Chapter Text
"Detective, I don't want to hear about your shit life."
"You don't want to hear about my shit life?"
"No. I don't want to hear it. I'm not telling you about my shit life, am I? So keep it to yourself."
"But what if I do want to hear it? What if you could tell me all about your shit life?"
He doesn't want to. If you wander off the cases, he can no longer justify you being here at one am. These visits are already too close for comfort, but he keeps letting you in. You're a nuisance. You are an old stray cat he feels obligated to feed when you arrive at his door again and again. He doesn't want to keep you but he can't ignore your shrill calls. It's his fault he fed you once, now you'll never stop coming.
You get the sense it's time to leave. Kim is tapping his foot and watching the wall clock. He is inaccessible to you, whereas if you were still talking about the murder that brought you here, you’d be his complete focus. You enjoy that. When you first started dropping by, it really was about the cases. Kim offers a certain clarity that no one at Precinct 41 seems to possess, maybe because everyone is too buried in Jamrock’s shit to be able to see the whole pile. While that motivation still brings you out now, it isn’t the entire reason. There are other perks to these visits.
You gather your things. Kim shows you the door and shuts it right in your fucking face. The meanest click of a bolt lock echoes inside. You’re lost at sea in the hallway. You know what awaits you downstairs, a long trudge back home in the late autumn snowfall. So you fish out a flask and take a long slug, a performance for the peephole and the peephole alone. Maybe Kim’s on the other side too.
You shuffle off to the elevator. The entry gate slams open in the wind. The flakes are nearly horizontal, white dots against black. They look like fairies swarming in the cones of orange streetlights. Not many people are out. You arrived late, you leave even later. It's always darkest before dawn, and it’ll be dawn in a few hours. One of them will be lost on this walk.
Your apartment is three neighborhoods away. On foot, it is an hour-long walk and it is on foot, cable cars don’t run in this direction at this hour. Your license has been suspended since you lost your memory, which is probably for the best.
At least the liquor can keep you warm. Gives you time to think too.
Another night you’re at Kim’s again. You’re so close to finding the final puzzle piece for your latest case that before heading out you took some amphetamine. Your pupils are shivering and tight. You practically flew here. He’s disappointed in you about the speed. His sighs are heavier. His patience is thinner, more brittle. He gives you herbal tea without asking. It's chamomile, mint, and lavender. Now you're speed-balling on herbals. You smile to yourself, at least he cares. Down, Harry, drink your tea. Put your pinky out like you're sophisticated. Don’t slop it, you moron. Shit, you’re jittery. Maybe the speed was a bad idea.
Kim has taken a few bullet points in his A6 of the facts you’ve shared. He’s across the coffee table. He has his own tea, cradled in its saucer. The squat cylinder is plain white bone china. It's aged. You can see the graying spider web of cracks. It lived in someone else's cupboard for several decades before making it here to this very coffee table. Everything is second-hand here, remnants of a previous time. Not that Kim treats them preciously, he uses them. They are being whittled away, a handle broken there, a crack glued back together. These leftovers are cheaper than new ones. They aren’t imported. Like any Revacholaire, you live off the discards.
His apartment is very thoughtful. He’s been there a long time. The space feels settled, colonized and comfortable. The only thing he might continually update is the sound system because those parts take a fiddler, someone who is constantly looking out for newer this-and-that's, like a motor carriage. Everything else; the couch, the chairs, the tables, the standing light; they’ve worn their little patch into the rug or the hardwood like they’ve grown there.
There is one window facing the docks. Even at night, the cranes are lit with spotlights like they are dinosaurs attacking the harbor. You imagine this view in the daytime; blue skies, dark and shimmery ship smoke, the quadcopters, and the gray cranes on their four legs grazing on shipping containers.
There is a galley kitchen, the narrow space between the wall and the counters leads to a bathroom. It has the smallest bathtub you’ve seen this side of losing your memories. Even Kim must fold himself in. He doesn’t strike you as a bath guy though. He probably times his showers.
