ANTEROGRADE TOMORROW PDF
ANTEROGRADE TOMORROW. Title: Anterograde Tomorrow. Pairing: Kaisoo. Rating: R (currently pg). Genre: Romance, Tragedy, slight angst. Length: Three-shot. Summary: Kyungsoo is. One of the EXO fanfics classics. I do not own anything. All credits to the migthy author, changdictator. <3 Lin.
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Thick pulse and dizziness make his head light and stomach turn.
He really cant feel his fingers, or knees for that matter. But everything settles down againalmost as if it were always meant to when his eyes graze a dumb grin and a pair of glittering eyes.
Hi, hyung, Jongin says, the corners of his lips falling, though features still soft. His voice is new, certainly, and Kyungsoo cant recall precisely when hes heard it beforeif ever. Still, its almost too natural to rekindle Jongins smile with a tiny Hello, and somehow the syllables are perfect on his tongue, perhaps because hes said it a thousand times already.
Perhaps because theyre meant to be.
Polaroid collage with little sentences inscribed underneath. This is Zitao, new Chinese waiter doing Wednesday night shifts 6 June ; here is Yifan, model requesting Rhapsody in Blue with a dry whiskey every Sunday 19 December ; Baekhyun there, but he moved out 6 July Its a synopsis of Do Kyungsoo: neighbors, acquaintances, old friends, new strangers, presented with military precision.
Near the end is a snapshot of a hunched figure, leaning on a brick wall, with one knee bent and the other propping his entire weight. A cigarette rests idly between long, thin fingers. Monochromatic grey ghosts along his countenance. White smoke twirls from the ends of his lips, diffusing through hair and drizzled rain into a strange sense of solitude.
Two words are scratched underneath. Neighbor, smoking. But more than the fact that Kyungsoo can swear it was only 24 November yesterday, his shirt takes up a good quarter the front page photo. His favorite shirt. The one that hed gotten for being employee of the week, with a lopsided, hand- sewn Pororo logo, right up in all of its magnified glory on the cover story.
Hastily scanning over the headlines of massive disorder in downtown Seoul caused by raining money, Kyungsoo focuses back on the picture. Its certainly his shirt, the one that hes wearing right now and has rolled out of bed in twenty minutes ago, in fact.
More precisely, the one that he cant remember wearing to any expensive penthouse, which apparently the picture was taken in. According to the article, Esteemed novelist Kim Jongin has just been bailed out for destruction of public order, after literally blowing a storm of hundred-thousand won bills out the window of his Seoul penthouse with an unnamed accomplice.
Calling it a billion-won confetti display, he has caused the largest traffic jam in Seoul history, effectively blocking off streets within a two- kilometer distance as city residents rushed to collect the money. But according to Kyungsoo, as he shoves the newspaper under Minseoks nose, National Post is pulling really elaborate pranks these daysbut where did they find my shirt? Minseok frowns hard at the article, and really hard at Kyungsoo, and then towards the other end of the bar.
Kyungsoo is too busy re-reading the article and double-checking his shirt to notice it, or the fact that there is someone exceptionally well-dressed seated at the end Minseoks wide- eyed stare, someone hiding an amused turn of the lips behind a glass of whiskey.
Its early Friday morning, 13th of July, an hour when the world runs on uncertain lamplights, drunken howls, and the occasional punch of laughter. There are just the two of them at this hour, and an obtrusive kind of silence.
Having just returned from the bar, Kyungsoo tries to fight off the cocktail of metallic smoke and the thick scent of alcohol caught in his hair. The last ringlets of saxophone nestle over his fingers and cinquillo beat lingers under his skin, but none of it is enough to fill the abyss that stands between him and the stranger. The stranger, with an unlit cigarette between his teeth, turns first.
The unflattering elevator lighting enshrouds him in jaundice yellow and a heavy veil of lethargy.
Kyungsoo wonders, with the cinquillo pounding into his veins, if the mans skin is as plastic as it seems. The weather. Its hot, he says, proffering a hand that Kyungsoo grabs with hesitation. His grasp is surprisingly cold, long fingers and nails cut short and sharp, leathery skin stretched taut over gaunt knuckles.
Um, Kyungsoo balks, as soon as he catches the stranger staring holes into his face. The handshake suddenly feels more of a deliberate judgment than an abrupt greeting. More frightening than tense and more awful than awkward.
