Blood is a Promise

Eunsung doesn’t say goodbye to him before the break, but she shows up on his doorstep that same evening. His mother answers the door; she’s already ushered Eunsung into the foyer before Youngjae can intercept her.

‘Youngjae, you didn’t tell me you’d invited a friend,’ his mother says. He can’t tell if she’s pleased or not. You’d think she should be.

‘Oh, we’re not staying,’ Eunsung says. ‘Didn’t he say? We’re going out.’

His mother rounds on him.

‘Right,’ he says, his brain catching up with what Eunsung’s saying. ‘I forgot to say.’ He smiles at his mother, most charming smile.

‘But –’ His mother looks at him, looks at Eunsung. He can see her appraising Eunsung’s clothes, the way she holds herself. ‘It’s Yu Eunsung, right? But of course you should go out and enjoy yourselves. Never mind me.’

‘I’ve got reservations,’ Eunsung says, to Youngjae, but what she means is let’s get out of here. So he grabs his things and they go.

---

‘I don’t actually have reservations,’ Eunsung says, when they’re out on the street. He imagines his mother will watch them through the window until they disappear. Why does he think about that?

‘I don’t care,’ Youngjae says. ‘We can eat out a convenience store, if you want.’

She smiles, and her smile is a kind of miracle, just as much as her showing up is.

‘You’re easily pleased,’ she says.

‘Ah, I’m in a good mood.’ It’s cold, but it’s better than the stifling air at home. Eunsung has come to see him.

‘We can stop at the store,’ Eunsung says. ‘Or we can go to a hotel and order something later.’

Youngjae does a double-take, then, looking at her. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘Why not?’ Eunsung says. ‘My parents can afford it. What are they going to do if we don’t come home anyway?’

‘Uh. Probably decide we’ve both been murdered and cause a horrible fuss –’ He sees Eunsung’s skeptical expression, and course-corrects. ‘Of course, I’ll let my mother know what I’m doing so she has no reason to do anything like that.’

‘Good boy,’ Eunsung says. ‘We wouldn’t want anyone walking in on us.’

Youngjae feels his face grow hot. She’s not talking about sex, of course; she’s talking about the cutting. It’s just his wishful thinking to combine the two. When did this violence start to feel like foreplay anyway?

The whole time. The urges have been indistinguishable the whole time.

---

Checking in to the hotel, they’re just another young couple out for a romantic evening. It’s only when they shut the hotel room door behind them that they’re themselves. Eunsung removes her scarf, her jacket. Youngjae isn’t sure whether to follow her lead. She sits on the edge of the bed, and he sticks to the wall.

‘You’re being very polite,’ she says.

He’s not sure what she expects. ‘Have you got the knife?’

Eunsung smiles, and she leans over to grab her bag. She pulls the knife out, dangles it between her fingers.

‘Maybe I’ll give it back to you.’

‘What?’

She stands back up, and he is transfixed by her motion as she walks toward him. She takes Youngjae’s hand, and she presses the handle of the knife into it.

‘Eunsung –’

‘Cut yourself.’

He forgets how to breathe. She steps back and watches him, so he rolls up his other sleeve, and he holds the blade along his forearm. He presses down.

Almost as soon as he does it, as soon as the blood spills red, she knocks the knife from his hand.

‘Idiot.’ She pulls his arm forward, more like she wants to see the damage than because she’s concerned. But maybe that’s unfair.

‘Did I do it wrong?’

‘Shut up,’ Eunsung says. She grabs her scarf to staunch the bleeding, pressing it firmly down over his skin. ‘You weren’t meant to cut so deep.’

‘You shouldn’t have made me do it.’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

It’s almost the anniversary, he thinks. One day more, and maybe he could have died on the day she first tried to.

He didn’t really mean to cut that deep.

She makes him sit down, until she’s reassured herself that he’s not going to bleed out. Maybe that’s why he did it, so that she’d hover over him like this.

He hadn’t known, though, that she would.

‘I guess you’re keeping the knife then,’ Youngjae says. It’s still on the floor where he dropped it. Eunsung goes to pick it up, her fingers lingering a moment over the blood marking the carpet. The hotel will love that. But the charge is in Eunsung’s name, so it doesn’t matter to him.

He lies back on the bed.

‘You don’t want to die,’ Eunsung says. ‘If you wanted to die, you never would have done it.’

‘You didn’t want to die either,’ Youngjae says. ‘I guess that never did really make sense.’ He holds his arm over his chest – it does hurt, but that doesn’t seem such a bad thing. And if Eunsung feels sorry for him …

He looks over at her, standing there with the knife, still looking upset. He really doesn’t get her.

‘Why would it bother you if I died?’

‘If you value your life enough to kill me, Jo Youngjae, you should at least value it enough not to try and throw it away –’

‘Really,’ he says, ‘I just cut too hard.’

‘How can you cut yourself too hard?’

