The Cursed Journey

PART 9: GENESIS

"Min-joon? What's—"

"Shit! Thank fuck you're safe!"

"Yeah, I'm safe? Why did you call me? What are you—"

"Are you writing?"

"No, not righ—"

"Good! Don't write anything! Don't do anything! Please. Okay? Promise me. I'll be there in two minutes."

"Min— Why?" I stopped. My brain wasn't able to compute what he was saying. "What's going on?"

"It's writers, Ody! The WHO just released an emergency update about the strange deaths and that's the only connection they can find. They're all writers!"

"W—what?"

"I don't know. I don't understand it myself, but if that's true, we're in danger." I heard him honk and curse someone out.

It took me several seconds to process his words. "Okay." I mumbled. "But if it's writers... what does this mean?"

"I... I don't know." He paused. All I could hear was his car—driving faster than it was supposed to, faster than it was safe to. "We'll figure it out." He replied, his voice grave and solemn. "Together. No matter what, we'll be there for each other. I'm gonna make sure nothing happens to you."

End of Part 9 of ? • LAST PART • NEXT PART (coming soon)

The Cursed Journey

PART 7: SUMMIT

There was a time in my life where I thought nothing was worse than afterparties. Being forced to attend a party or ceremony was terrible enough, having to stay afterwards? It was like being given detention.

The night of the Hugo Awards might have been the worst of the worst, simply because I wanted nothing more than to go home and decompress while everyone else there wanted nothing more than to talk to me. I was moments away from doing something my PR team would regret when a bartender slid a tonic with lime in front of me.

"Compliments of the gentleman." They winked and pointed to the other end of the bar.

Min-joon was standing there, leaning against the glowing counter as casually as can be, his face and body awash in pink and blue light. He was wearing a sparkling black suit jacket, an open collared shirt made from sheer lace, and a stunning necklace that dripped down his neck and chest like a stream of frozen tears. It put my basic purple suit to shame. Min-joon wasn't even looking at me. He seemed fully engrossed in his phone, so I smirked and pulled out my own.

The Cursed Journey

PART 5: BRAINSTORM

"So, what are you working on?" Min-joon was at the stove. He wasn't using it—he was using the kettle—but I literally didn't have a counter in that apartment. What I had was a sheet of plywood laid across the stove's burners (I think that's what they're called, but that also seems a bit too on the nose).

I didn't cook—still don't—so the kettle lived on that plywood board along with a cup containing two sets of utensils, a pair of chopsticks, and one sharp knife. My mug and tea collection took up one shelf in my "kitchen", but the others had been repurposed for book storage.

I was sitting on my bed, leaning against a mountain of pillows and scribbling in a notebook. "Nothing good." I tried to erase a line so intensely that it ripped the page. "Ugh!" I tore it from the book, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it across the room.

"Dammit," I whispered, because—naturally—it missed the bin by at least half a meter.

The Cursed Journey

PART 8: MOTIVE

"What does this even mean?" Michael's face scrunches up. "To Kelly with the cool bangs?" 

I snort. "It's exactly what it says."

"But who is Kelly? Is this a reference? Am I missing something? Is there anything—or anyone—you need to tell me about?"

I look away from the hologram and roll my eyes. Hopefully, he still hasn't upgraded his phone and the projection's too blurry for him to tell. "Just print it, Michael. It's non-negotiable."

"Okay." His shoulders appear as he makes an exaggerated shrug. "But you know people are going to talk when we release this. Right?"

"Sure. People will theorize. Let them." I can hear exasperation seeping into my voice. The tremor is back in my hands and I can feel a cluster headache gathering like storm clouds. "My private life is public property. I'm a character as much as I am a writer." I shake a small white pill out of an orange bottle. "You should be happy if people are talking," I grumble before tossing the pill into my mouth, swallowing it dry—a decision I immediately regret. "That's what you want. Isn't it?"

The Cursed Journey

PART 6: BEDSIDE

The heart monitor beats rhythmically—a slow, measured march that provides a stark contrast to the frenzied clicking of my keyboard. I barely hear any of it. Everything happening around me is white noise to the drama playing out in my head.

The crew has just freed Prometheus. Zo's trying to convince Mel to get in Atalanta's car, but Mel has no idea what's going on. To her it looks like her best friend dragged a bloody body out of Olympus Tower and is telling her to get in an outlawed vehicle with a corpse and a criminal.

The Eagle is hot on the group's trail and Zo keeps seeing images of Mel being stabbed repeatedly in the liver. They're screaming at one another, but Mel can't believe what Zo sees in their visions.

There's only a few seconds left. They can either force Mel to get in the car or stay with her and try to fend off the Eagle. Zo looks to Atalanta for guidan—

He stirs.

My fixation shatters. Fantasy fades to reality.

I leap from the armchair and stand over Min-joon, taking in every centimeter of his face, every inch of his body—searching for any signs of distress or pain. Any kind of response. Any kind of change. Anything at all.

The Cursed Journey

PART 3: DEMIGHOST

"Ody?"

I looked up from my phone. An astoundingly handsome stranger was standing there, smiling at me.

"Uh, yes?"

"Hey." He waved cheekily. "It's Min-joon." Holy shit, I thought. That's Min-joon? "You know," he continued. "Bidisaster."

"No, y—yeah." I stuttered. "Of course it's you. Wow. Hi!"

He took the seat next to mine. "How are you?"

"Good. Tired, but good. You?"

