2.08 ARTIFICIAL LOVE: Social Media

The misfortune begins on social media.

Their tattoo parlor receives some negative clout. It's totally ridiculous too, something about a customer who got a racist tattoo that happened to also be a copy of someone else's design. Blah, blah, blah, blah.

It's a big affair that unravels a tangled yarn ball and before Beomseok knows it's he's hunched over his phone, doing some real keyboard warrior shit as he assaults his phone screen. He's about twenty messages in with a single brain cell organism and none of his ragings is getting through.

Beomseok's about to blow, face red and teeth grit. He readjusts himself on the tattoo bench and doesn't even react when he feels a presence approach.

"That's enough." A hand comes down on Beomseok's shoulder, red nails pull him out of his stupor.

For the first time in the past hour or so, Beomseok leans away from his phone and the world is unkind to his light-sensitive eyes.

He grimaces when he looks up, seeing Queenie's disapproving frown.

There's a sour taste in the back of his throat and Beomseok feels like he just upset his parents rather than his boss. So he pulls a stupid excuse out of his ass. "Sorry, noona. I got a bit carried away but that bastard was really going too far, don't you think? Brats like that need to be reprimanded."

Queenie rolls his eyes at Beomseok and finally draws his hand away. Today he wears a bright red wig and rouge lipstick that line his lips. He looks sharp, like the femme fatale from a film noir. Only the pencil skirt he dons is way too short to be historically accurate. Otherwise, there's a distinctly vintage flare to today's outfit.

"Save your breath," Queenie sighs as he makes his way back to the receptionist desk. "It's not like you're making anything better."

"But we can't just sit back and take a bunch of unfounded criticism for nothing—" Beomseok is heated and his leg shakes restlessly. However, the way Queenie glares at him makes him feel like a child.

"Sometimes staying quiet has its merits," Queenie's voice comes out sharp and pointed. He's impatient, there's anger brewing beneath the surface but he's reeling it back. Queenie doesn't look at Beomseok.

Beomseok, youthful and hotheaded turns his lips upward in distaste, "But noona—"

His noona cuts him off, "Do you think it's worth saying your piece if you put yourself and others around you in danger?"

The words make him shut his mouth.

Queenie rubs his temples with those ruby nails. The wrinkles in his brow are deep with stress and frustration, it radiates off him in waves. "Beomseok," he says and his tone is final, "Why don't you get off early today? I won't even deduct you. Just get out of here."

"Noona—" Beomseok tries like an awkward kid trying to suck up to an angry parent.

"Just go," Queenie sighs, defeated.

"…Sorry, Queenie-noona." Beomseok feels awkward and too big for his large frame when he picks himself up. A part of him doesn't want to do but he's not an idiot and knows when he's overstayed his welcome. "Call me if you need me for anything…"

"Yeah," Queenie bites out but he's still not looking at Beomseok.

Everyone deals with their frustrations differently and Beomseok gets it.

He also realizes, albeit belatedly, that he may have messed up.

But he doesn't fight against Queenie and packs up before making his leave.

His mind is a mess and the anxiety surrounding work has skyrocketed lately. The club next door is still in operation and at this time in the evening, there are already workers milling about to open the establishment for the night.

Why didn't they seem phased?

Last Beomseok heard, there were some crazy rumors coming out of the place. Apparently, tattoos are more controversial than drugs and sex rings.

Melancholy colors Beomseok's mood. He curses and kicks a pebble off the pavement and pulls his oversized jean jacket tighter around his broad shoulders.

He feels like shit.

Not even a cigarette helps his ails so Beomseok decides that some self-medication is in due order. He makes a trip to the liquor shop before going home. There, he picks up the cheapest and the hardest shit.

The night's about to end terribly but Beomseok doesn't have enough fucks to give. He just wants to calm down and regain the peace he fought so hard to gain in the city.

The sky darkens when his apartment building comes into view from the bus. Beomseok decides at the last minute to take a turn to the park instead. There, the kids have long fled. Only a few teens are left occupying the skate park and a few gung-ho athletes take the tracks.

Beomseok finds his own corner and plops down on the bench. The stars are obscured by light pollution and he reminds him of a time he visited the mountain roads and saw the constellations splayed out in the sky in their full splendor.

He smirks, scoffs at himself, and opens a can of beer.

Beomseok isn't eighteen anymore and beer is a lot easier to stomach now than then.

As much as he wishes to cling onto hope, he can't help but feel that the illusions of stability are swaying and cracking beneath his feet. The life that he has built in the city is about to fall apart.

He wonders absently if this is just the merit of his curse; the misfortune that follows him after he's blessed with outstanding luck.

It's possible.

Anything seems possible at this point.

The beer can empties and he opens another.

The air is growing cold and his fingers numb. Beomseok finds that he doesn't care.

He needs to start job hunting again.

The thought brings with it a terrible wave of anxiety. He washes that down too, with exactly two cans.

There's an impatience that grows inside of him, but Beomseok doesn't know what he's waiting for. He curses at himself because intoxication is already starting to blur his thoughts and movements but the tightness in his chest doesn't unwind.

He wonders if he's just being dramatic again.

Beomseok knows that the smart thing to do is to stay away from social media but he's drunk enough to check his phone anyways.

The lock screen, however, greets him with a peculiar message.

It's a text, from an unknown number. Curiously, Beomseok clicks it to view it in full.

[ I know that we haven't talked in a while but if you ever need someone to listen to, know that I'm always here for you ]

He stares at it.

And stares.

And he can't think of anyone that might send him such a thing. All of his friends that he actually kept in touch with from his youth have him on SNS and they can contact him there.

It's not his dad. That's for sure and his brother has his current number so who…?

Beomseok thinks and thinks and suddenly his thoughts turn to absurdity.

Because the only time this kind of shit happens is in those cringy 'wrong number' fanfics.

No, he's overthinking it.

And yet Beomseok's fingers tremble. He shoves his phone back into his pocket and then combs back his hair.

Fuck. Yeah. No, better to just ignore it. If he just ignores it then karma won't be a bitch to him anymore.

Beomseok's thoughts stop making coherent sense. Might be because he traded the beer for soju at some point. The buzz in his mind festers.

If he drinks enough then he can just ignore the nagging feeling in his heart and mind. If he drinks enough all the strangeness in life might just evaporate. And if he drinks enough, the weird premonitions he keeps getting won't ever come true.

And in hindsight, he's the one acting paranoid and insane because there's nothing more than just a shitty rumor simmering about at work. Compared to his life-changing experience of meeting and talking to his idol, this much…isn't anything to fret about.

It's the reason why he doesn't call Dayoung for consultation and comfort. It's the reason why he finishes three bottles of soju in the park at night, alone.

By the time he stumbles home, he can no longer walk straight and smells like an entire liquor shop.

Beomseok has no idea how he wakes up with an open pack of ramen noodles next to his pillow and his pants around his ankles but it probably has something to do with how terrible his breath smells. It's as though he gargled day-old vomit with vodka or something and Beomseok wants nothing more than to brush his teeth.

His phone buzzes from under the blanket and when Beomseok pulls it out, he's not really thinking when he unlocks it.

[ are you ok? ]

A text message reads.

Unthinking, he replies to it.

[ nno im hungover as fk pls send help ]

The reply is instant:

[ ok i got you ]

Beomseok frowns at the message. He doesn't know what that means. He doesn't even know who he's talking to.

Soon, another message arrives:

[ don't forget to check your socials! ]

Beomseok doesn't check his socials because he falls promptly back asleep.