always so quiet and pensive during her visits. It wasn't him, and each day, it killed a little of her to see him like this.
Occasionally, his parents came. Make that once a year, during his birthday. Everyone he knew came then, and his eyes always showed a frenzied sort of fear and panic, but she'd calm him down. His members came, even if they had been in the army, they requested for a one day break, just to visit their mentally crippled member in the hospital, one member their hearts sorely missed.
12 PM: Lunch, visitors would leave
The Hospital treated him well and varied his diet accordingly. She had watched footage of him eating calmly, as if contemplating his current situation. He would finish his meal, (In the first tape she had watched, he had been served Gamjatang and rice)
12.30 PM: Patient exercises
Watching the CCTV footage, he had done whatever he could in that limited space. Mostly, he did jumping jacks. He would try push-ups, sit-ups, jogging… just whatever he could do in that confined space. He ran about a lot and even did some yoga.
1.50 PM: Patient showers
2.15 PM: Patient sits down at desk with sheets of paper, starts to write
Jonghyun would write songs. Even in his confinement, he was still a musical genius. He would sit down at his chair and hum to himself as he penned a melody and wrote down guide lyrics. He then left it there. The orderly who cleaned the room would retrieve those papers and give them to FNC.
To date, FNC had released many of his songs, in special albums dedicated to Jonghyun, or simply for FNC's other bands, like N. Flying and AOA. The songs were often melancholic and spoke of better days. Some days, they were happy songs, love songs even. Other days, they were songs that spoke of being repressed and confined-those songs always seem to strike a chord to those who listened to them.
CNBLUE and FT Island never accepted those songs, seeing that they had both decided to venture into the army as soon as they could. They wanted to avoid the reality that had become the fair skinned guitarist.
At least, no one would say that Jonghyun was talentless now. The public didn't dare.
5 PM: Patient ignores tea set for him
7.00 PM Patient consumes dinner
7.20 PM: Patient washes up
7.30: Patient continues writing songs
11.40 PM: Patient sleeps for the night
Note: Patient seems to have nightmares each night
The last note about the nightmares had bothered her.
He had already lost his memory. Surely, God would be kind enough to spare him a peaceful, uninterrupted sleep?
She decides to tell him what he usually did in a day. This was something she did in her other visits as well-tell him more about what he usually did. She relaxed as she fills him in on his daily routine; she derived a bizarre sense of comfort from this familiar chore, even if it made her feel wistful and melancholic.
He nodded, just as he always would.
This was normalcy. She continues talking, her voice steady, soft and soothing. As if she was talking to him as he was still asleep.
She always did this. It helped her detach herself from the world, it made it seem surreal. It didn't feel like she was in the room-she had done this, tell everyone else about what he did in the room so often that she could picture being outside the room, doing the same thing. It helped keep her sane, keep the memory of his cadaverous form out of her head.
Then he shifted, the sound of his feet rubbing against each other jerks her from her almost-reverie.
He suddenly asks, "Do I have my guitar with me?"
She held back the trepidation from her voice and nodded mutely. It took her a few more seconds to compose herself. "You can find your guitar in the case under your bed."
"Did I ever play for you?" He cocks his head slightly to the side. He looks slightly nervous as well, and it makes her panic all the more. It was all she could do to not quicken her breathing. She shook her head, 'no'.
"Then, do I still know how to play then?" He rubbed his head slightly and held his hand up hurriedly. "No, don't tell me. I do know how to play the guitar still, it's like riding a bike. Shall I play it for you today?"
~oOo~
He watches her intently. She looked as if she was going to faint. Her face was so very pale.
Even as she walked in, she appeared to be rather pasty, but he couldn't be sure. But now he could tell that she was blanching. Whatever… darker shade she had to her face was now gone, and she had gone really rather white. He would place bets that it wasn't the lighting of the room that had changed- it was indeed her growing increasingly ashen-faced.
He didn't understand. Was she scared? He didn't know. He didn't dare to ask.
Was she scared… that he was behaving differently from what he did usually?
Maybe.
What did he really feel for her? That bit still hasn't come back to him just yet.
All the same, he feels compelled to play for her, and maybe sing for her.