You think about the rest of the apartment you haven’t seen. There are two shut doors, one in the living room and one in the bathroom. When you take a piss, you glare at that secondary door and at its offending nob.
Kim is tapping his pen on his notebook. It’s not a fidget. He’s trying to draw your attention like you are an easily distracted puppy. You focus on it because you are an easily distracted puppy, you admit it, especially when you're on a lot of speed.
“Isn’t there anyone else at your precinct that can help you work this case out?” He makes it sound like he’s not interested, but he is. He let you in after all.
In truth, the interactions you have with the men and women of your precinct are haunted. It’s the ghost of the old you dragging down everyone’s opinions. You can’t talk to a single person there that doesn’t look at you and cringe. It’s too much work to undo. Kim is fresh. He only knows this version of you, the one after losing your memories. You’re never going to be perfect. You’re too scarred and old, but you’d like to avoid becoming the person that crippled someone with your ledger.
“I value your insight more than my precinct,” You can trust him . He can be annoyed with you, mad at you even, but at least he’s not expecting the worst of you. He also doesn’t carry any specific prejudices of your district, unlike your precinct. Kim is working off facts alone, and unfortunately, your own warped delivery. He’ll tell you if you’re reaching though.
You’re collapsed on the couch hoping you look cute. That’s kind of weird given the circumstances. You’re talking to Kim about a double homicide. This morning a man walking his dog found two women strangled to death behind a dumpster. They had been dragged there individually. Their ankles were ripped up. Even in the winter, the flies found them.
Your coat is on the coat rack; your shoes are off and in a pile underneath. Kim has rules. Despite being rumpled with your sleeves rolled up and your head thrown back over the couch, you try your hardest to be a little cute.
Kim is sucking his teeth. He is interested in this one. When you asked him what Precinct 57 was up to as you settled in, he sighed heavily and complained for a few terse sentences about gang violence. Because of course, the docks have gang violence. It is far too common for him. No one needs saving when everyone is in the wrong. It’s a rat king; a tangled knot that once solved will only amount to more of the same, more rats .
Your wish to be cute must be a competitive response. Kim has a cowlick that he periodically tries to brush back but the tongue of hair keeps saluting. He must’ve slept on it while it was damp, which makes sense, it rained last night, but you detect he normally showers in the morning. So what happened? Unknown. You’re still looking for additional evidence.
Like always, he’s in an undershirt, lounge pants, and flip-flops. The first time you visited, being this undressed made him uncomfortable. He missed his armor, but after a while, he adjusted. Without the bomber and the boots, he is slighter. The exposure of his body and his hard life is more evident, but this is his home and he has command of it. You are immersed in his power. If you were to break the handle off the teacup in your big ruinous bear hands, you’d consider it a personal shameful failure for weeks.
You’re not complaining. You gave him command by wandering off the beaten track to come here. He can have it. His apartment is better than yours. It has things like tea and a view. Besides, it's nice to see his fingers, his ankles, and his neck.
“I can’t help you with this one,” he taps his pen again and leans back in his chair, “you’re missing too much information.” Kim always treats the mysteries you bring like crossword puzzles. He’ll chew this one over and if anything comes to mind later, he’ll call you.
Maybe you aren’t as close to figuring out this murder as you thought. Sadly, this means it's time to leave.
Kim opens his front door. You’ve been sloughed up against it and you slide inside. You’re giggling on the floor. You didn’t feel the impact of the fall.
He’s mad at you. His glasses shrink his eyes as they are so bottle thick, but his forehead is expressive above. You really just want a cup of tea. You were on this side of town. At least, the walk felt like nothing. You’ve been out with Jean. You say as much in a breathy laugh. The floor is mighty comfy. You’re stretched between three different surfaces; the hardwood, the tiled hall, and the linoleum entry. The transitions are like the knobbly bones of knuckles on your spine.
Was Jean always this fun? You have a phantom limb that normally a night out with Jean leaves the faintest sensation of a gunshot wound. Not this time. Throughout the night, whenever he tried to drag you down into deep, dark territory, you shook it off.