Between the creaks of the elevator flooring and sputters of the fluorescent light bulb, Kyungsoos voice comes out as a squeak two pitches higher than its supposed to be, Yeah. Hot tonight. The stranger says nothing. Instead he leans back on the elevator walls and stares, eyes flickering up and down the length of Kyungsoos figure. Its the kind of stare that makes Kyungsoo draw back behind his jacket, though a thin layer of cashmere does little to hide him from the others glaring fixation.
Time stands on its toes until the doors open, when Kyungsoo lets out a gasp of air he didnt know he was holding in. Only later, after Kyungsoo has worked his way down the apartment corridors and noted that the stranger has trailed after him, does he realize that its probably not the first time theyve met. Do I know you from somewhere? He finally asks, voice echoing uneasily down the long hallways. The stranger has stopped at the neighboring door, twirling a keychain around his forefinger.
A sliver of moonlight works in from the railings and gleams off of something on his suit. Kyungsoo notes a pair of cufflinks, shiny and expensive-looking, too expensive-looking to belong to someone who would live in this kind of residence. Do you? The strangers lips work into a slow smirk. Kyungsoo picks the lint in his pocket. He doesnt remember coming upon the strangers face while reviewing the memory book earlier.
But perhaps he skipped a page. Its happened before. He hurriedly reaches for his bag, and is stopped with a bark of laughter, So you werent kidding about the amnesia. Whats the last thing you remember doing?
The stranger interrupts, in no apparent hurry as he slumps against his door and regards the way Kyungsoo is fumbling with the lock.
Even in the dark, the twinkle of sadistic amusement gleaming from his grin is distinct. It makes him look older than he seems, almost sadly so. Kyungsoo thinks so hard he forgets to answer, and by the time he turns around again, the stranger has gone. The sun is breaking into a Monday. A gust of summer blows away the last rays of moonlight. Kyungsoo rushes down for his job at the factory and the man with an unlit cigarette between his lips works his way up.
Their gazes collide, and maybe their shoulders graze, and thats enough for Kyungsoo to freeze mid-step. But the man doesnt spare a second to acknowledge Kyungsoos flabbergasted stare. He simply keeps climbing, wheezing and panting, face pale and beaded with perspiration. Kyungsoo watches his legs quiver and wobble with each step, as if theyre no longer strong enough to support the invisible, enormous weight on his shoulders. As if he would quake and topple over with the smallest tickle of a breeze.
Its almost breathtaking how broken his back looks from this angle, all fabrics caving over blades of bones, sharp angles and emaciated lines.
Half a thought passes about maybe taking a photo of this man, but Kyungsoo doesnt know what he would label that photo, and plus hes late for work, so he runs on. For Kyungsoo, summers in suburban Seoul are made of mezzo voices threading deep into midnight, cardboard boxes of leftover toys dragging across rubber conveyor belts, red bean slush and wrinkled newspapers under soft kisses of dusk.
There are more entries in his scrapbooks now. His life is surging with columns of black notes; Zitao and Yifan are now more than friends, Minseok has found a new tune; there is a stranger living in the vacated apartment to the left, and they might have spoken before. Hi, the man grins, cigarette bobbing limply from the corner of his mouth, My name is Jongin.
Im a writer. I moved in next door a week ago. For the sake of inspiration, artistry, discovering poverty, avoiding the press mob at my usual place, so on. The point is: weve talked before.
Oh, Kyungsoo immediately falls back on his usual response, SorryI have anterograde amnesia so You dont remember me. I know. You forget everything by the end of each day so you wont remember me by tomorrow. Jongin steps back, nurses a flame from his zippo onto his joint, takes a deep drag, and lets the smoke gush viscous and white from his teeth, Anyways.
I need to get a manuscript into my editorOh Sehunif you knew him youd know how much of a fucking douche he is, but the point is: if I dont get in something in a month hes going to nag like a bona fide bitchand, to be frank, Im out of ideas. But not really. I have an idea. And the idea involves Its not until Kyungsoo is coughing back smoke does he realize he hasnt been breathing the whole while, Um, yes, involves what?