‘You were distracting.’ He sits up on his elbows, and she glares at him. ‘Why are we even here? You could be doing anything right now.’

‘I could be.’ Eunsung tightens her grip on the knife. ‘So why don’t you have some consideration for that?’

She steps closer to the bed, and then she’s climbing onto it, on top of him. He forgets how to breathe again, with her kneeling over him. She puts her hand with the knife in it on his chest, and she pushes him back down.

‘Fine,’ she says, ‘I shouldn’t have made you do it yourself.’ She puts the knife down beside them, and she moves her hands to undo the toggles of his coat.

‘Eunsung.’

She moves her hand to his injured forearm and she squeezes till he yelps.

‘Don’t talk.’

He shuts her mouth, doesn’t point out how contrary she is – concerned one moment, violent the next. He forgets the thought anyway, when she pushes up his jumper, his undershirt. He can’t believe this is happening. When she places her hand flat on his stomach, he can’t believe this is happening. When she takes the knife up, and she scores the skin above his belly button, though – then he can believe it. Because the glide of the knife is pain, and pain is one of the things that is real. He can believe in Eunsung inflicting pain, when he can’t believe in other things. Hasn’t she always used her tongue that way on him?

Eunsung cuts him again, slightly higher, the two lines parallel. She runs her fingers over the cuts, both at once, and the sting is exquisite.

That pain; Eunsung sitting on top of him, exposing him – it gets him hard. He wishes it wouldn’t. He doesn’t want Eunsung to know that he’s like this.

Except Eunsung is the one who invited him here.

He could almost think her touch were meant to be soothing, if it weren’t for the tackiness of the blood, the way she lingers over it.

She pushes his clothes higher again, and she cuts him on his chest, along his ribs. This cut is deeper, and he gasps. Lucky she only told him not to talk, not to be quiet altogether.

He can feel the warmth of the blood running down his skin; Eunsung does nothing to stem it. Instead, her eyes clear as ever, she pinches his nipple, hard enough that he screws his face up.

Does it turn her on, then, hurting him? Has it done that this whole time? Not just something in his own head, but in her as well.

Eunsung bends her head, and she licks his blood up.

‘You’re crazy,’ he says, before he can stop himself.

‘Did I tell you to talk?’ Eunsung says. She climbs higher over him, grinds her hips down against his and twists his nipple at the same time. She’s evil; she’s clearly evil. He’s afraid he’s going to come in his pants.

She’s breathing more heavily now, her calm demeanour lost. He looks at her tits through her top, the way they rise and fall. If he tried to undress her, he’d probably get slapped. He doesn’t think he’d mind that in itself, but he doesn’t want to piss her off.

Eunsung makes a decision. She sets the knife aside. She undoes his pants and then she pulls them off him, getting off the bed to do so; he sits up enough to take off his jacket entirely, to get rid of the blood-stained scarf. He’d take off the rest of his clothes too but Eunsung’s hand on his thigh stops him. She fingers the scars there, her expression intent. He lies dumbstruck.

Eunsung lifts her top up over her head and casts it to the ground, exposing her white stomach, her arms, her breasts. Youngjae may just be gawping, but then she holds her arm out toward him, wrist up. Her own scars. He reaches for her hand, pulls it closer, then looks between those repeated lines and her face. Her expression is wry.

‘That’s not just the one time,’ Youngjae says.

‘That was the last time,’ Eunsung says. She pulls back her hand. He doesn’t know what she means by showing him this – if there’s something he’s meant to say or do. But she doesn’t seem to expect anything. ‘I guess we’re not so unalike after all, Jo Youngjae,’ she goes on. ‘You were right.’

‘When did I say that?’

Her eyes crease up. ‘Maybe it wasn’t that,’ she says. ‘Maybe it was “you’d do the same thing”.’ She casts her eyes down. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you would though.’

She leans down to run her fingers over his thigh again. She raises her eyes back to his, and she smacks him sharply there.

‘Hey!’

‘What?’ She lifts her eyebrows at him, like a dare; he’s not sure it’s not the wrong thing when he grabs her and tumbles her over onto her back. He leans over her, their bodies not quite touching. She doesn’t stay still – she puts her hand on his chest, and then she’s leading him to pull off his jumper, his undershirt. She leaves one hand on his stomach, her fingers on the cut she made earlier.

When he’s shirtless, she puts her other hand round the back of his neck and pulls him closer. Close enough to kiss. She drops her hand down and squeezes his dick through his boxers.

‘Do you want to fuck me, Jo Youngjae?’

It’s a stupid question, so instead of answering he undoes her pants, helps her to shimmy them off over her hips. When she’s only in her underwear, she pulls herself up higher on the bed, and she grabs the knife from where she set it down. Taps the blade on her fingers, looking up at him appraisingly. She’s some kind of witch. That’s the only reason he’s not running away – she’s enchanted him.

‘What, do you want to stab me while we do it?’ he says. He won’t tell her he’s thought about it. ‘Do you think that would stop me?’