Kim remembers Jean. It’s in the twist of his sour lip. You suddenly realize that Kim is in his streetwear; bomber, cargo pants, and boots. Apparently, you’ve fallen in on him just getting home too.
You playfully grab his ankle.
“Oooo, step on me. Step on me,” you kid, rapturously giggling, because what an angle!
Kim shakes you off with a light kick. He squats down over you.
“Is that really what you want?”
“Yes,” you chuckle, “Yesss.”
He rights himself to standing and a hot edge snakes up your thigh. He’s really going to do it huh? What exactly did you drop in on? Where is he coming home from? Kim steps over you toward his kitchen. You roll in his direction, disappointed.
He reappears with a glass of water. It’s for himself though, another disappointment. He watches you from the edge of the counter.
“Why would I reward you for being a bad boy? You want something, show up decent,” he throws his chin toward the open door, “now get out.”
He downs the water in a sweep and steps over you toward his forbidden shut door. For a single second, as he opens it, you’re granted a view of more hardwood and the dark patternings of a room in the moonlight. Then the bedroom door is shut. You lie on the floor disoriented. The room’s ceiling is spinning. Your brain keeps skipping. Are you not a good boy? If you were, would he have stepped on you?
You close the door when you leave and try not to make too much of a ruckus.
You’re going through Kim’s tapes. They are organized, unsurprisingly, but what you do find surprising is how many of them are live recordings. This section takes up an entire row of his library, each designated with a white strip marked with the artist, location, and date.
“Did you go to these shows?” You’re on your hands and knees. You’ve pulled out one of them and the handmade quality resonates into your palms. The musician is dead now, but was big twenty years ago. It’s not disco, so it escaped your notice then. Kim must’ve ran in the music underground when he was young.
Kim nods. He knows it's cool. The look on his face is encouraging you to ask more.
“Did you record it?” You ask, but unfortunately, he’s not that cool. He sighs and taps his notebook with a pen to get you to refocus. You don’t. “Isn’t that illegal…?” You smile at him crookedly.
“The RCM has better things to do than arrest teenagers making enough money to eat every day.” He taps his notebook again as if suggesting your latest case is far more interesting than the teenager that once sold him a stolen recording. But there is real meat here.
“You strike me as the kind of guy that would pay the artist directly though?” And Kim did, the artist’s tape is in the above row.
Kim’s stare is purposely vacant. He’s asking you to fill in this information yourself. He wanted to make sure a kid ate that night, you idiot. Also, he got a beautiful crunchy recording of a time he enjoyed from his twenties. You’d be so lucky if you had the same.
You try to clean up your act. Sometimes you know before lunch that it is going to be a Kim day. Those days you take it slow. You try not to get too emotional. You quiet any internal cross-speak about the appeal of drinking at the end of your shift. Then you fart around the precinct until late and when you sense Kim is likely home, you slip on your blazer and head out across town. These days you catch a trolley to the point when the routes get too convoluted. You offer your caseload like a birthday cake. Together, you pick it apart like one too. You go home feeling grossly satisfied like you binged on frosting alone.
But there are nights you definitely don’t keep yourself clean. You’ll fade out at your dilapidated apartment, ranting and raving, and fade in halfway to Kim’s. These nights you might not even remember your caseload nor do you care. You slump against the call box waiting for the gate buzzer. At the time, you won’t wonder why he lets you up, but it gives you material to chew on for hours to days later.
The interior courtyard has brown snow in miserable piles. The cage elevator grumbles. The blinking light hums. The missing tile along the balconies causes you to stumble. You’re crying. You’re choking on it.
Kim opens the door angry. You’re making a huge stink in the shared courtyard. He drags you in to muffle the sound of your wailing for the rest of the tenants. You sink down the inside of his door with your face in your hands and weep. The inside of the apartment is dim. There is a single light on in the kitchen. The darkness is a comfort. Kim is a warm shadow when he eventually sits next to you. You shuffle next to him like huddling to a fire and tell him.
“She aborted my kid,” your voice is sticky with the snot clogging your sinuses. “I told her to do it. Then she went and had someone else’s.”