You, Jongin smiles. The thing about Jongins smile is that only his mouth moves upwards, so all Kyungsoo sees is a beautiful picture of pricey starched white shirts and grinning misery. A whole lot of suffering wrapped up in exposed teeth and narrowed eyes.
The prettiest adjectives to dot an abandoned soul, most delicate epithets to cross a closed heart. Kyungsoo writes that down on the Polaroid he takes of Jongin that night. This is Jongin, new neighbor, novelist, sad smile 17 July We will have interviews. He wants to write a book about me. His memory doesnt last long enough for him to keep up with long- term changes and its not like he can grow tired of doing something he cant remember doing, in any case.
So what do you do? Jongin interrupts, a pen tucked behind his ear and another one between his fingers. Kyungsoo says that he works at the neighboring toy factory from nine to five, gluing little shiny little marble eyes onto stuffed cartoon characters.
A breath of artificiality for the sparkle of life. The job is purely for financial support, albeit Kyungsoo thinks that he might have grown attached to his coworkers and the plushness of the toys, the soft fabrics, the forever cheerful smiles.
The job makes just enough for rent and necessities. Still, its alright because seven oclock fixes everything. At seven, he heads for the bar to nurse transient melodies from his soul. Technically the hour is about demurely collecting change under drunken chaos, but for Kyungsoo, its about molding words out of thin air, gasps of smoke and shudders of music, closed eyes and faint sighs embracing the crop circles of sawdust in the carpets.
Its about muses slipping through fingers and curling around his toes. Seven is about passion. A dream. Kyungsoo lets all the two hundred and six bones of his body fall in place as he breathes, It might be lackluster, I guess. But its hard to feel the lackluster when youve never really felt the luster. Felt alive, I mean. So youre like a walking corpse? More like a walking fossil.
Minseok, his childhood friend and fellow singer in the bar, always jokes that because time has stopped for Kyungsoo four years ago, he must be perpetually twenty years old. But its not really a joke, and people have stopped laughing a long time ago.
I think its funny though, Jongin remarks, dropping his cigarette stub in the beer can before taking an appreciative sip. Kyungsoo tries not to wonder how it tastes, nicotine and tobacco drowning in fizzling wheat. Instead he peers over at Jongins notepad, and the little illegible lines of black ink left sprawled over the edges. Jongin explains that theyre for a book hes writing. A romance about a man who erases himself at the end of each day.
Kyungsoo questions the romance in that. Jongin says no worries, writers are certified bullshitters; just kill someone and itll end up romantic. They met for second time twenty minutes ago, when Jongin banged on Kyungsoos door with a six-pack of Hite and a joint poking out between lax fingers, Hi, Im Jongin, your new neighbor.
Weve met before at which point Kyungsoo promptly reached for his book and Jongin commented, Im on the last page, I think. The guy wearing a suit. Kyungsoo stared at the photo, and back at Jongin, and then twenty minutes later here they are: sitting on the fire escape, talking about large philosophies and sub-ideal romances that Kyungsoo cant quite loop his head around. Their knuckles and shoulders are bumping, which makes Kyungsoo uncomfortable, and even more so that Jongin doesnt seem to care.
In fact, Jongin doesnt seem to be the type to care about anything. What do you mean, its funny? More importantly, how does it feel to be perpetually twenty years old?
Kyungsoo contemplates, Good. But isnt it terrible? Youre caught in time but time moves on. You cant remember people coming or leaving. The world diminishes around you while youre stuck in the center. All of your old friends leave or die and you cant make new ones. You cant love. You cant hate. So why is it funny? Its so sad its funny, Jongin shrugs, People tend to feel bad for poor, harmless souls like you. Carrying a larger-than-life burden with smaller-than-life ambitions.
Like watching an ant die under a magnifying glass and squealing in joy over the sadness of it all. Its hilarious. Well I mean, I make a living off exploiting it for all its worth, but its still hilarious. Jongin flicks off the end of his cigarette and they watch ashes swirl down three flights of stairs together. A breeze. Jongin inhales summer, exhales toxins. Kyungsoo picks at his toes and fingers and the little bits of rust in the steel staircase before saying, decisively, something that he isnt sure he wanted to say, You sound so miserable.
