(1)
Black.
It used to be his least favourite colour before he met Emil. Dark. Dull. Depressing. And it came with sounds, all sorts of irritating, deafening sounds. Throughout his childhood, they rang in his ears, resonated in every corner of the house, with the sitting room and his parents' bedroom being the noisiest and they still lingered after all these years.
His father used to come home inebriated. It started with the unfriendly turning of the knob, the sight of a large warm hand clutching a half-filled glass bottle, the occasional stumbling followed by a series of furious curses. Foul language. He heard 'bloody' a thousand times more than 'good night'. His mother, if she was still awake, would stomp downstairs and yell. His father usually wasn't in the mood to argue but once he caught sight of his wife bawling, he lost it.
There were all kinds of interrogation and excuses. His father always made up the best lies and his mother always came up with the most threatening questions. Leon knew well all those gatherings his father had claimed to attend were probably non-existent, or equivalent to secretly dating one of his female subordinates, having a candlelight supper with her before remembering that he still had a home to return and he was all too absorbed in the fun and despair at the same time he had to drink to forget that a woman who constantly gave him a headache was waiting at home, impatiently.
Whenever his parents fought, Leon would automatically run upstairs, back into his room and locked the door. It didn't filter the shouts, the curses and the cries but it helped calm him. He would switch off the lights, jumped into his bed, covered himself from head to toe with the blanket and pretended that he was asleep. He tried his best to sleep. If he was asleep, he wouldn't be hearing the noise. He wouldn't be thinking about his parents, picturing how serious the war was downstairs.
He closed his eyes.
Black.
He opened them again.
Still black.
The glass bottle shattered.
Millions of glass shards clouded his vision. They glittered in the dark. For a while.
Then the tears flooded his eyes. Everything went black.
(2)
His mother used to have this long pipe. Whatever she was smoking, Leon was damn sure it had nothing to do with cigarettes or weeds. The smoke used to fill the room. Sometimes, Leon imagined himself dancing in the fog. Everything was blurred, including the image of his mother.
She used to weep. Leon was too young to know how to comfort a heart-broken woman. He was no angel himself. He dwelled on the sight of his mother torturing herself. She was partly the reason why this home was broken; his father being the other half reason. He was seldom home to begin with. When he was truly home, it was an endless torment for him as well. Leon would just stare quietly at his parents' interactions.
His father would grab the pipe and fling it across the room. His mother wouldn't care. She would slap him and they began tossing stuff around. There used to be a few vases but now there was none. There used to be a lamp and again it disappeared. There used to be a few antique decors and somehow Leon could no longer trace them.
One afternoon, in the room filled with smoke, his mother took out something. It was a sticky, black substance. She put it into her mouth and swallowed spoon after spoon.
Leon knew he was supposed to stop her, but at that moment, his wounds stung. His mother was better unconscious than fully awake. That's why he never stopped her from taking drugs. When she was in a daze, she was the meekest and the sweetest mother in the world. She would sob and hug him, stroke his hair and caress him like he was still a baby. She needed him, desperately.
When she wasn't with her pipe, she was a fierce tiger, constantly roaring, scratching, prowling. Leon would be the prey. He had all the bruises and scars to prove that sometimes he was actually living with a feral creature. He hated it.
He didn't do anything when his mother swallowed those black substances. He watched her gag, wail, collapse.
He wanted to see his mother in another state. Not when she was vulnerable and meek. Not when she was wild and insane.
What would happen, he wondered, when his mother stopped breathing?
(3)
Black.
His father came home that day, with a present.
It was a black gown. It matched his mother's hair.
Exquisite. Sewed with jewels and diamonds. It was specially designed.
He was planning to give this to his wife.
When he entered the room, he only saw her cold, lifeless body on the bed. Leon was sitting right beside it. Emotionless. Silent.
His father stared at him in shock. Leon stared back calmly.
He saw the present. What a beautiful dress, he thought. He used to love his mother's silky, black hair. It was his father's favourite as well.
But then, he sort of smiled in relief. Maybe his mother would be happy to wear this stunning black gown at her funeral.
After that night, Leon never went back to that house again. They moved back to London.
(4)
On his first day of middle school, everyone stared at him as if he was an alien. He never questioned why his father would bother to put him in this traditional private boarding school. All he knew was that his father wanted to be alone. Nobody in the class had dark hair. There were blond, brown, crimson, platinum and more.
Pure black?
No.
His hair used to be slightly brown and for some reason, after his mother left, it grew darker and darker. His father was a blond. He wondered if it was a curse.
Whenever he looked into the mirror, he saw his choppy, dark hair. That sticky, black substance.
He should have taken it with his mother.
He let his bangs grow, long enough to cover his thick eyebrows. At school, he would sit alone and read. No one bothered him. They were not exactly disgusted by his presence, but not impressed either. Studying made him forget things. He got first in every subject possible. Some of his classmates began showing interest. They tried so hard to start a conversation with him and he would just answer a few words each time.