He doesn't know whether he could still sing well-did his voice change from the lack of usage? He guesses his singing skills would have deteriorated from the lack of practices and vocal exercises, but he's not so sure how it would impact his performance.
He gets up from his place in front of the desk and walks to his bed. He pulls out the guitar case, and he doesn't watch her expression. He wouldn't see the terror on her face, the way her masks collapses for a millisecond and threatens to make her break down in a flood of fresh tears.
He opens the case, and sees a dark blue guitar. He smiles wryly. Blue again. His guitar meant a lot to him then. He knows that she did mean a lot to him as well, he thinks that she is someone important to him. She hasn't revealed that bit of information yet; their relationship, and he has no intention of forcing it out of her.
His guitar strings weren't rusty. It had been three years. Someone must have changed them, did he do it himself?
He adjusted the tuning knobs. It was even almost-tuned, and that surprised him slightly. The acoustic guitar rested in his hands lightly, and fit snugly into his arms. It felt like a part of him.
He wants to tell her to calm down, but he doesn't know how to. Instead, he sings an old song that CNBLUE had, during their indie days, way back before they became famous. Back when he still had the shaggy black hair that he could liken to the one he was wearing now.
He sang a grammatically corrected version this time round and allowed himself to pluck the chords. It was an effortless movement. His fingers remembered more than his head did, apparently. However, this time, he corrected the grammar of some of the little phrases in the song.
"I know I've fallen in love when I see you with my eyes,
I wanna make you, wanna feel the beauty- as you are
Girl, I wanna tell you something I'm not a man who lies,
I wanna love you, I wanna hold you, can you be a part of my life?
You can have it your way girl if you want,
I don't wanna bend you girl, all your life, all my life…
I'll feel your love forever I wanna know how you're feeling
(For me) This feeling is real, girl I'll need your love forever
I can feel your heart So please breathe with me-forever…"
He stops suddenly, almost awkwardly. No, it was an awkward stop. And now an uncomfortable silence hangs in the air. Heck. He didn't know why he chose this song. He shook his head, and looks at her contritely.
"I'm sorry. I don't know what made me choose this song." He elucidated, "It was the first song that came to mind… One of the first songs we had. It's a song we had been familiar with..."
He didn't know what his heart was trying to tell him, but he saw her agonized expression and looked down, almost as if he had been slapped on the wrist, reprimanded. She got up abruptly, the chair scrapping against the ground and making a screeching noise. "Sorry, I… I got to go. There's something I have to do today." They both know it to be a lie, but neither of them commented on it.
She left the room hurriedly, taking quick but tremulous steps. He watched her leave, the purple swishing about...
Jonghyun sighed loudly, before covering his face with his hands, resuming a saturnine expression.
~oOo~
If this had happened for the past three years, she'd rather have been sentenced to perdition.
She hadn't meant to show such asperity, but she couldn't help herself. It was torture, to continue remaining in the room.
False hope was the last thing she needed.
~oOo~
The minutes always drag themselves by.
The sun seems to stay in the same position for forever.
An eternal blue is hanging over the vast sea of grey, black and white below.
They should get a clock.
Lee Jonghyun sat in front of the desk, his expression pensive as he tried formulating methods to get out of his little ward.
How should he get out of here?
He wanted out so badly. The hospital room was no more than a prison, keeping him confined in here. Even if it was only a short stroll in the park outside, he'd be able to breathe some fresh air. He had an inkling that he hadn't ever been out of the room in the past three years, save maybe for a checkup or something administrative related.
A psychiatric ward, he figures, wouldn't let a man who loses his memory every other day out of the ward. He hopes for his memory to stay. He hasn't given any indication to the nurses here that he behaved differently from his normal behavior, no. When the nurse came in earlier to serve his lunch, a tray of kimbap, he had accepted it with a curt nod, not looking into her eyes. She was dressed in white. He had later refused his tea, as per his usual behavior.
The sky outside has changed from the endless stretch of blue to its current stretch of grey, with a brilliantly white orb in the center. He got up quietly, and began pacing.
One, two, three steps… then turn. One two three. One two three. One two three…
Would he be able to remember anything tomorrow?