“Must’ve been important to her then, to have a child.” He’s so fucking reasonable. You didn’t even think of that. When you remember anything about Dora you only remember the amount you once loved her, which is now the very same amount with which you hate her.
“She cheated on me, Kim.”
Kim pauses. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest. “Did you come here wanting my advice about your ex? Because I’m not going to do that.”
“No,” your voice warbles harshly, “No, tell me I’m a fucked-up, brutal bastard that no one will ever love again.”
“You’re a fucked-up, brutal bastard that no one will ever love again.” He repeats with weight. “It’s a wonder she even loved you at all.” He slides in that addition.
You giggle meanly. “Yeah, yeah. Truly a wonder.” It’s like scratching a scab off. The blood flows. There is pleasure in having someone else put it into words for you, for once.
Deja vu is a bell that rings in the back of your head. Jean used to play this game with you too, but you haven’t asked him since you lost your memory. That’s where the nickname ‘Shitkid’ came from. He still parades the name around hoping to get a rise out of you, but your heart is now elsewhere.
“You can’t stay here,” Kim ruins the magic. You’re heavy against him. Must’ve given him the sense you were drifting off.
“I know. I know.” You never stay. “I’ll go soon. It’s just…I didn’t want to bring a kid into this world. It’s crazy people keep having babies. Life is too fucking hard and people want to put a fucking baby through it? I don’t get it. It’s insane to me. We were so poor, Kim. Like what kind of life could we have given a little baby?” You think about a dirty toddler holding your hand crying. The child is hungry and cold. It is winter and there is a snowstorm, exactly like when you were born. Nothing ever changes. You’ve had this dream multiple times. “Have you ever wanted to have kids?”
Kim doesn’t have to think about his answer, but he does have to think about whether he should tell you. “No, I’ve never wanted children.” You think that’s what he’s going to give you, but quietly he goes one. “Sometimes I think after retirement from the RCM I would be a good foster. I don’t love children, but I can offer them safety, a warm house, and food, which is more than most wards of the state can hope for.”
“Did you hope for that…” You try to stop yourself, but your voice just slowly dies on the word, “when you were an orphan .”
“I’m still an orphan, detective. It’s not something you grow out of.” In other words, he still cherishes food, a warm house, and safety, but there is more to life than that.
You really should find your off switch. “ Do you wish you were never born? ” This is your tiny voice. It only sounds big when the space it inhabits is very small, the space from your lips to Kim’s ear.
You can’t see his face from this angle, only the orange light of the kitchen striking the frame of his glasses and the sweep of his cheekbone.
Eventually, he says, “I’m here and most of the time, it’s worth it.”
“Remember that time I called you a racial slur?” What a fucking way to greet someone. On your long walk here, this specific memory was stuck in replay.
Kim makes a sharp face at you and for a second looks like he’s going to slam the door in your face. Instead, he swallows that reaction, but the irritated pinch to the corner of his lip stays.
“Goodie, you’re feeling bratty today.”
“At least, I’m sober.” You’re inside his apartment in the flash. You didn’t want to hang around for one-second longer outside and allow him to consider actually shutting you out.
“Are you?” There is surprise in his voice. Every time you come sober, he acts like he didn’t think it was possible.
“Yes, sir!” You salute, you absolute dweeb.
“How does it feel?” He shuts the door and locks it.
“Like shit, sir!” You’re fucking around, but the memory replays and your salute collapses. “Anyway, I’m sorry is what I wanted to say, about the slur.”
“You already apologized for it once. Just don’t do it again.” It's still raw for him too.
“Oh, I won’t,” You have already dropped onto the couch. It's going to start getting a worn-in groove from your ass.
“Harry.” Kim’s voice is hard. “If you ever do it again, you can’t come here anymore.”
You really don’t want to be shut out. Calling Kim that word months ago in Martinaise was an insane error. Sometimes, your mind dredges up the worst, asinine crap and then your mouth spits it. You automatically test boundaries you shouldn’t test. It makes your relationships so frayed and fragile.
