Chapter Text
“He always believed I had a strength and intelligence I don’t have, so much so that I ended up believing it too.” - La notte (1961), dir. Michelangelo Antonioni
MONDAY APRIL 5 0700
Sunoo stands at his easel, a large sheet of cotton paper towering over him. He sticks his paintbrush into a glass of water that is placed on a wooden fold-out table- just small enough so as not to disturb the fragile harmony of the cramped studio. In fact, aside from the wooden easel, the furniture in the apartment is few and far between. The L-shaped kitchen pressed against the wall facing Sunoo boasts a few square feet dedicated to a stove and sink that look as though they have not been renovated since the early 20th century. Fortunately, Sunoo’s landlord was gracious enough to bestow his unit with a real fridge and not an icebox. A flat, humble mattress is depressed in the opposite corner of the room as if it is saying, “No, please don’t look at me.” Aside from these essentials, Sunoo’s studio boasts a lamp on the floor beside the mattress, a clothes rack that sits aimlessly in the middle of the room, and a stack of cardboard boxes that have yet to be broken down from past online delivery orders.
As Sunoo cleans off the brush with a whisking motion, ribbons of lavender paint fly off and disperse in the glass. The soft clinking of the wooden handle hitting the glass bounces across the room. A cloud passing by unveils the springtime sun, full of boundless energy as it sears into the side of Sunoo’s face. Scrunching up the side of his face to protect his vision from the blinding light, he picks up a fine-tipped brush and gingerly dips into his watercolor palette.
The white-noise hum of outside Chicago city traffic fills the studio. Occasionally, the meek honk of a taxi cuts through the silence.
…
“GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKER!”
A group of sparrows sitting along a telephone wire jump up with a start. Sunoo jumps in a similar fashion, leaving a mark on his canvas like a laceration. He peers out of the large bay window to his right. Outside, a tall, thin young man is hobbling down the front steps out onto the sidewalk. His sleek dark hair matches his worn black leather jacket. Sunoo makes a mental note of the difference in tones between the monochromatic hues.
With his back facing away from the window, it’s hard for Sunoo to make out, but it seems as though the stranger is clutching his own face.
The voice, which Sunoo is convinced may actually just be the voice of God since it clearly is not escaping the mouth of the victim in front of him, speaks again.
“NEXT TIME COME BACK WITH THE MONEY. NO MORE BULLSHIT.”
Sunoo can feel his heart reverberating at a pace that feels unhealthy and he retreats from the window pane. It gives a rush that he finds hard to place. Like he just went skydiving, or hit all 7s at a slot machine, or had a mind-reeling orgasm…
A car door slams shut and the screeching of tires lets him know that it’s safe to peek out once more. The scene is just as peaceful and quiet as it had been moments before, however Sunoo notices a trail of dark red droplets staining the sidewalk.