In the second year, he was put next to someone. The boy had white blond hair, awfully pale skin and indigo eyes. He would be a vampire in Leon's book. He, like Leon, hardly talked. He had no friends and he wasn't even good at studying. Leon had no idea what made his teacher think that putting the two quietest boys together could make a change. They were just going to get even more awkward and uneasy.
They were studying in a boys' school at that time. The boys at that age were hitting puberty. They came up with all these vulgar, obscene topics and again, Leon didn't fit in. Neither did the boy next to him
Emil was his name.
He seemed to be uninterested in girls. All day long, he was reading story books in another language and eating that.
Leon called it 'that' because he could never remember the name or pronounce it quite correctly.
Liquorice.
That long, black substance which Emil claimed to be the most delicious candy on earth was both Leon's nightmare and oddest fascination. Emil was holding a packet of liquorice. He was always chewing, licking, and savouring every single bit of it.
Once, he caught Leon staring and raised his brows. It was the first time they ever talked. He offered Leon one of his precious candies.
'No, thanks,' said Leon, shaking his head.
Emil shrugged and resumed his eating. Since then, they would lock gazes with each other occasionally. Leon would be watching him eat and Emil had grown fond of watching Leon read or study. He looked so handsome with the side bangs covering half of his eye and from Emil's angle, he could trace his jawline. His eyelashes were unusually long, even though his eyes weren't as large as Emil's. And his skin was something else. Smooth. Plain. Sometimes it shone when he was in a good mood. Even if Leon didn't talk, even if he strived to conceal his emotions, it showed. Emil could feel it because he had been observing Leon for so long. He could sense the slightest changes about him.
When Leon sighed, he was clearly frustrated.
When he brushed his bangs too regularly, he was clearly annoyed.
When he raised his brows, he was confused.
When he chuckled, it was when Emil did something stupid or made a fool of himself.
(5)
Leon hated his hair. He wanted to dye it brown. Somehow, the dye wore off quickly.
His hair was as black as charcoal again. He had forgotten what his hair looked like when it was reddish brown, in the past.
His mother was a typical oriental. Black hair. Dark brown eyes.
Her curse would haunt him for his whole life.
As he got separated from his father, his brows also grew thicker. Probably another family curse. He wanted nothing to do with these two people at all and painfully true, he resembled both of them in many ways.
'I think it's cool,' Emil once said, when Leon was examining his hair in the mirror.
'Black. Just like liquorice,' added Emil with a faint smile, 'I like it.'
Leon wasn't sure why he blushed and it was probably his first time to blush. His cheeks simply reddened and his eyes went wide for a second. Emil must have seen his reflection and he, too, looked hopelessly embarrassed for a while.
'You know nothing,' said Leon.
'Well, you've never told me anything,' argued Emil.
The air went cold. They just stared at each other.
'For one, I'm not even sure if we're friends,' said Emil. 'You're…so secretive.'
'You want to be friends, huh?' asked Leon. By then, he had forced Emil to the wall. Emil looked down at the ground uneasily. Leon didn't seem to care how such close proximity was frightening Emil. He inched closer until their noses almost touched.
Leon had never tried any liquorice, but he had always wondered how it tasted. His eyes landed on Emil's soft, pink lips. He pushed him to the wall and licked those lips.
Sweet.
Definitely sweet.
Had to be completely opposite to what his mother had eaten that day.
Emil's lips were toxic, in a different way, and Leon wished he could have been poisoned right on the spot.
Emil kissed back, put his arms around his neck and they stood there, their tongues fighting back and forth with each other.
Leon wanted to taste more of Emil. Of that weird black substance.
Black used to be his most hated colour but when Emil ran his thin, long fingers through his black curls, he felt unexpectedly pleased.
He knew he had to stop.
But he couldn't. Just like how he watched his mother swallow the poison and did nothing. Nothing.
'Friends,' said Leon after he broke off the kiss. Emil was still gasping for air. He looked at the light-haired boy nonchalantly. 'You could've asked for something more.'
(6)
Leon was like a raven. That was how Emil described him.
Mysterious. Emotionless. Intelligent.
Gorgeous in a peculiar way.
And Emil was pure like a dove. Affable. Meek. Simple-minded.
All he had ever wanted was peace and quiet. Happiness in the silent form.
Leon was looking for fire. He was setting Emil on fire. He knew he could eat that heart the moment Emil kissed back. Emil was like a child, craving for tenderness, for affection, for recognition when all Leon could ever give was a brutal, fiery kiss that consisted of biting, grazing and choking.
Emil was left breathless every time they kissed. Leon would make sure he was panting, suffering and at the same time yearning for more.