“Kim, I’m an asshole and an idiot all the time. Please, beat me up the next time I do anything that hurts you because I know I deserve it. If you’re mad at me, I’ve probably done something heinously wrong.” You can’t promise him you won’t make mistakes. If you get into the broken promises territory, you know you’ll screw everything up immediately, so instead, you offer your consent for punishment. Hopefully, that’s enough.
By Kim’s expression, it isn’t. He’s stated a rule, better not cross it.
It’s very late now. Kim has a minimalist clock in his living room. It's only three hands in a perfectly black circle. It sits across from the couch. You get lost watching that second-hand spin. The second hand is red and sharp like a blood-filled needle. The short hour hand reads four, the long minute hand reads thirty. Kim has been pacing. You have an ashtray on your belly filled with butts. The clock keeps the time better than either of you, but that’s its job. You're both lost in the vortex of detective work. That’s your job.
“That’s it,” Kim pricks upright from his pacing slope. He scrambles for his notebook on the table as if to confirm his jolt of inspiration. “Yes! Yes. It’s in her testimony. Remember she said ‘he visited three times a week, but the week after the murder, before the body was discovered he stopped.’ But maybe he didn’t run away after her murder, maybe he’s dead too. Have you tried looking for your John Doe in a different morgue?”
Kim knew you hadn't been to any other districts. If you had, he would have a neat bullet point in his A6 about it. You’re up in a second, the ashtray spirals on the table like a top, and you box him in. He jerks in surprise. You hold his head and plop a kiss on the edge of his hairline. The smell of pine grips you. When you pull back, you’re smiling at him but he’s perplexed, hinting on wary. You don’t get the benefit of being this close to him very often and there is a glint to his eye you find familiar but can’t quite place.
You’re out his door in a matter of moments with your coat half hanging off. You have an idea which morgue your John Doe will be in, and conveniently, you can take a trolley there easier from this apartment than your own. It’ll be open by the time you arrive.
It hits you on the ride, being jostled about in the empty car just as the blue of the morning curls up over the building tops.
You should have caught it before. You are well aware of your type. Your type is someone too good to be true. You’ve known this for a while about yourself, which makes sense why you’ve latched onto Kim like a hungry, horny leech. This is not new to you.
But what is new to you is Kim's type because it turns out, he does have a type. It was obvious to him from the beginning that he should be very careful around you, but you’re a wrecking ball, baby. No such thing as being careful around you. You’re a detective god too, and this little slice of information was hidden in that familiar glint of Kim’s eye.
Kim’s type is a lost cause.
You let this sink in.
You are a lost cause. You are Kim’s type.
You’re sober again. It’s a real fucking struggle. Today your nerves are on fire. Your hands shake. Your head is muddled and heavy. It is a fucking miracle you didn’t nip into a gas station on the way here and buy a 40 and a blister pack of sleeping medication. When you leave you’ll probably break down and drink, what the fuck else do you have stopping you? If you wake up in the morning at all that’d be a miracle too.
Your dark cloud has followed you into Kim’s apartment. He’s eyeing it like the unfortunate weather pattern that it is, but he’s not worried. Why not? You have no idea.
“What do you need from me?” He asks as if it’s not apparent.
“I need you to bleed me dry. I need to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. Let the birds eat the rest.” You grumble at the window, but turn to see Kim’s reaction.
Kim has a lighthearted tilt to his head like he’s working out the process. At length, he looks back at you, right in the face, and says, “I can’t do that.”
You snort, “why not?” You think he’s more than able but turns out, even innocents can’t offer mercy.
“I want you to live.” Kim states in an exhale.
Ugh, the worst kind of mercy. You say as much.
“Do you actually want me to hurt you?” He says softly.
His voice is so gentle you turn away unable to take it. You’re annoyed he’s handling you with kid gloves. You finger a crack in his window pane. To your chagrin, it's not sharp enough to cut your fingertip, but the cold air seeps in along the edge. It saps your warmth along that fine line.
