The Future Blogger

the future blogger--chapter 1;

---

Gene Hwang has always known the glamorous life.

Gene Hwang now wants to end said glamorous life.
---
“You’ll be on in three minutes Gene, is there anything you’d like? I could get you a glass of water now.” Mr Lee doesn’t make offers very often—he’s always believed in the tough principle or what Gene, after four years of having suffered this abuse, deems jail treatment. Whilst the elderly man seems polite enough outwardly, the model knows from brutal experience that courtesy is never really genuine.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Gene nods as curtly as possible as a hand—probably one of the stylists’—sweeps through his hair, ruffling it into a semi-messy yet charming mussed mop.
The woman standing beside him places a hand on her hip, surveys her handiwork and then sighs; Gene cringes at the dissatisfaction he hears. The model catches fragments of whispers—more makeup—and internally winces as he braces himself to have his skin violated by an assortment of brushes and other tools of maquillage. It’s never painful, but it’s awkward and embarrassing and not in that it hurts his male pride but more so that he feels like a doll, carefully, casually having his face rearranged by these absolute strangers …

And there’s nothing he can do about it, of course; a few words in fine print ensured that.

With a sigh, Gene moves from his seat as someone frantically screeches his name from the doorway. Another grey day in this black and white circle. Just another one. His shaking hands scramble to fit into his pockets and it takes a few tries for him to master the suave expression he’s meant to have down pat; he’s tempted to wipe away the icy sweat that beads on his forehead but the fear of smearing his makeup keeps him still.

The lights that shine down on him whilst he strides down the catwalk sting his eyes but the teenager has long since understood how frowned upon complaining is in the industry; his manager’s trademark one-size-fits-all response for any form of whinging is a callous ‘get over it’ and despite the burn behind his retinas, Gene’s lips curve to reveal his pearly teeth and handsome jawline, even though he wants to cringe—to curl up somewhere and sleep until the feeling of floating passes. The suit cuts perfectly around his shoulders and his waist; the grey wool contrasts splendidly with his porcelain skin. Cheers and applause rise into the air as Gene’s slender frame struts down the ramp—somewhere in the distance he hears Mr Lee heave a sigh of relief as the proceedings so according to plan.

Gene ignores it in favour of disappearing backstage and allowing the next model to bask in the light.
On reflex he collapses into the nearest couch, his complaining legs relieved as they no longer have to support his weight. Almost like a marionette, he bends forward—double—and places his blonde head in his hands, the insistent throb behind it only just beginning to dim. He feels odd; Gene has never taken to modelling as well as others despite his reasonable confidence and indubitable good looks, but this time is different. Nausea claws at the back of his dry throat and hunger scratches at his stomach. The sweat that pours down his face is absolutely freezing and his fingers scratch at fabric just to remain steady.

He feels sick—so sick—so--

“Hey Gene, do you feel alright?”

It almost doesn’t make sense to him. A seemingly concerned figure is standing next to him, one comforting hand settled on his shoulder and lightly shaking him. “Yeah, I’m—I’m alright,” the seventeen-year-old persists, pushing hair away from his eyes before making an attempt to stand up. His legs are such renegades.
His knees strike the ground first and it takes moments for him to crumple into a pitiful, shivering heap. There are lights everywhere—and oh, how they sting his eyes. What’s that person doing over there, hovering mere centimetres above him? What was going on? The sounds are running into each other, becoming long strings of unintelligible syllables … and the sights, why are they blurring? His thoughts collide with one another, sending waves of pain through his head as they do. The carpet is blue, not white as his memory tells him it should be and there are unmistakeable dashes of white beside his face … it takes a mammoth effort simply to raise his hand so that it is hovering above his head and his fingers seem to be lacking outlines—

“Gene!” A scowl paints his forehead at the panicked exclamation. That voice is incredibly familiar but—agh, the lights! The sear of the lights left him wondering why they needed to be on.

