Song 1

Young Hoon Song

Professor Gregory John McClure
Writing 39B
4 October 2015
He was done for today. He shut the doors behind him and climbed back up the
stairs back to what he called home. It really was a pain, having to go back and forth,
from fantasies to reality. Sometimes the lines blurred between these two worlds that he
lived in, and it terrified him whenever it did. He'd be somewhere normal, in class or in a
restaurant and he'd feel the odd gravity of his fantasies pull at him. He'd lose himself,
just for the briefest of moments, and have to snap back into reality. It was the worst.
Whenever it happened, he'd sweat and shake uncontrollably. What started off as a
small relatively harmless hobby was taking over his life, and what used to be the idea of
compensation in order to keep himself sane, soon became more and more time
consuming. He told himself to keep to his schedule, it was the only way to keep his life
in check, but once he fed his desires, they only began to grow.
At first it was only the occasional hunt, once every year or two, just to keep
himself at bay. If he went out hunting just once, it would last him a year downstairs. He
rationalized it by telling himself it was like releasing a pressure valve. It was unhealthy
to keep all that pressure, right? Letting off some steam would be beneficial for
everyone, but once every year or so became once or so every year. Now he was doing
it every two or three months, even more so if he couldnt fight the urge. A kid missing
here and there was a tragedy, and that was the way it was supposed to be. Where did

Song 2
Robby go? An unanswerable question with the way he worked. A tragedy was
unavoidable, almost acceptable, but they werent calling this a tragedy anymore. They
knew something was wrong. He tried to act like one of them, going on searches and
asking around, but something told him they knew he was different. Maybe it was the
lack of genuinity in his actions. Maybe it was the way he wanted to know what they
knew so badly all the time.
Now that he was thinking about it, the urge for him to go back downstairs, where
he so often loses himself, pulled at him again. He turned around, walked back down,
and opened the door. He smiled and glossed over the pieces hes made scattered
around the basement. Couch cushions, tablecloths, belts, and others, things that looked
unfinished and thrown away in anger. Not to mention the blood. So much blood,
splattered all around the room. Now if one were to inspect the material of what he called
his art, theyd realize that it wasnt your typical cloth or leather. Quilt patches of toddler
clothes made up the tablecloths, blankets, and dresses. The leather was pale white,
maybe even human he thought innocently. The stitching was messy, mediocre at best,
evident of an amateurs handiwork, but all this was what he considered his art. Whats a
kid or two worth when compared to the beauty of his own work? Sometimes just looking
at his pieces wasnt enough, he needed the affirmation of others. Hed arrogantly put on
a belt, drive a few miles away from the city, tuck his shirt in, and ask what others
thought of his work. Theyd often ask what the material was made of, clearly something
they had never seen before, but hed never share his secrets.

Song 3
Oh his materials, there just never seemed to be enough for him. Hunting was
such a chore too. He hated getting so messy, having to beat his materials down while
holding their mouths quiet. It wasnt until they were quiet that he could stuff them into his
backpack of course. This constant lack of resources wouldnt be a problem if he wasnt
so clumsy now. He was once so careful with his work so that just one hunt would leave
him busy for so long, but as he was getting better, as he fell in love more and more, his
passion made him reckless and he threw so many pieces away to the floor unfinished.
Sometimes hed just cry in that room downstairs, screaming in rage at the imperfections
his hands made. It was okay though, it was just part of the creative process. Things
dont always go the right way, and mistakes meant that he could improve himself, let
himself grow.
His problem now was that, maybe it was growing too much. He dreamt of the day
that the world may accept his art, his beauty, when before he couldnt even deem his
pieces as anything but evidence of his crimes. The part of his life that he kept as a small
guilty pleasure was soon becoming guiltless. In his sanest of moments hed feel fear
and panic, as he self reflected, but it was only for the briefest of moments. Hed
rationalize his actions with the acceptance of art. It was for art, it was for beauty, and it
was all to himself.