“Why not? Everyone else has taken a swing, except you’re the only person I trust with it. You think you’re being nice, but you aren’t.” You have no idea what you really mean. You keep trying to explain, but the words aren’t right. Kim likes you. You know that now, why would he hurt you? But in your experience, love hurts worse than anything, so why isn’t he trying harder?
You shouldn’t have come. You leave in a hurry so you can climb into that waiting bottle.
You zip up your fly and flush. The toilet gurgles its siren song, This bathroom has a certain religious quality of a clean and private space. It has a personal echo, and everything matches; white enamel, white enamel, white enamel. The chiclet tiles are well-pounded over decades, but the grout is still bright like teeth. You’ve checked the vanity. Kim is minimal in his upkeep. He keeps his toothbrush in a glass cup. The disposable razor is always sharp. You see the dull one in the garbage can every Tuesday or so.
Yes, you’re lingering again. You wipe your hands on the towel because you have the strong sense that Kim would notice if it’s unmarred after you leave. You leave it purposely mangled.
The second door is directly in front of you. In a way, you and the door always have this standoff as you leave. The doorknob is a glass-blown orb. You imagine the smoothness and heft of it. Your fingers quiver. Normally the door wins. It intimidates you toward the bathroom’s exit where you trot back to the living room with your tail between your legs. But this time, taken by surprise, your hand is on the doorknob and then the door is open.
Your boldness shocks you for a microsecond, but then again, you often pull stunts like this. Your body acts on its own pretty frequently. You’re inside the room. It’s as expected, Kim’s bedroom. Another playground of information uncurls before you. There is another window in here, the second window in the entire apartment. It’s pointed toward an air shaft. Outside you see the cookie cutouts of other lit windows suspended in darkness.
Kim left his desk light on, a pointed metal cone on a jointed bracket. It’s pointed at a sewing machine. There is nothing on the machine but a pair of scissors.
It's a somber room, painted a masculine gray-blue. The closet door is part way open. You lay a hand on a folded blanket at the foot of the bed. You try to catalog everything. There are signed and framed posters for two of the greatest TipTop racers of all time. A cork board overloaded with columns of notes. An entire bookshelf of A6 notebooks and for an instant, you see twenty years of Kim placing his finished ones there one after the other in their rightful place.
It’s almost too much, like a buffet for a starved man, and you back out. The second door in the bathroom is now shut. You wash your hands again and leave, back to the living room.
You visit Kim’s bedroom every visit now. It’s too alluring not to. Like, come on! He kept his pinball trophy. The man hates pinball, but he kept his trophy! But on second thought, Kim wouldn’t get rid of it. He likes the reminder of what riles him up and he has his pride too. It shines like a torch in the dark room, glinting and golden.
His journals take up one shelf, but another is crammed with the most wretched collection of pulp science fiction you’ve ever seen. Each one is insanely dogeared; many are split down the spine. It’s double stacked. Another few shelves house his periodicals neatly organized ranging in topics from racing to mechanics to science. A little radio lives near the window set to the Revachol jazz station.
Your lack of shoes helps you move silently and without notice. This space has more turnover than the living room. Things get rearranged. You have to quadrant the space to absorb every detail, and you have to be quick. There is only a set amount of reasonable time a man spends in a bathroom, and the lie that you have indigestion only works once or twice.
On this visit, Kim’s boots are out. They rest side by side on the ground next to his bed. He’s been polishing them. You must’ve interrupted the upkeep with your visit. The kit is hastily put back together.
You nervously check the door back to the living room. It’s shut as always. You imagine Kim perched on his chair, hanging over his notebook, tapping his pen. He’s waiting for you to come back from the bathroom, but he’s engrossed. You brought him a real whopper tonight. It looks like a crime of passion but it’s probably a hate crime instead. Why do hate and passion overlap so often?