“Th-the lights, turn them off …” the weak insistence is met with more concern.

“I’m calling an ambulance.”

Black conquers his consciousness.
---

“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused?”

Consciousness is only just beginning to return to him. The throbbing behind his temples makes him wonder if his head was beaten with a club though to his relief the shaking in his limbs has significantly diminished. The frowning visage of Lee Tae Seung glares venomously at him and Gene can only wince at both his physical discomfort and the emotional scarring that was bound to follow. There’s an itch in his left hand and a stiffness weighing deep into his bones, a sense of agedness that elderly people likely experienced. To his pleasure the bed is relatively warm though Gene’s not sure if that is the consequence of his extended stay in this white hellhole.

He reigns in his wavering thoughts as Mr Lee glares in askance and expectation of an answer. No answer will ever be good enough; he will find some means to torture Gene regardless. The teenager pats his hair in an attempt to flatten it before undertaking the Herculean task of sitting up. Once again to his relief the room doesn’t dip or spin and that gives Gene enough confidence to begin formulating a believable response to feed to his manager.

“I-- … ah,” he begins, words dying in his dry mouth. Well what did you expect if all you fed me was celery sticks and water for two months lingers in his throat, begging to escape his lips but Gene is well aware that courtesy is the key (or else he’s practically asking for his execution).

“Maybe this new diet isn’t working for you. I’ll have to revise it.” Mr Lee is curt but there’s an evident undertone of infuriated in his voice. His fist crashes down on the bedside table before –very begrudgingly—he places half a sandwich that he procures from a bag beside him on the table. Vegetarian, undoubtedly, Gene categorises in his mind as he takes note of the food in the white wrapping. “It’s a good thing the press wasn’t around … that would be really messy to clean up,” his manager continues to vent his frustrations as Gene continues to stare at the sandwich.

“It won’t happen again.” Gene can’t guarantee that—he can’t predict when his body will turn tail on him again but he will do just about anything to silence his manager.

Mr Lee gives him a sceptical look before releasing an exasperated sigh. “I certainly hope so; I don’t want to be cleaning up your messes anymore, Hwang.” There’s something about his tone that makes Gene feel like it’s been accompanied with a stake—maybe it’s the cold use of his last name or maybe it’s the utter lack of concern Mr Lee has for him and his health (though Gene has never known his manager to comfort people, the very sight of it would be unbelievably alien). The blonde forces another nod to convince his manager following which the older male crosses his arms over his chest.

“You need to finish all of that and you’ll be spending the night here; they want to keep you in here for observation,” his manager proceeds. “You aren’t going to be allowed out until your blood sugar levels are over seventy-five at least, by the way so I suggest you finish that sandwich.”

Gene rolls his eyes internally whilst he gives an obedient nod. Mr Lee raises an eyebrow once again, as if unsure of whether to accept Gene’s confirmation or not. Eventually a look of conviction spreads across his face and after deftly reaching for the model’s neglected phone, he strides for the door. A small smile—somewhere between a smirk and a stiff but polite curvature of his thin lips—graces his face as he makes his way out.

“You’re staying in bed all day—someone will be around to visit you soon, you don’t need to make any calls. Don’t even try to leave.”
---

It’s in the desolate silence that he observes his face; it’s more female than male, more child than adult and perhaps that’s his charm. Youthful, Mr Lee mentioned to him once—if he were not so youthful then this position would have been but a faraway dream to him. Gene gives his hair a final stroke before rising from the vanity seat, the reflection of his face steadily vanishing with his rise. He pulls the sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose, elated at how big they are. Vaguely he contemplates throwing on a hat before deciding that it’s a necessity seeing as blonde commoners in Korea is somewhat of a rarity and the last thing he wants is to draw attention to himself.

He is ready—for what he’s still not entirely sure of, but he’s ready to leave the humid confines of the green room.