All novelists are. Is that why you smoke so much? Jongin writes inexplicably Good Samaritan and consequently nosy in the column headed under Character Traits. Pretending not to see it, Kyungsoo nudges him for the answer until eventually Jongin complies with a sneer, You dont need to know. Why dont we talk some more about how you keep track of No, Kyungsoo snaps firmly, No, I want to know. Listen the book is about you This conversation is about us.
Lowering his head, Jongin mutters something about pains in the asses before ripping his face back up with a blank smile that curdles Kyungsoos guts, Okay.
About us. I wont remember it by tomorrow, anyway, Kyungsoo reminds him. Hollowing his cheeks in on the joint until the little flicker of orange disappears, Jongin lets the words flood out with white vehemence, Ill tell you what makes me miserable, Jongin looks somewhere into the distance, and that is when everything falls apart, I have idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis.
It means that my lungs are drowning in snot. Im dying. That makes me fucking miserable, alright? The noise of street vendors and traffic and children playing suddenly becomes unbearably soft. Kyungsoo stares at his knuckles and feels the blood rushing out of his face, ImIm sorryI didnt know you were In other words, god is suffocating me in slow motion. In three years my heart is going to be lopsided trying to pump enough oxygen through my body.
Im going to have organ failure. Eating is going to be impossible because how do you eat a meal while breathing through straws? And why do I smoke, you ask? Why do I smoke. Kyungsoo watches his knuckles go bloodless. He wants this to end. Hes sorry. Hes sorry and he doesnt understandbut Jongin doesnt really want him to. I smoke to die faster. I smoke so that when Im etherized on the hospital table Id go out with a swoosh instead of a swish, Jongin nods, speaks of misery in the form of discursive gray, But this isnt funny, you know.
This is just plain sad. Im the saddest fuck on the planet. Miserable, isnt it? And a shriek of dry laughter to punctuate the monochromatic anger, Nah, Im just fucking with you. It is funny. Its funny because my life is full of this: you think youre escaping, until you run into yourself. Twenty-three years later it turns out that the longest way round is the shortest way home, and Ive been running in circles since the get-go.
What a riot, huh? Neither of them laughs, though Jongin does snort when eventually Kyungsoo finishes things off with a gentle, Ill forget by tomorrow. Their interview dawdles until its seven.
Kyungsoo sings tonight, like any other night, but the words and tunes are coming out of his mouth and not his heart and the only thing he can remember is smoke. The liquid pain seeping from Jongins seams.
He goes home at half-past midnight and sticks a note up on the wall, a bright yellow one smack in the center of everything, so he wont miss it tomorrow: Grab a toy from work.
Leave it by the apartment next-door. Its the same toy that he stitches at work, and if he squints hard enough he can almost be sure that hes the one who glued the eyes on because hes the only one who manhandles superglue that way. There is a Thank You card underneath Pororo that says, in angry black ink, Pitys pretty fucking expensive from someone who cant care.
He has no idea what those words mean, but the pang in his heart is too loud to be dismissed. Suddenly all the melodies and rhythms fade away into an overwhelming silence. More sour than disappointment, more bitter than loneliness. Tonight the apartment next-door is buzzing with strident, uneven laughter that sounds something like sobs.
A whole multitude of voices and chatter, vague shouts of Luhan Jongin Sehun under the semi-buzz of never-empty bottles of scotch and vodka.
While passing by to take out the garbage, Kyungsoo catches a glimpse of three very beautiful faces floating beyond the curtains, a sharp glare of chandelier lights, the pungent scent of alcohol and cologne and luxury. His own apartment looks particularly desolate at this hour.
Dimness swallows all of the walls and corners. He re-writes all of his sticky notes in green instead of blue, and Friday passes with the silent clicks of gel pens against neon paper. More than the card, he knows that theyve met before. And the thoughts not surprisingnothing is reallyperhaps due to the messy haze of cigarette smoke that puts everything out of focus: coffee cups, moist windows, the fraying and tarred edges of the writers notebook; it slows everything down, dulls all of the shines into glows and all of the corners into curves.
The writer smokes, hastily, and Kyungsoo feels this alien, emptied sensation watching him. Like something cracking slowly, deeply, irreversibly within him. The coffee shop during the evening of July 21st is a low rumble of clinking porcelain cups, the continuous drone of tired students, whipped cream murmuring into cappuccinos. Its not particularly loud, but the noise is the kind to quicksand someone. Drown them slowly and leave nothing except clawing fingertips and air bubbles breaking the surface.