The coast is clear. You squat before the boots, pick one gingerly up, and take a big whiff of the interior. The dominant odor is the tacky stink of polish, but beyond that is the accumulation of Kim’s specific body smell. It's been condensed right there in the heel of his boot like the scent at the bottom of a perfume bottle. The smell is heady, aged but mouthwatering. Your brain says it's edible. It's triggering an animal response to burrow, snuggle, and purr. But it is sweat, remember? There is something foul about it too. You know it. Your brain knows it, but the sensation is so decadent, you do it twice for good measure.
Then you spot something under the bed. You grab it and don’t look at it before it's in your blazer pocket. The boot is back in place. You’re up and shutting the bedroom door in the bathroom. You return to Kim, who as expected, is still seated in the living room. He looks up at you when you return, even sports a hint of a smile. He’s been waiting for you. Once you sit, he dives into what he’s found.
You don’t drag out your prize until the walk home. It’s late in the spring. The day had been unseasonably warm, but the night temperature kept its crispness like a winter’s apple. You can see your breath. In your pocket, the fabric wraps itself around your fingers. You pull it out during a brief pause under the halo of a street light. It’s a dark single sock, worn to threads in the toe. You take a giant inhale of it balled up in your hand, and whamo! You’re fucking hard. It hits you so fast you fall into a coughing fit. Is this what gets you off these days, you depraved lunatic? Stealing socks from people’s bedrooms?
You adjust your freshly-made boner into your waistband and book it home. You only have one answer to those questions. It starts with your hand and ends with a grosser-than-before stolen sock.
You finally ruined it. You’ve taken too many forays into Kim’s bedroom and the house of cards has toppled. You should’ve paced yourself, or quit when you were ahead. Instead, you got greedy, overly confident. You forgot that what you’re doing is actually frowned upon, which is treading where you aren’t supposed to, poking around in a private space you weren’t invited into, and stealing, like actually, stealing someone’s clothes for nefarious and questionable reasons.
Because Kim is in the doorway to the living room and he’s frighteningly calm given the fact that your hand is halfway out of his dresser holding his underwear. There is no way you can draft an excuse for this. You look toward the open bathroom door. It’s where the majority of the light is coming from, a spotlight on your big ol’ mistake. You point, mouth confusion, shrug, and chuckle nervously. Kim isn’t laughing, not even on the inside. He looks stoney. You expected anger, but instead, he has this placid blankness. It is bone-chilling. You quietly drop the underwear and shut the drawer as if that will fix everything. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t.
Kim rushes you. You squeak.
He’s smaller than you. In a fight, you could take him, but the sudden movement shocks you. You flinch into the corner.
“Now, Kimo,” you start. Your hands are in front of you, palms out in a weak surrender. “This looks bad, but—”
“Stay.” Kim pokes him roughly in the chest.
“Wha?” You pronounce dumbly.
“Stay. Put.” He pokes you so hard you stand flush against the heating pipe. In the winter it would be boiling hot, but now in early summer, it's neutral. You do stay. Kim moves to his closet, finds his bomber, and fishes out his pair of handcuffs. Uh-huh. You messed up big time. Is he taking you in? Has he been creating a file of your indiscretions this whole time to eventually arrest you?
“Kim, I—” you move forward.
“I said, stay.” And you back up again. You’re really in fucking trouble now. Kim’s tone is level. He sounds eerily reasonable but you can’t reason with him. “Kneel.”
“What, like, right here?” You ask. Kim nods. So this isn’t an arrest? You put one knee down and check. He waits. You put the other one down.
“Hands up.” Kim opens the handcuffs. Now you’re absolutely confused. You timidly extend your hands. He captures the first wrist, loops it around the back of the pole behind you, and snaps the second cuff on your other wrist. The chain is trapped between the pipe’s wall bracket. It will be very difficult to stand up without dislocating your shoulder or your wrist. You still don’t get it. You look to Kim again for some insight, but having caught you, Kim is at his dresser. He’s opening the drawer you closed earlier and is pulling out the underwear you wanted to take. You swallow.
“So,” Kim begins conversationally, “how many times have you been in here?”
“S-Six.”
He’s starting to take off your tie. You can internally hear your garish tie moan under Kim’s careful fingers.
You whisper aloud, “is this a sex thing?”