When he steps out it’s the mild August breeze that kisses his face and the persistent chirping of birds mixed with the strong beats of a pop song that his ears detect; it’s a waft of iced tea that slips past his lips and into his mouth and he can almost taste the deliciously-chilled liquid. His mind demands answers—what is he looking for? Why are his legs rushing forward, as if bewitched?

Where are they taking him?

It’s also at five thirty-four that evening when Gene Hwang feels the final threads of motivation—the very motivation that allowed him to persevere as a model—slip through his fingers.

To be more specific, it’s at Seoul’s busiest intersection that he loses this desire to continue with what he deems his utterly pointless existence. His clammy palms brush at imaginary dust on his pants as the song that now booms through the massive intersection from one of the nearby shops switches to something darker and more mysterious. It clashes with the summery atmosphere; there’s something sullen and bitter about the song that contrasts terribly and distinguishes it from the chirpy environment, just as Gene is distinguished by his lethargy in the midst of bustling crowds and enraged drivers. It seemed wrong, perverse even, but the model can’t change it.

There’s a billboard on the opposite side of the road, a mere ten steps away from Gene’s spot on the concrete. It displays proudly the confident smile of a woman the model recalls having seen in an advertisement for … for cereal, was it? Not that that is what’s important, even though a part of his brain slowly scratches for the brand she represents—what’s important is the widening of her cherry lips, her smile not creating so much as the slightest crease in her enamel skin. Her head is thrown back in carefree laughter and not a strand of her ebony hair is out of place.

It’s an act—a pretence—or maybe it’s real, but it doesn’t matter to Gene if it isn’t. Even if it’s only an illusion, Gene wants to know how such joy can be faked. And if it’s faked for long enough, could it become real?

It’s that desire to answer his questions that takes him dashing across the road.

It’s the deafening screech of rubber burning into asphalt that makes him stop. And sure enough, there’s a whole hoard of impatiently honking drivers as Gene stands shell-shocked in the middle of the road, processing at the rate of a turtle that he could have been run over.

Would that have been escape?

The question plagues his mind as he strides purposefully to the opposite pavement, ignoring the multitude of drivers glaring at him and cursing his apparent inability to comprehend traffic lights.
---

Mr Lee is infuriated and Gene is more concerned about the fact that he’s come unprepared to face this outburst rather than the fact that his actions could have jeopardised career. Sure enough, his manager enters the room and the model can almost imagine steam rising from his ears and billowing from his nostrils. The older man takes care to slam the door as he makes his way towards the vanity and when he halts, Gene cringes inwardly.

“Do you realise the significance of this, Hwang?” His teeth are gritted; his arms are folded over his chest. Gene takes a few shaky breaths to calm his battering heart but the action proves to be futile. Mr Lee procures a rolled up newspaper from the satchel that is eternally slung over his shoulder and tosses it onto the vanity, ignoring the numerous brushes and vials that are displaced by the action.

Even though the blonde knows what to expect, he winces when he sees the bold text splattered across white. Teen model Hwang Yu Jin, suicidal? How he’d been recognised when he’d gone to extreme lengths just to disguise himself from the public was a mystery to him but Gene remembers to take into consideration sasaeng fans who likely could discern his identity by the position of a mole on his neck. That being said, he doubts he’s suicidal. He’d only wanted to examine her smile—that was it—he’d never … never considered dying though his mind venomously reminded him that for a split second he’d considered it an escape.

Upon noticing the questioning look on Mr Lee’s face, Gene swallows thickly and instantaneously replaces the bewilderment on his face with the collected expression he’d fine-tuned over the years. “I don’t know how that happened. It was an accident. I promise it will never happen again.” The apology fits in his mouth perfectly, the words formed seemingly of their own accord but Gene has control over them from a soundbox in the back—just enough to stop when he wants to but not quite enough to inject soul and emotion into the words.

The fingers that dig into his collar and press suffocatingly against his neck remind him that he should probably make an effort to be polite.