Kyungsoo builds half a question over whether or not all writers look like this, with dark circles bruising eyes and complexion caught between yellow and white and occasional twitches of the brow.
The question collapses as soon as the writer stubs out his joint and catches Kyungsoos gaze. One long, hard line from one pair of eyes to another.
You okay? The writer, who introduced himself as Jongin, demands briskly. Jongin doesnt seem to have the time or patience to accept any alternatives, so Kyungsoo only nods, Yeah.
Tell me about the accident four years ago. Or well, yesterday, as you would remember it, Jongin prompts. Theres a hint of anxiety in his voice. Kyungsoo cant help but notice the ugly smattering of bandages over his knuckles.
The purple and green smudges around his wrist. And suddenly he wonders if its a writers thing at all, those angry eyes and bloody knuckles and unconscious flinches.
It was just a typical accident, Kyungsoo says. Though he cant remember days having passed from the particular evening, somehow the shock no longer registers, I was coming home from the factorythe one I work at right now, got hit by a fruit truck. It was carrying apples. Red ones. Youve always been working at the factory? Ever since I was eighteen. I went as soon as I finished high school. My mom passed away and my dad was sick so I had to foot his Yeah, okay, Jongin interrupts.
Kyungsoo can see the look of exasperation on his face and wants to protest and no, its not just a typical sob story about just another kid playing hero.
Its a story about family and warmth and hard-earned cookies by the bedside and counting the drops of IV and praying to cartoon characters for happiness. But Jongin is not in the mood to entertain any clarifications, So if you werent such a responsible human, you wouldve become a singer?
I guess so. And then you got hit by a truck. Terrific luck, Jongin quips and scratches something out on his notepad. Kyungsoo chews on his lower lip, a bad habit. Are you angry? No, Jongin snaps, a beat too quickly. Kyungsoo falls quiet while Jongin reads the next question, scarcely looking up from his pen, How do you keep track of your life? All the details. Usually, I take pictures of new people I encounter, put them in a notebook and list what Ive learned about them. I re-read it at the beginning of every day and update it at the end.
Other things, I write on my walls, and my planner. The temporary issues I put on sticky notes and paste them wherever. Usually on my walls. Kyungsoo peers at his coffee, and back up again when nothing returns except the noisy grinding of pen against paper. Do you find that you have to relearn things? Like if you figure out how to walk to the coffee shop today, by tomorrow would you forget how to walk here again? Well, no. I can remember the answers. I just cant remember learning them.
Tomorrow I wouldnt remember walking here with you. I would only know where this place is. Are you really not upset? Were writing about you. A novel about you. Lets not talk about me, okay? Why are you upset? Jongins shoulders sag and he drops his notebook, pen, everything with a clatter.
Rubbing a coarse hand through his crumpled features, he stares at Kyungsoo with worn exasperation. Perhaps he reeks a little of guilty conceit as he mutters, Issues.
People with actual memories have issues. Kyungsoo doesnt acquiesce to Jongins impatient tapping, If you need someone to talk to about the issues, you know that Im Youre the perfect person to dump everything on, of course, because nothing would ever burden you because youd never fucking remember, right?
There is a vague feeling in Kyungsoos guts that maybe hes said that previous line one too many times. Maybe theyve been in this situation before: Jongin frustrated and tattered on the fence of art and reality, Kyungsoo confused and worried, trying to help Jongin down with no idea how.
Im sorry, he says, finally, when Jongin has stopped retching for oxygen. He doesnt take his eyes off the way Jongins fingers are trembling, Youre right.
Im sorry if I asked you this before and Im just reminding you of something unpleasant, I really dont mean Its about hands, Jongin suddenly decides. It takes Kyungsoo a long time to recognize Jongins voice because its low, monotonous, and awfully quiet. Its nothing like what is usually and diffuses through the air like ether.
My life is about hands. Its about shoving your diamond-ringed hands down my bile- washed throat. Its about shredding my soul with a pair of your expensive gloves. Its all about hands. Nails drawing crescent blood. Ink-smudged fingerprints down thighs. Knuckles crushing reflections behind a thin layer of paint and glass.