Min-joon took a deep breath, exhaling like someone who'd been holding their breath for several weeks. "I'm great!" He replied, somewhat unconvincingly. "Also tired, but no major complaints." 

There was a moment of silence as we took each other in, but—even back then—it didn't feel awkward. I don't know exactly what he was thinking, but my brain was struggling to connect this physical body to the virtual friend I knew so well. "Feels kind of wild, finally putting a face to the text."

"Yeah," he brushed his hair back out of his face. "Hopefully good though. It looked like I startled you for a second there."

"Oh, no. Not at all."

"What was this then?" He imitated my stunned face.

So, I started writing something this past week (inspired by DPR Ian's incredible music video for Don't Go Insane, and my feelings about [redacted]). This is all a work in progress and I'll be releasing it in sections. Anyways, here's the first part of...

The Cursed Journey

PART 1: PROXY

I don't sleep anymore. Anxiety and caffeine provide me with the energy I need to live and free up hours of otherwise wasted time. 

However—quite unfortunately—they've also stolen my ability to rest.

Most nights I lie in bed for 30-45 minutes but that's merely a formality, a tribute to a past life, a wish I'm certain will never come true. I get nothing from it—except for rare occasions where I stray close enough to dreaming to scrape up a bit of creative fodder—but it's one of the only things I do for myself.

Actually, it might be the only thing I do for myself.

It's not like I do it for long—I couldn't even if I wanted to (which I don't). It's just one half hour out of a full ass 24. Statistically, that shouldn't be the time when I get the most surprise calls. Yet, somehow...

"Fuck me. What now?" I growl, slapping my hand over my phone. It tumbles off the nightstand, because of course it does. A deeply dissatisfied groan rumbles out of my chest like distant thunder. Taking the sheets with me, I crawl halfway out of bed.

This is the third time this week. Who the fuck is it? I wonder, arms supporting my torso while my legs are still on the mattress, looking like I'm waiting for a wheelbarrow race to start. There's something degrading and weirdly primal about this position—stretching to reach my phone, grunting like an ape. I swear, if it's Michael, I'm going to—

My blood runs cold. Shit. My arms start to shake. I slip down onto the floor and stare at my phone. It rings several more times before I finally gain the courage to answer. I press the button and a hologram of a woman's face appears. I recognize her and her bob vaguely—she has very distinctive bangs—but I can't remember her name. "Hello?"

"Hi, I'm calling for Ody Specter."

I can't tell if she genuinely doesn't recognize me, if she's being polite and pretending, or if she's following some kind of script. Then again, maybe I just look like shit. "You've reached them." I lean against the sharp edge of my bed frame. The discomfort clears some of the fog from my mind.

"Hi. This is Kelly calling on behalf of the Writer's Ward. Are you sitting down? I'm sorry to say that I have bad news."

The Cursed Journey

PART 2: INTERVIEW

"Excuse me, Mx. Specter?"

I swallow my espresso hard and whisper, "Fuck." Of course they beat me here. They must have caught a whiff of despair and swarmed the place like a pack of hyenas. I should expect it at this point. Maybe next time I'll think to get their coffee orders. I'm only mourning the loss of one of my closest friends, it's the least I can fucking do.

They're already recording, I remind myself. They're always recording. Just in case, I subtly start a new voice memo on my phone.

Forcing a smile, I turn to see a reporter flanked by a crew of five. Lights switch on behind them, overwhelming my senses. A boom hangs suspended between us but the reporter still holds a prop mic to their lips.

I recognize the reporter immediately. Fucking Gerry.

"Yes." I do my best to appear amiable and pleasant—not emotionally distraught and immensely irritated. "Good morning."

"Morning, Mx. Specter. How are you? Gerry Hale." They place a hand over their chest. "We've met before." I have to physically stop myself from scoffing. Yeah, Gerry, I fucking know. They continue, smiling. "I'm hoping you have a moment to spare. We have some questions concerning Kim Ji-yeon."

"Of course," I don't have time, nor do I want to speak with you. "What can I do for you?"

The Cursed Journey

PART 4: DELIVERED

"Ani!" She screams. My eyes dart to the holoscreen. "Jebal! Aniyo, ani—" The recording cuts off. A dagger of searing nausea sinks into my gut.

The screen wipes to a shot of two immaculately dressed people sitting behind a round desk. "Those were the last words of renowned author Kim Ji-yeon. Late last night emergency officials were called to her Busan apartment only to find her unresponsive body lying on the floor of her study. It's a real tragedy, Ken."

The newsreader's voice is high and light. Paired with her lilting tone, she sounds eternally optimistic. Her well-trained composure betrays little to no genuine emotion. It's all manufactured. Saccharine. Made to make you feel but not feel too much. It makes me fucking sick.

Couldn't she be more somber? A little more serious? A woman is effectively dead. Has this lady forgotten that? Has everyone? Is this just so commonplace now that people are totally numb to it?

I quickly finish my sentence and shut my laptop.

"It sure is, Farah. We go now to Gerry Hale who met up with author Ody Specter outside of the Writer's Ward this morning." I snort. More like ambushed.

The feed cuts to a waist-up shot of myself with only Gerry's shoulder visible. The Ward's sign is clearly visible in the background and I'm framed in line with the steps. Damn, they're good. I fucking hate it, but I have to admire good craft when I see it. I try to remember if that's where I was actually standing or if that's part of their edits.

Leaning back in the lobby's squeaky vinyl chair, I prepare for the worst.