“How many things have you taken from my room including this one?” Kim gestures to the underwear he’s holding in his lower grip.
“None!” You peep. His eyes get real hard. “Okay, well, two.”
The tie is off. It slips from your collar with a smooth tug.
“Open your mouth.”
Confirmed. It’s a sex thing, but your surprise is like a slap to the face. You obey because at this point, you're too curious not to. He shoves his underwear in your mouth. It's a lot. Your gag reflex kicks in, which you thought was extinct. Your tongue works to push it out, but Kim loops it in with your tie. Knots it. You’re gagged. Without the power of speech, you suddenly hear the pounding of your heart like a jackhammer. Your blood is rushing in your ears. Kim has the look of a craftsman admiring his handiwork. You imagine you look sweaty, disheveled, and ridiculous.
“Nod once if you want me to stay in the apartment,” Kim asks. He pushes a few strands of hair out of your face.
You try to speak around the wad of gag. It’s taking on water, your spit. You give up and nod once. Kim pats your face, shoots you a half-second smile, and leaves. He shuts the door, and sadly, you distinctly hear the front door too. The loud latch scratches. Did he leave? Did he abandon his apartment? Your hip and shoulder already hurt. You got shot there. Doesn’t he remember that? You don’t have a spring chicken body here. It’s falling apart. You’re in a harsh position. Did he disregard your answer that he stayed? Why even ask?
Your nerves tick. You have no idea how much time is passing. Your anxiety rushes you from the start with every single possible outcome ranging from the mundane, he comes back, to the unlikely, you die here. Eventually, your mind runs out of possibilities. It’s exhausted from the overdrive. You’ve never been good at keeping track of time. It could be you’ve been tied up, tasting underwear, for five minutes or twenty years. Your ear listens for the front door like a deer in the forest. You’re overtaxed, your senses are stretched. You hear the cacophony of the tenant’s lives through the harsh hollow updraft in the air shaft. You settle against the pole. Your hands go to sleep. Your legs go to sleep. Your breath becomes long and meditative.
Since you have eternity as far as you can tell, you memorize his room. It's the most time you’ve had to absorb it. Your conclusion is that Kim is a little obsessive and a neat freak, but only in the pursuit of managing the unmanageable, which is life. You knew this before.
Despite being your prison, you like Kim’s room. You start to wonder what kind of life one of his possessions lead and therefore you start to become one of his possessions. You could easily be stowed away like the crates under the sewing machine, left in the dark until needed. Kim would never need you though. Get that straight. No amount of deep state mental peace can tell you that lie.
But the peace of it. Kim would take care of you, keep you organized, and have a spot for you. That would be your existence. Not a pet but something lower, a simple object.
You hear the shrill whistle of a tea kettle boiling. You jerk up and pop your shoulder miserably. A spoon clinks against the bowl of a cup. He didn’t leave at all! Kim! Messing with you like that. The thought of him being present for this entire time melts your damn spine in relief, which is a weak precursor to when he actually opens the door. You practically burst into tears. He removes the gag, unlocks the handcuffs, and helps you stand up. Even though the power of speech has been returned to you, you’re quiet. Getting blood flowing back to your limbs is more of a priority. You hobble to the couch. There is a cup of tea. It’s in your palm. The heat of it you’re just starting to feel. You can't pick it up yet, your fingers don’t follow instructions.
“How do you feel?” Kim asks with a penetrating look. He’s very invested in what you have to say next.
But you don’t really know what to say. What a concept. A few minutes ago you were a happy, organized item. You’re still recovering. In a certain sense, you’re disappointed you're a human again, but limbs are nice. You wiggle your fingers and are able to finally take a sip of tea. Tea is nice too. But overall, you underwent another reset. Unlike a year ago, all your memories are still intact, but you feel equally foolish now as you did then. Kim’s still waiting for an answer.
You raspberry weakly and shrug. “Good…Weird.” You dryly swallow. You put the tea down. “I’m going to go.”
Kim breathes deeply, worry drifts over him, but he walks you out.