Hands, hands, hands. A sip of coffee and Kyungsoo presents an apologetic grin, I still dont really Im dying, okay? Kyungsoo feels his heart plummet as Jongin continues, with the numbness of a man who has announced the same thing thousands of times already, Im going to be dead in three years, maybe two.
Probably less. But you know, people wont love me when Im dead. Thats a fact. People might pity me. Worship me.
Say that I was a genius mind, revel in the great performance art that was my life. And what do I do with all that? Can I sell it? Can I have a future and a white- washed house and argue about what plants to put in the front yard with their fucking assembly- line pity? Jongins eyes are red. His lips are white. The silence is black. You know what I think, Kyungsoo has no idea what hes saying, only an inkling that he probably shouldnt be saying it at allbut the words come out on their own, I think that youre just afraid.
Jongin doesnt speak for a long time, and when he does, he doesnt look up from his notebook anymore, So if you can retain memories of how to do something, do you also retain feelings? If you fell in love with a woman today, would you still love her tomorrow? I dont know, Kyungsoo gnaws on his lower lip again, But I suppose if I cant remember doing anything with her, then I cant reallyyou cant love someone you have no memories of, right?
Isnt love based on memories and actions? Is it. Kyungsoo fidgets with his sleeves, Youre still upset. YouIam not your friendor your therapistorI guess I dont even qualify as an acquaintance butJongin, Kyungsoo stammers, unsure again of what hes saying, You can talk to me. I wont judge you. I cant say I understand everything but Ijustwouldnt you feel better if Shut up, Jongin snaps, eyes still fixated on burning holes into his notebook, Do not lecture me.
No, Jongin I just You dont have any right to assume what makes me feel better because you dont understand pain, do you?
What makes you think you can judge me? You cant even love. You said it yourself. You cant love so you cant be hurt, can you? Tomorrow youll wake up and everything will be fucking fine. Everything will be fucking dandy like its always been and hey, do you ever think that youre only so happy each day because youd forgotten about all the times youve hurt everyone else?
Do you ever think about that? What if you hurt someone yesterday? At least normal people have the decency to feel guilt. You cant feel anything, cant understand shit, Do Kyungsoo, becauseyou, are, just, a, walkingcorpse.
When Kyungsoo feels something welling in his eyes, Jongin has already slammed his notebook down and stormed out of the cafe.
And it turns out that the notebook doesnt actually have any writing on it, just massive twines of ink balled into ripped pages. While they wait for the musicians to unpack their instruments and tune, he turns to Kyungsoo with arched brows, What happened?
Kyungsoo frowns, thinks back all the way to when he rolled out of bed this morning, and shakes his head, Nothing. I had a pretty normal day.
I dont know, Minseok shrugs, You just look kind of solemn is all.
Does anyone of you read AT already?!?!
As Kyungsoo chews on his lip and ponders over why he would look solemn when everyone has been perfectly amiable, Minseok chats with Zitao about how the rich writer guy hasnt shown up to the bar for days.
They sing their usual song, a few new improv lines, before Kyungsoo realizes that Minseok was right. His heart is not in the music. Midnight has passed hours ago, and his eyes are burning with fatigue, but Kyungsoo simply couldnt fall asleep, so here he is, gnawing on his lip and flipping through his scrapbook.
At some point before hes realized it, he began counting the number of new pictures to the number that has been crossed out. And, to his disappointment, almost all of his old high school friends have moved out and away, and he hasnt made any new notes on any of them since years ago.
He tries to dial Baekhyuns old number, and of course, its out of service. Its probably been out of service for months, years. How long? Hey, a voice pops out from the dimness. Kyungsoo bolts a meter and a half and nearly shrieks. But somehow the person standing on the neighboring balcony doesnt look all that unfamiliar.
He has an awkward kind of smile, like it physically hurts to move his face that way, What are you doing there? Kyungsoo hesitates about telling the truth. He does it anyway, Counting the number of people Ive lost contact with. Theres a lot, and he feels awfully like sobbing. The distant rumbles of friendship and laughter and camaraderie, things he no longer possess, push out his tears and he turns his head back to the scratched photos in his book.
The old, fading smiles and the pain seeps in one molecule at a time. He doesnt want to cry, and he doesnt know why hes crying, Just yesterday I I was friends with all of them but it says here that they moved away? They left? Theyre gone? Am I really alone? The guy on the neighboring balcony breathes out fogs and glitter clouds, hiding a strangled laugh, Yeah, youre really fucking alone.