They started going out a year after they met. What Emil wanted was simple; just a simple date; a special time he could spend with Leon. Whatever Leon did, wherever they were, it didn't really matter. And Leon never planned any of those dates. If they were ever out of the dormitory, they would be wandering in the street, by the sea, in the market. There was nothing romantic about their activities, but Emil didn't mind.
He just wanted to be with Leon. Even if Leon despised his liquorice, even if Leon wasn't showing much affection, even if Leon was busy studying, Emil would be there, sitting by his side, eating his liquorice as he watched Leon's black hair.
He knew Leon was incapable of being gentle. Even when they were having sex, he was wild, passionate and addictive. They took turns to top. When Leon did it, Emil always suffered. At some point, Leon gave up trying. He had fun with it, but making Emil cry wasn't his intention. He started to bottom more frequently. He would still kiss Emil ruthlessly, scratch him and sometimes bite his lips until they bled. He liked the taste of blood mixing with liquorice.
Because it came from Emil's lips.
And now, when the room was pitch-black, Leon wasn't scared anymore. He felt warm, protected and comfortable.
The things that shone would be Emil's hair and eyes. Not the glass shards.
(7)
Black.
The smoke filled the room, the corridor, the entire building. The alarm blasted down the hallway, reaching every corner of the dormitory. Heavy footsteps echoed outside. Screams. Yells. Cries. Emil rose from his bed and stared blankly at the smoke creeping through the gap beneath the door. He leapt out of bed and hurried to the door. He turned the knob and darted out. The smoke embraced him, flooding the entire hallway. He couldn't see anything and his nose started to twitch. He gagged and panted. He covered his face with one hand and waved the other.
'Go back inside! The staircase is blocked!' shouted someone.
Only then did Emil realise that he was trapped. There was too much smoke. Somewhere in this building, there was a fire, spreading rapidly, chasing all the tenants out. He ran back inside their room and locked the door. He grabbed a couple of wet towels from the toilet and blocked the door gap. He raced back to his bed and called Leon.
No reply.
'Come on!' cried Emil, punching his phone desperately. He opened all the windows and peeked out. The fire started from the second floor. He was on the fifth. Emil didn't dare look down, but he could hear people yelling for help. The boys next door were waving their arms. Many of them were locked in.
'Leon,' muttered Emil.
When he finally mustered the courage to look down, tears welled up in his eyes.
What Leon saw was a different scene.
Smoke.
It all looked so familiar.
He was only out for a while, with a friend. He too, had hair black as night. And he spoke Korean.
He knew Emil didn't like them to hang out. They had a fight the previous night and Leon stormed out of the dormitory. He went for a drink with his friend.
And here he stood, outside the smoke-filled building.
Leon quickly looked up and scanned all the windows, searching for that particularly pale face.
He saw none.
His heart started to pound frantically. He pushed and squeezed through the crowd. The entrance was blocked. He forced himself through the group of police and fire fighters. They held him back. He cried.
He looked up again and all he saw was the smoke.
Black.
Dispersing in the air. Filling up the otherwise blue, cloudless sky.
Room 502. He couldn't see it.
'Emil!' he shouted.
He stood still, glancing hollowly upward. He wasn't sure if Emil was in there, if he had escaped or if he had fainted or…
He shook his head.
He remembered the smoke that killed his mother. The black substance.
Was Emil still holding on to his liquorice?
Tears streamed down his face. For the first time, he felt something. He tried to do something. But the outcome was the same. Nothing changed.
(8)
Leon took a bite of the liquorice. No matter how he chewed and licked it, it tasted plain. Sometimes, it was bitter, when mixed with his tears. He didn't even realise that he was crying.
And then he started to drink and smoke.
Drinking sedated him. When he was inebriated, he forgot many things. It washed away his memories and the images flowing in his mind. He forgot the dark blood he mother coughed up before she fell gracefully over the bed, her silky, long, black hair covering half of her anguished, pale face. He forgot the arm she held out during her last breath and her soft whisper of his name. He forgot the black soot that covered Emil's body, the burnt skin and the raw, boiled flesh. He forgot the broken phone Emil was clutching till the last minute and the contact name shown on the cracked screen. He forgot everything.
Smoking reminded him of many things. It reminded him of his messed up past, hopeless present and the non-existent future. It reminded him of the black that had surrounded him for so many years. His hair was sullied by the smoke; his body was tainted by the smoke; his heart was engulfed in the smoke. He remembered everything.
It was a curse.
He sat over the bridge, his legs dangling above the dark, cold sea. Black.
The lights glittered from afar. They were the only things that shone now.
There was not a single star in the sky. The beer bottle lay shattered beside him. The glass shards.
He took the last liquorice and stared out at the sea.
Black.
Everything was black in his eyes.
It used to be his least favourite colour.
And he still hated it.
Yet, he had gotten accustomed to it.
It had become part of his life.
He had to bear with this until the day he died.
He looked out at the sea.
Glass shards. Smoke. Liquorice. Black.
They never left him and they never would.