He was terrified that he'd wake up with no recollection of anything tomorrow. He won't be freaking about it tomorrow, if he couldn't remember anything about today, but he so badly wants to remember today's events. He so wants to remember everything. It's his inclination, after all, to get sprung from this place and never look at these four white walls again.
A knock sounds on the door, and a different nurse walks in with his dinner on a tray. They've changed shifts already; this one looks refreshed, a nocturnal creature ready to combat the night. He stops pacing, regarding her carefully. It won't do any good to let his act slip. She smiles at him as she placed the tray down on the table he had previously faced.
"Good evening Lee Jonghyun-ssi, dinner. Do eat it well," He catches sight of her nametag.
He nods at her, shortly. "Thanks, Miss Won. What time will you be back to collect the tray?"
"According to my schedule, I should be back by… For you, it's special, apparently. I'm instructed to take the tray from your room at twenty past seven. I'm new, you see…" She looked slightly flustered. "I've just… never thought my nursing job would apply to meeting you. I had watched CNBLUE performing back when I was in High School. I should be going now, enjoy your meal."
"Wait, I have something to ask of you. Can you get me one blue and one purple object when you come back?"
She looked slightly nonplussed at his request, but slowly nods. "Are all of you patients this queer?"
"Should I feel offended at that? Maybe it's just me." He smiles good-naturedly, and he knows it disarms her. He's pretty sure that she had once been his fan.
She leaves, slowly. As if she was chanting a mantra in her head to remain calm, to not flee.
Then he looks at his dinner and grins inwardly at the sight of rice with grilled mushrooms and steamed chicken along with a bowl of bean sprout soup and a small platter of assorted fruits-yellow watermelon, papaya and grapes.
Was the watermelon grown locally? His fingers hover over the flesh of the watermelon. A piece of fruit could travel over large expanses of land, braving whatever odds there was for a piece of fruit to endure, before ending up in a plastic plate in a hospital's psychiatric ward, to be eaten by a patient who was constantly monitored by a CCTV installed on the wall. That irked him; however discreet it was, he had no privacy. Watermelons lead sad lives, don't they? Having to grow big and then being uprooted, journeying through a vast unknown just to end up being the dessert of a prisoner.
He wasn't a watermelon. He should be grateful.
But that treacherous voice in him snarled at him to get a move on, to get the hell out of here. Contentment was not satisfactory. A life without freedom was not for him. He was a bird in a gilded cage, being fed well, but never free. No liberties. No privacy. He could almost feel his wings trying to stretch, arch themselves so he could soar out. If he didn't get out of here, his wings might as well have been clamped. Why was a bird born with wings if it couldn't fly?
Such forms of imprisonment did wonders for his thoughts.
He needed out. Badly.
Suddenly, his formerly appetizing meal wasn't something he appreciated anymore.
Before he sleeps, he ties the purple ribbon around his ring finger and places the small, blue treble clef shaped keychain on the bedside table.
He thinks that he never really prayed back then, but God was all-forgiving and He would accept him, right? It's never too late to start, right? He had always believed that it was never too late. Nothing was ever too late.
He closes his eyes and clasps his hands, and murmurs, shrugging off the bizarreness of praying for his memory, or even hoping against all odds that it would work. Did he ever do this before today? He won't ever know, but he begins to murmur softly.
"Dear… God. This is me, Lee Jonghyun. Did I ever pray to you before today? I think I might've, but I'm not sure. That's why I pray that I get my memories back and that I'd keep them when I wake up tomorrow. I also pray that I'm going to be able to see more of blue and purple, even though they're her favourite colors," He stops for a moment, consolidating his thoughts properly.
Then he realizes he only wishes for one thing, well, it was technically two things-but they were the same thing. "I want to know who she was to me. I want to get out of here. I want to remember. Above it all, I want my life back. In the name of Jesus we pray, Amen."
He squeezes his closed eyes after praying to a God he had never really believed in that he'd remember. No matter what happened before today, no matter what had happened for him to end up this way-he would want to remember.
Sleep is elusive to him that night, but he is finally granted that mercy.