“Hwang, I’m getting sick of your apologies; you don’t think it was bad enough that your blood sugar issue could have been leaked out? Now this? I didn’t hire you—no, I didn’t fucking take you in and give you this chance so you could fucking fool around and if you think you can then consider yourself fired.”

The tirade ends with a spray of saliva flying at his features and a rough shake of his collar for emphasis. Mr Lee spares another glare in his direction before—very begrudgingly—placing Gene’s phone back on the vanity. With one last dirty glare thrown over his shoulder, the old man stalks out angrily, leaving the younger alone with his thoughts.

His unspoken threat rings clear.

His reasons ring clearer; Gene knows that if anyone suspects he’s at risk or mentally unstable then the authorities will be notified and as a minor, he’ll be rescued—

but that seems like such a grim ticket to freedom.
---

Perhaps because it’s always been this way, Gene has never quite considered getting up and defying his manager. He’s had four years after all—four years to get up and run away if he wanted to, but he’s never considered it until now. And even now running away conjured more doubts and questions for him than it seems appealing. There’s the possibility of survival and consequently invoking Mr Lee’s anger on a scale nobody has likely ever witnessed before. There is the legal aspect of it as well—what could he have possibly agreed to when he signed that contract four years ago that legalised this utter deprivation of freedom. Gene could literally count on one hand the number of times he’s genuinely been allowed to enjoy himself.

And of course, balancing chemistry equations in his spare time just so he could get himself a high school certificate wasn’t exactly stress-relieving.

It was more than law that bound him to his manager and Gene knew that all too well. The ropes of obligation kept him tied to his monstrous contract and if it weren’t for Mr Lee, the model would more or less have been homeless and residing in a cardboard box on the streets of Seoul; or maybe an orphanage. As cliché as it was, he was required to bend over at his manager’s will if only because the sting of repayment compelled him to. And of course, if the price was that he was forever on the receiving end of his manager’s explosive and unpredictable temper along with forever having to take the blame for anything and everything that ever went awry and an utter lack of control in the making of decisions that impacted his life … then so be it. Perhaps he should have been grateful that at the very least Mr Lee never lifted so much as a finger against him.

That being said, Gene could not deny his fatigue at his cyclic and restrictive life—this wasn’t a ‘best of both worlds’ situation as many deemed it to be. The blonde admits with a reluctant sigh that perhaps he’d grown tired of modelling over the years, the reason being greed rearing its ugly head. There were times when he simply wished to feel what any other teenager might, even the stress of examinations, even the bitterness of petty gossip and especially the innocence of first loves and cheap dates—or conversely the beauty of never concerning himself with his weight or his public appearances. To be a nobody and to remain a nobody. Those privileges had been taken away from him as soon as he’d penned his name on a dotted line and instantly his world had revolved around photoshoots and fake smiles whilst his face was angled perfectly in order for camera flash to appealingly capture his features.

When he’d lost his parents in an unfortunate fire years ago, it was Lee Tae Seung who had been generous enough to speak with the authorities and take him in; being a friend of his late parents had probably made it easy for him to gain custody of Gene.

He’d spent horrific times as a resident in his unwilling uncle’s home, day after day being the unfortunate recipient of biting comments and declarations of how he was a burden until by some miracle Lee Tae Seung had visited the miserable halfway family one day. He had come under the pretext of being a friend of the late Hwang couple (which wasn’t untrue now that Gene considered it) and wished to express his condolences to Gene … the conversation had somehow ventured into the topic of how Mr Lee was involved in modelling and was always on the lookout for fresh, novice models.

In his search for freedom, Gene applied for a modelling position at Mr Lee’s firm; he’d never expected to be considered, let alone deemed ‘good enough’ and hired.

Only later—

he regretted it immensely

There’s very little about a model’s life that is gratifying—a cocktail of criticism, dieting and make-up—and perhaps the only thing that makes it the very slightest bit satisfying is passion.

Or maybe sometimes

Even that doesn’t make the experience worth it.
---