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Partitioned (1/3) (Minho)
It starts off slow, but keep reading… ;3
Sorry for the wait…
You groaned as you got up from the warm, white concrete the city was paying to have re-done. Roller skating had gotten much more dangerous than you had last remembered it at age 5.
Damn Chrstina, making you go out at all hours of the night for medicine. You thought a roommate would be fun, all pillow fights and shared study times. No. You had to have one that was so completely accident prone that she should wear helmets while sitting. And knee pads. And elbow pads. And bubble wrap. Just in case.
“SHIT! I’m SO sorry. Uh, can you stand? Should I call someone? Is there anything I can do?” The guy who pushed you flittered over you like an annoying bee.
You moved yourself off the concrete and into the nearby lush, green grass, relieved you were in a park and sat down with your legs straight in front of you. The grass was cool and a bit wet. The lights on the street that circled the park were tinged a light blue.
You took account of your body. Nothing seemed to be bleeding or broken. Just a couple of bruises that would be very painful in the morning.
You looked up at him and felt your eyebrow raise.
He looked really, really familiar, but you couldn’t put your finger on where you saw him before. He didn’t have a face you would forget a few seconds after meeting him. Straight, strong nose, doe eyes, and red lips. He had brown hair that reached to his forehead, and really long legs, at least from where you were sitting. He could be from the front page of a magazine in his classic black suit and sparkly earrings.
“Do you always ominously push girls on roller skates at night, or am I just special?” You dusted off your burning hands, taking note of the time. 10:42 PM. You were getting the slightest bit sleepy.
Calm. You would remain calm. This isn’t the time for passing out.
The guy ran his fingers through his hair. “The latter. So… Are you okay?” His enthusiasm for helping you had faded a bit, seeing that you were in full control of your mind and limbs. “Should we go to a clinic or a pharmacy?”
He offered you his hand to help you get up. You took his proffered hand, and let go when you realized it was wet.
“What’s on your hand?” You looked down. It was blood. Christ. The guy who pushed you was probably a serial killer who forgot to wipe his hands off.
A sociopath who would kill you slowly, and send you body parts to your family.
“Crap, you’re bleeding.”
Or that. Just as plausible. He took your arm, holding it delicately like it was made of paper. He had long fingers. He raised it so he could look at your elbow. It was too bloody to see the actual wound in the dim light. “Um, we need to get you to the hospital. Who knows what cut you?”
No, you would take care of it later; finals were this week. “I’ll be just fine.” You moved to get yourself on your feet, but you weren’t particularly adept at roller skating, but you knew how to go straight and stop, which was enough to go to the nearby drug store for medicine. To cut it short, you fell on your ankle.
Your mother was a family physician back in Virginia. You knew what a sprained ankle looked/felt like.
Shit. Christina was rubbing off on you.
“Name?” The grass was getting your butt wet.
The guy was now sitting beside you with a handkerchief, trying to clear away some of the blood.
He looked at you for a second, then flipped his hair out of the way of his eyes. After a few awkward seconds, “Oh, er, um, Minho”, came out of his mouth.
“So, Minho, you walk around in parks at night in formal attire. You push girls. You also carry around a handkerchief and hesitate when someone asks for your name.” He nodded, following along like a kindergartener. “Most of this points to a well-dressed killer.”
He looked at you, a bit confused. “You don’t know who I am?”
“…No.” Should you?
He paused for a second without saying anything, then muttered, “Well, I’m a well-dressed and well-regarded serial killer. You know, ‘cause there’s a difference.”
“So I assume you have an unmarked white van idols drive around in?” You gestured to a car that fit the description at the side of the road, not too far from where you two were sitting.
He looked at it for a second, then shook his head. “Actually, that’s not mine. Though I do have a phone, if you have friends who have cars.”
“I don’t really have friends that live close to here. I’m kind of studying abroad here. Only lived here a month this Friday, and school has kept me pretty busy. So. No friends.” Well, there was Christina, and she was bed-ridden. And you would rather stick a fork in your thigh than get into a car she was driving.
This situation is getting grimmer by the second. Twisted ankle, no real shoes, just roller skates, bleeding, and at the mercy of a total stranger. Great.
“Oh. We’ll have to walk then. I’ll give you a piggy back ride.” Minho looked at you with a straight face, like this wasn’t at all funny.
You smirked. You had recently gotten into Korean dramas, and it seemed like he had too. “We’re not going to call a cab first?”
He looked at you, annoyed. His doe eyes intensified, his chin lowered, and his lower lip protruded; he was pouting.
You met a tall, dark, handsome guy at night. And he was pouting like a 5 year old at being made fun of.
You grinned widely at the absurdity.
Minho, who had now stood up, looked down at you. You heard a sharp intake of breath. He proceeded to stare at you.
Tangled Messes Part 2
The next part of Tangled Messes. Hope you enjoy it. :3 I take requests. :)
You slipped on a white eyelit dress, your UNIF hellraisers, and your safety gear, and took your bicycle out for a ride to the studio.
The university you were going to has a total of 10 art studios. Each studio is used by 5 students, and the teachers, Mr. Taynard visited each regularly to see how things were coming along with his students.
You got to the white glass building (no chance of privacy; the whole building is see through) numbered 4 and took in the smell of concentrated watercolors and dried mud.
You set up your easel to hold a piece of blank watercolor sketch paper, and tried to draw Minho’s face from your mind.
You usually started with a person’s hair when you sketch a portrait, but you didn’t get a good look at his. You start off with his jaw line. It was sharp, defined.
You tried to mimic it.
No… It turned out too defined. It looked like it could cut through wood. You softened the edges. No. It didn’t look right.
You blurred the edges. Yes, exactly. The shadows were right.
You went up to sketch his forehead, then his eyes, and then his nose. You stopped and thought about each feature, how you remembered it.
You slipped off of your chair, and stepped back to look at your sketch before you started on his mouth and chin. It looked almost exactly like Minho; you were talented with the pencil, but it was mi-
‘It looks good.’
You jumped back, and you stumbled into Taemin. He was one of the artists who you shared the studio with.
‘How long have you been standing there?’
He smiled. ‘Long enough.’