Were all alone, except you dont live long enough to realize it. Kyungsoo puts his head down in his arm and cries harder than hes ever cried before, and he knows this because this is not the kind of pain that can be forgotten by tomorrow. He doesnt see the blank look on the other mans face, doesnt hear the mans cigarette falling out from between his fingers and onto the ground three floors below. There is a scrapbook in his arms, paper cuts over his fingers, and the wall of green notes makes him sick to the guts.
I havent been one, a stranger in the elevator begins when Kyungsoo stumbles inside. Kyungsoo almost flinches, except somehow hes not surprised to hear this voice. The low timber and the cracks around each syllable. A kind of grudging reluctance, shy naivety despite the words, Ive hurt everyone who has ever really tried for me. Even myself. Im a coward, and I take it out on other people because Im afraid of admitting it.
Kyungsoo nods, and takes in everything about this man before himthe loosened tie, the heavy shadows under his eyes and the caved cheeks, the hunched back, the painful elevations of his chest, straining against a white-pressed shirt. Somehow his swollen eyes the taste of battery acid that wouldnt wash out with mugs of milk disappears so easily.
His heart clenches as he reaches out and touches the mans arm, Youll be okay. My name is Jongin. Kyungsoo might not have heard the last syllable. Still, the name is familiar on his lips as he echoes it, Jongin.
Im a writer, Jongin says, and the elevator doors slide open as if on cue. Kyungsoo doesnt move. They revel in the stillness, the drone of the ventilator and their uneven, noisy exhales. And as the doors close again, Jongin tells a story about a boy who fell in love with dancing, and a dancer, and fell too hard, too fast. A story about someone named Jongin who was trampled under expectations and pressure and gave himself up and stopped loving people, himself, passion, aspiration. Its not a long one, and it ends with a new story.
So he became a writer, and he wrote about that dancer who he loved and cast away. The innocence that crumbled in his hands, inevitably. People gathered and paid for the pity party and it made him rich and famous and sadsomeone called him miserable, onceand he wrote more about corroding dreams and despair and moon-watching from well bottoms, and it made him richer, and sadder, and more famous, and eventually god decided to put him out of his misery. But he had to write one more book, because hes become the kind of bastard who lived on misery.
Parasitic dependency on sucking the agony out of others bones. The elevator opens. Easton and Parker observed damage to either the hippocampus or the surrounding cortices does not seem to result in severe amnesia in primate models.
They suggested damage to the hippocampus and surrounding structures alone does not explain the amnesia they saw in patients, or increasing damage does not correlate with the degree of impairment. To demonstrate their hypothesis, they used a primate model with damage to the basal forebrain. They proposed that the disruption of neurons that project from the basal forebrain to the MTL are responsible for some of the impairment in anterograde amnesia.
Easton and Parker also reported MRI scans of patients with severe anterograde amnesia showed damage beyond to cortical areas around the hippocampus and amygdala a region of brain involved in emotions and to surrounding white matter white matter in the brain consists of axons, long projections of neuronal cell bodies. Another case described the onset of anterograde amnesia as a result of cell death in the fornix , another structure that carries information from the hippocampus to the structures of the limbic system and the diencephalon.
The patient in this case did not show any disconnection syndrome, which is unexpected since the structures involved divide the brain hemispheres both sides of her brain were able to communicate. Instead, she showed signs of amnesia. The final diagnosis was made by MRI. This particular amnesic syndrome is difficult to diagnose and often is misdiagnosed by physicians as an acute psychiatric disorder.
Neuroplasticity describes the ability of the cortex to remap when necessary. Remapping can occur in cases like the one above, and, with time, the patient can recover and become more skilled at remembering.
This case is unique because it is the only one in which both sides of the MTL were removed at different times. The authors observed that the patient was able to recover some ability to learn when she had only one MTL, but observed the deterioration of function when both sides of the MTL were afflicted.
The reorganization of brain function for epileptic patients has not been investigated much, but imaging results show that it is likely. In this perspective, environmental adaptation techniques are used, such as the compensatory technique education to training exercise , organizational strategies, visual imagery and verbal labeling. In addition, other techniques are also used in rehabilitation, such as implicit tasks, speech and mnemotechnic methods.