He crawls back onto the bed and over her. She touches the knife to the centre of his chest – only lightly – turns the knife to its flat and drags the point down his chest, down his stomach to his navel. He doesn’t dare to breathe too deeply, doesn’t dare to make any sudden move. She turns the knife, inches it back up. She’s not pressing hard enough to cut, but it still feels as if she might. If he trembles too much, she will cut him. If he gets too light-headed. If she only wants to.

At last, she brings the knife away from his skin. ‘Big talk,’ she says. She touches the flat of the knife to his surprised lips, and she smiles.

‘I’m only thinking of you,’ he says defensively. ‘They’ve got your name at reception. If I die, they’ll know you did it.’

‘Should I prepare a fake ID next time?’ she says. She lifts her knees up around his hips; she’ll kill him just from wanting, he swears.

She stretches her arms up above her head, so that her tits lift, and watching that he hardly notices when she drops the knife beside the pillow. Then she sits upright, which means he has to too, and she unhooks her bra. He watches her shrug it off her shoulders, cast it to the floor. She doesn’t object when he reaches forward to cover one of her breasts in his hand; instead, she puts her hand over his, makes him squeeze.

Then she makes a frustrated noise, pushes him back, and she hops off the bed.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Finding a condom,’ she says, crouching down by her bag. Her hair falls loose over her pale back; he can hardly look away. She glances over her shoulder at him. ‘Why don’t you finish getting naked?’

He’s not about to argue with her, even if she has abandoned the knife. 

When she stands back up, she tosses him the condom, and she pulls off her own underwear. He knows he should be doing something other than stare, but he still feels like he’s in shock.

‘Don’t just gawp, Youngjae, I’m not fucking you without it.’

She’s always been blunt. He must be completely red, as he tears the wrapper – his hands are shaking, and he hopes that’s nerves and not blood loss. He puts the condom on. It’s her turn to watch him, her eyes slightly narrowed, like she’s amused.

Then she pushes him back on the bed and she climbs on top of him. She angles his cock against her, and then inside her. It’s easier than he would have thought possible, and feels better. Her hips settle down over his; she doesn’t move right away, but pushes his arms down beside his head, no care for the arm he cut. Maybe she tightens her grip deliberately. Then she lifts her hips and rocks back down; and there was hardly any point putting on the condom at all because he hardly lasts twenty seconds. She may as well have just jerked him off with her hand.

‘Sorry,’ he says, when he sees her realises. 

‘Really?’ she says, and whacks her hand against his shoulder. He supposes he can’t blame her.

She pulls herself off him and collapses on the bed beside him. Only for a moment; then she sits up on one elbow and she grabs his hand and pulls it between her legs. She’s amazingly, undeniably wet. Realising that clears some of the frustration from Youngjae’s head – he moves his fingers against her, and he watches her face contort with pleasure. He puts his fingers inside her and she pulls his hand tighter against her, rutting against his palm. She’s stopped looking the way she always looks, like judgement reserved. She’s stopped looking like she cares how she seems.

He rubs his hand against her until her body jerks, until he can feel her contract around his fingers, hear her cry out. And he wouldn’t stop, except she hits his shoulder again and she pushes him away.

Maybe it’s hopeful, but he feels like he could get hard again. She’s that intoxicating.

‘Okay, I guess you redeemed yourself,’ she says. She flops back onto her back. ‘You’re good for something after all.’

‘I only had to get cut up how many times for you to realise that?’

‘Mmm.’ She looks over at him, looks his body up and down. ‘I didn’t make you bleed that much.’ She flicks her finger beside the cut on his chest.

He catches her hand in his. He thinks for a moment she’s going to yank it away, but she only looks surprised. Because he’s touching her? Because he’s touching her, and it’s not for sex, or for either of them to hurt each other, but just because?

‘We should probably bandage that,’ she says, looking at his arm. The blood is smeared and wet; they look at it together.

‘It’s probably fine,’ he says.

‘I’m sure they’ll have a first aid kit at reception,’ she says. She draws her hand out of his, and she slips off the bed to find her clothes. ‘You get cleaned up.’

He does as he’s told. Disposes of the condom and takes a shower. He turns the water up too hot, and watches it run pink.

When he comes out the bathroom, Eunsung has the first aid kit, and she’s waiting.

---

In eight days, they’ll be back at school, but this time at least the end is in sight. And maybe there’s something better waiting beyond it. Maybe he’ll see Eunsung again, when it’s all over – if this whole thing isn’t some kind of fever dream, the fantasy you live out before you die.

He doesn’t think he can ever truly apologise, for what he did to her. She won’t apologise either, for the things she’s done to him. Maybe they’re both messed up enough that that doesn’t matter any more. No-one else will understand what it is they are to each other anyway.

If she hates him, she doesn’t need to dress his wounds for him. He doesn’t need to let her make them. But he does, and she does.

And maybe he does like her after all.