So far, it has been proven that education techniques of compensatory strategies for memory disorders are effective in individuals with minor traumatic brain injuries. Reality orientation techniques are also considered; Their purpose is to enhance orientation using stimulation and repetition of the basic orientation information.
Controversies[ edit ] Episodic versus semantic memory[ edit ] As described above, patients with anterograde amnesia have a wide range of forgetfulness. Declarative memory can be further subdivided into episodic and semantic memory. In a case study of a girl who developed anterograde amnesia during childhood, it was determined that the patient "C. As a result, he cannot remember any specific episode in his life, such as a train derailment near his house. However, his semantic memory is intact; he remembers that he owns a car and two motorcycles, and he can even remember the names of his classmates in a school photograph.
In stark contrast, a woman whose temporal lobes were damaged in the front due to encephalitis lost her semantic memory; she lost her memory of many simple words, historical events, and other trivial information categorized under semantic memory. However, her episodic memory was left intact; she can recall episodes such as her wedding and her father's death with great detail.
Vicari et al. Both of the patient's hippocampal and diencephalic structures on the right and left sides were disconnected. When C. After administering a battery of neuropsychological tests, Vicari determined that C. However, this study and others like it are susceptible to subjectivity, since it is not always possible to clearly distinguish between episodic and semantic memory.
For this reason, the topic remains controversial and debated. Familiarity and the fractionation of memory[ edit ] The right hippocampus is clearly necessary for familiarity in spatial tasks, whereas the left hippocampus is necessary for familiarity-based recollection in verbal tasks. These memory decisions are made based on matching already-existing memories before the onset of pathology to the current situation.
According to Gilboa et al. When the patient was given a test with something with which he had some familiarity, the patient was able to score well. In general, however, A. Other studies show animals with similar injuries can recognize objects with which they are familiar, but, when the objects are presented in an unexpected context, they do not score well on recognition tests. Islands of memory[ edit ] Patients with anterograde amnesia have trouble recalling new information and new autobiographical events, but the data are less consistent in regard to the latter.
The island memories were a combination of semantic and episodic memories. The researchers recorded patients giving long narratives with a fair amount of detail that resembled memories that the patients had prior to the trauma. The appearance of islands of memory could have something to do with the functioning of adjacent cortical areas and the neocortex.
In addition, the researchers suspect that the amygdala played a role in the narratives. As a result, Molaison had bilateral damage to both the hippocampal formation and the perirhinal cortex. Molaison had average intelligence and perceptual ability and a decent vocabulary. However, he could not learn new words or remember things that had happened more than a few minutes earlier.
He could remember anything from his childhood. If the memory was created from before his lobectomy, he still had the ability to retrieve it and remember. However, he was able to learn some new skills. He was the first well-documented case of severe anterograde amnesia, and was studied  until his death in As a result, Wearing developed both anterograde and retrograde amnesia, so he has little memory of what happened before the virus struck him in , and cannot learn new declarative knowledge after the virus struck him either.
As a result of anterograde amnesia, Wearing repeatedly "wakes up" every day usually in second intervals. He has a history of repeatedly recording these moments of waking up in his journal e. His episodic memory is nonfunctional so he does not consciously recall having woken up 30 seconds prior. Clive is often elated to see his wife, as if he has not seen her for a while. Despite this, however, Wearing maintained his ability to play the piano and conduct choirs. This case is significant because it demonstrates declarative and procedural memory are separate.
Therefore, despite anterograde amnesia preventing Wearing from learning new bits of information that can be explained in words declarative memory , and also preventing him from storing new memories of events or episodes also part of declarative memory , he has little trouble in retaining his musical abilities procedural memory , though he has no conscious memory of having learned music. He performed better on consecutive tests over a week period 24 study sessions. However, when asked how confident he was about the answers, his confidence did not appear to increase.People with actual memories have issues.
He doesnt see the blank look on the other mans face, doesnt hear the mans cigarette falling out from between his fingers and onto the ground three floors below. Let myself be forgotten. Itll be blood and tears over pulp and paper and, honestly, its better not to have a page of me at all.
Splayed out against the couch, Jongin is the kind of guy to belong in this sort of place, probably, or the kind of guy who has gotten used to this high class superficiality. Victor Hernan. The point is: