Work Text:
‘I was broken from a young age
Taking my sulking to the masses
Writing my poems for the few
That look at me, took to me, shook to me, feeling me
Singing from heartache from the pain
Taking my message from the veins
Speaking my lesson from the brain
Seeing the beauty through the…
Pain’
-Imagine Dragons, Believer
When Yoongi was younger, he used to treasure sleep. It was almost like an escape, where dreams would steal him away from his reality, distracting him for hours as his mind was peacefully blank. The time he was finally able to retreat and hide under his blanket in his bedroom was his favourite part of his day, his father never coming after him if he thought Yoongi was asleep, and there was finally peace. To try and keep his sanity, just even the smallest amount, his mind would create these worlds in his head, letting Yoongi have just a moment of happiness in his life, imagining he was able to fly, or could talk to animals, or even that he had a happy family, people that loved him.
He couldn’t pinpoint the exact time that sleep changed, that it shifted from being a blessing to a curse, and suddenly the dark behind his eyes was a plague. Perhaps it was caused by a certain event, Yoongi’s first suicide attempt, his father killing his puppy in front of his eyes, or maybe it was his mind accepting the fact that there was no hope left in Yoongi’s body, nothing left to turn into soft images that make him smile. Dreams became nightmares, the stories his brain created became like horror movies, thrillers, the type that made you feel sick and never think of things the same way ever again.
By the time he was a teenager, Yoongi couldn’t help but internally scoff every time he heard someone mention the word ‘dream’, talked of it in any sort of context. His sleep had none to speak of, and as he grew older he realised he couldn’t have any dreams in the day, either, had nothing to hope for when he knew his life wouldn’t lift off from the ground he was stuck on. There was no way he would ever achieve anything with his existence, not with his father looming over him like a shadow, his presence a pitch black spot on his life, breaking any faith he had in doing anything that wasn’t to suffer.
Even in school, his father hung over his head like a storm cloud, the anxiety in Yoongi’s nerves making it impossible to concentrate on anything at all. He blamed his father for the fact he couldn’t talk to people without feeling his heart racing in his chest, couldn’t stand loud noises, or shouting, didn’t want to bring any sort of attention to himself, good or bad. It made his life more of a task than something he enjoyed, when he had no friends, no family that cared for him, no hope in his future, in change. He didn’t do well in school, and so he knew he was never going to university, was probably going to get a job in a local shop and have to stay with his father until either of them died, and Yoongi hoped he would be the first to.
It was at home that he felt most vulnerable, exposed, because that was where his father would interact with him, where he had nowhere to hide. The most torturous moment of Yoongi’s day was when he was waiting for his father to return from work, that was if his father had actually gone to the little shop he was employed at instead of a bar. The usual routine that he had noticed in his life had certain points he had noted over the years, and he could tell what kind of mood his father was in once he was home, whether he would ignore Yoongi or use him to take out his frustrations. No matter how much he wished, prayed, it was normally the latter that was most common, and feeling the force of his father’s hands had been a sensation Yoongi had known for the entirety of his life, becoming worse once his elder brother fled and left Yoongi as the only sole punching bag.
It was why Yoongi was walking home as slowly as he possibly could, ignoring the ache of his shoulders from his bag, all his school books weighing him down. It was nothing compared to what he knew was probably going to come in just a few hours, especially when the beating he had taken yesterday had left a painting of blues and greens and purples all over his body, sure to amplify the pain of anything done to him that day. He would walk a marathon with bricks tied to all four limbs if it meant never going home again, never seeing his father again, never having to feel the sharp strikes of fists or feet in his back, stomach, chest.
What was worse was that he had been careless, managing to rip the elbow of his blazer when his sleeve had gotten caught on a banister of a staircase while he was rushing to a lesson. Yoongi knew his father would notice, knew that he would somehow find out even if it was hidden almost flawlessly, knew it would justify any sort of punishment that his father deemed appropriate. The last time he damaged some clothing, a spot of white paint on his black uniform trousers, the beating had been so bad that he could barely move from the living room floor, having to spend the next days at home as he recovered.
There was a nagging temptation in the back of his head, getting louder as every footstep fell, bringing Yoongi closer and closer to the place he most dreaded to be. The person in his head was begging him to turn away, to just leave and hide somewhere, never return. It wasn’t an uncommon thought, but Yoongi had never acted on it, not when he had nowhere to go, nothing to run to, likely to suffer just as much away from the place he was meant to call home as he did in the four walls that trapped him. He had nothing to gain if he decided to leave, maybe would avoid the beatings but there was so much unknown to running away, so much that the anxiety Yoongi felt was more content with the abuse from his father than straying from the routine his life had created.
After all, living on the street would put him in the path of other people every day, strangers that might try and talk to him, help him, and he couldn’t deal with having to speak to people he didn’t know, no matter how genuine the intentions were. There would be no advantages to switching the method of his suffering, especially when it might be safer when his father was the only one hurting him rather than the array of possible predators on the streets, the range of things that could happen when he vulnerable to not only one man but whoever passed him by. As much as he hated to admit to himself, Yoongi knew he couldn’t leave by running away, knew the constant anxiety he felt in his mind would just get worse and worse once he was changing the routine he lived by.
Continuing to walk, it felt as though his bones were turning into lead the closer and closer he got to his final destination, and his stomach rolled as he turned a corner onto a painfully familiar street, the small, rundown houses lining each side a perfect replica of his own. The voice in his head was still begging him to run, but even the idea of that made something uncomfortable rest in Yoongi’s gut, his mind trapped between two mountains, unable to move even the smallest muscle. Even when his conscience was screaming at him, he just continued to slowly make his way down the road, chest tightening once he set eyes on the house he knew his key would turn the lock of.
The red door had lost the majority of its paint, revealing moulding wood underneath, the small glass window scratched with a yellowish tint to the blurred surface. To match, the metal doorknocker and handle were rusting, fading from a bright gold to a brown over years and years of neglect, and even the stone doorstep had chunks missing from the edges, crumbling as though it was made of nothing but sand. In a way, Yoongi thought the appearance was fitting, the rotting door exposing the rotting people inside, the perfect representation of the two part household that lived within the diseased walls.
Hands shaking, Yoongi reached into the inside pocket of his blazer, trembling fingers pulling out a key which was almost as rusted as the lock, struggling for a moment to fit it into the hole it was intended to slot into. Giving a little push to make the metal scrape into the space, he had to strain his wrist to turn the key, the door shuddering open on stiff hinges which didn’t want to move. It was just as difficult getting the key out of the lock once the entrance was open, but Yoongi managed with fingers gripped so tightly they were red, dropping the small metal item back into his pocket as he took a step into the house, closing the door behind him.
It was silent, which was even more reassurance to Yoongi that his father wasn’t home, even when he knew it was unlikely from the time of day. When the man was in the house, there was the sound, of glass bottles or metal cans being moved, the low quality rambling of their old, second hand television, the smashing of something his father managed to drop in their small, dirty kitchen. There always seemed to be noise that was made, even when the other was sleeping, loud snores seeming to echo around the whole interior of the small building.
Taking a deep breath of relief, Yoongi raced upstairs to his bedroom, putting his bag away and quickly changing out of his uniform, hanging his blazer up in a way that the ripped sleeve wasn’t visible, hoping it meant his father wouldn’t find out. Tomorrow, Yoongi would buy some black thread from somewhere and mend it, the man normally home later on a Friday than almost any other day, not wanting to risk not being home before his father when he knew it would only spell trouble. The last time that had happened, Yoongi had been in so much pain that he had locked himself in the bathroom and ingested every single painkiller he could find, which didn’t result in him dying like he hoped but instead even more pain, his body throwing up the rejected medicine.
That seemed to be the story for all the attempts that Yoongi had done to try and get himself out of his life, knowing it was the only way out, the only exit. Every time he managed to fail, either because his father found him and for some reason saved him by rushing him to hospital, or he didn’t do enough for the method to work, like the painkillers, or the sleeping pills he had consumed just a few weeks ago that did nothing but made him suffer even more from the side effects of taking so many all at once. It was like the universe was telling him he couldn’t die, even when it was the thing Yoongi wanted more than anything, the thing he wished for on a star, whenever he blew a dandelion, on the pathetic cupcake he bought himself on his birthday because his father forgot the occasion.
He was starting to give up hope even in that, not wanting to try bigger attempts in case they didn’t work too, leaving him with nothing but more pain and suffering. It was like he couldn’t do a single thing right, couldn’t even kill himself correctly, foretelling a life of never doing anything he set out to do. People speak of guardian angels, but Yoongi knew his was a sadist, only wanting him to hurt more and more, regret even being born every second of the day. Perhaps it was a punishment for something he had done in his past life, him being a murderer, or another sort of criminal, because the pain he felt was too much to bear for nothing.
He tried to avoid the places on the steps he knew made a sound as he returned down the stairs, it being instinct to try and be as subtle in his existence as humanly possible by now, even when he knew he was alone. It really was habit, in the way he would make sure the floorboards didn’t creak, the doors didn’t slam, any objects he moved were as silent as he was when he wasn’t doing something his father deemed his job, anything other than washing or cooking or cleaning. When he was doing something like that, he was safe, his father ignoring him when he was doing something deemed necessary, something the man himself didn’t want to do when it had to be done.
It was why Yoongi would wait in the kitchen for his father to return, try and do homework in the small room on the cracking wooden counter, hiding the books in a cupboard and immediately turning to the sink when he heard the door opening. If he was found washing up the dishes from the day before and that morning that his father used, then the man would pretend he wasn’t there as he made his way to the old, humming refrigerator, grabbing a pack of beers before he retreated into the living room to watch whatever he could find on television. Yoongi was almost untouchable when he was doing what he knew needed to be done, knew his father would wait until the tasks were complete to torment him because that was when he lived out his usefulness.
It was the same routine that day, where Yoongi leaned the maths textbook he had from school on the counter near to the metal drying rack, opening it to the right page as he found a blank space in his notebook, immediately starting to work. If he didn’t get enough done now, he wouldn’t finish it at all, and his teachers would hold him back after school the next day. That would mean he couldn’t use the additional time to buy thread for his blazer, was even more likely to be discovered to have the massive hole in the elbow, would be punished by his father because the man needed an excuse to beat him until he was black and blue, the reason probably settling better in his chest than just I hate that you were born.
In a twisted way it was probably a good thing that Yoongi had so much to fear from not doing his work, after all he was a good student as he never got in trouble, was practically unnoticeable with the way he kept only to himself, half his class probably not even knowing his name. He didn’t have friends, couldn’t bare the social interaction to talk to anyone, not when anxiety would rear its ugly head and not let him speak in the presence of people he didn’t know. He was a perfect nobody, someone completely expendable, wouldn’t be missed by anyone if he were gone.
It felt like the time had gone too quickly when there was a small scratch at the door, a sound Yoongi had come to recognise as a key being moved to find the lock in the door, and it spurred him into movement. As quickly as he could, the books were shut and hidden in the cupboard by his legs, on top of a pile of plastic food containers that they had but never used. The water was switched on by fingers Yoongi refused to admit were trembling, the other hand reaching for the first bowl to clean, shoving it under the stream of water from the tap. Soap on a stained and crumbling sponge, and he was scrubbing the chipped porcelain by the time there were footsteps entering the house, heavy boots on the weak floors.
Yoongi could tell his father wasn’t drunk, the pace and rhythm of his steps giving that away, and he was relieved at the fact, the man normally less violent and more predictable when he was sober. Of course, he could probably bet that the state of mind wouldn’t last long, but it might give Yoongi the chance to escape up to his bedroom, his father normally ignoring him for the whole evening if he never was seen after the first trip to the kitchen. It was rare, but Yoongi hoped as always that today was a day where there were no hits or punches or kicks, even if the likelihood was low.
Footsteps coming closer, and Yoongi could feel the hairs over his body rising in fear, breaths having to be controlled consciously or they would be coming far too quickly, hands shaking so much that he knew if his father watched him then they would be seen. All he could do was grip on tighter to the dish and sponge he was still moving, try and keep his eyes fixed on the task at hand and be almost invisible, pray nothing would happen yet because he was being good, doing what he was meant to. It was like his blood was on fire, mixed with a cocktail of gasoline and oil, burning as it passed around his body under the direction of his frantically beating heart.
His father paused for a moment in the doorway of the kitchen, watched for a moment as Yoongi finished scrubbing a bowl and passed it under the water again, removing the soap suds before he set it on the drying rack. It was like there were bullets aimed at his back instead of a set of eyes, Yoongi immediately reaching for a plate once he had set the other piece of dinnerware down, not letting himself stop for even a minute as he began cleaning again. Dashing the plate under the tap, rubbing every inch of it with the sponge he could practically feel falling apart in his fingers, not stopping even when his arms were aching and his mind was spinning because he wasn’t breathing as quickly as his chest wanted him to.
It felt like an eternity passed, hours and days and years of his father watching him as he scrubbed at the plate, then at a glass, until the footsteps were moving closer into the kitchen. Yoongi’s heart was in his throat, his pulse echoing around his whole body; far too quickly to be healthy but there was nothing he could do to slow it down, not when the cause of his panic was standing just over a metre away from him. There was the sound of the fridge opening, the familiar sound of a pack of beer being taken out, the door falling shut carelessly.
What was different, however, was that his father didn’t leave the kitchen once he had taken his beers; instead a can was being opened where he stood, the snap making Yoongi almost jump out of his skin. It took every ounce of concentration for him to just keep scrubbing with his sponge, to not show a reaction to the swallowing sound right next to him, a can being crushed in hand and thrown onto the floor without care. There was nothing Yoongi could take about this situation that wasn’t a bad sign, not when his father was drinking the beers he had taken so quickly it was like he was in a competitive drinking race, one can after the next until he had counted three in a row.
He didn’t think he had ever seen with his own eyes his father drinking so much in just a few minutes, and it made a dark sense of foreboding well up in Yoongi’s stomach, the dread of his father becoming intoxicated so soon. Trying to seem completely normal as he continued to wash the dishes on the side, Yoongi tried not to allow his mind to pick up on the fact that the older man still hadn’t left, was still loitering in the kitchen even when he wasn’t drinking another of his cans. This was something that had never happened before, a break from the usual routine Yoongi had learned and stayed loyal to for as long as he could remember, even before his brother ran away and left him alone.
Every sound was amplified, his father’s heavy breathing, the water streaming from the tap, the friction of the sponge on the pan Yoongi was now scrubbing, trying with all his strength to remove the grease and stains, bone thin wrists still trembling. There was a throbbing sound between Yoongi’s ears, and he knew it was his heartbeat but he couldn’t help think that it was like a battle drum, the beat someone marched to war while following, never ending and getting faster and faster as the danger got closer and closer. His chest was constricting, lungs begging him to breathe faster, take in more air, but Yoongi knew it would bring attention to him, would make his father realise that he was there, was doing something wrong in the fact he was still alive.
In frantic movements, Yoongi rinsed off the pan he was washing, quickly positioning it on the draining board before he reached for another object, where his nerves betrayed him. His shaking hands dropped a glass, and the cup landed just on the edge of the counter, teetering for a second where Yoongi just held his breath, prayed to whoever was listening that it would stay, wouldn’t tilt too far. The world was moving in slow motion, and Yoongi’s body refused to move as he watched he glass lean, before falling towards the dirty floor, shattering on impact as it hit the solid ground, scattering shards all around the area.
Suddenly, silence. It was like Yoongi had been a passenger on an aeroplane that had just been thrust into the ocean, water levels rising higher and higher until they covered his head, silencing the screams of everyone around him. Even the heartbeat in his ears had stopped, or maybe the blood in his body had stopped moving altogether, every single atom of his being completely static, frozen in place and helpless to anything that could happen. In the back of his mind, Yoongi realised he couldn’t hear his father breathing anymore, and the revelation opened the floodgates of his head again, and it was like a switch was flicked as his brain started screaming again, danger danger danger.
The blow Yoongi felt to his side was both completely expected and a complete surprise all at the same time, as though his body had been prepared but his mind hadn’t, pain flaring up from the impact on his waist. It forced him to stumble, trembling legs barely holding up his weight as he grasped at the point he had been hit, fingers trying to defend the area as though it would do anything against his father’s strength. He was lucky that he hadn’t stepped on any glass as he moved, but that was the last of Yoongi’s worries as he turned to look at the man beside him, only to be met with another strike to his shoulder, his balance failing as he fell down.
This time, there was definitely glass that stabbed him, the small shards embedding themselves into his skin even through the fabric of the t-shirt he was wearing, arms and abdomen feeling little pinpricks of pain different to the ache from the hits his father had landed. The man was still wearing his shoes, a fact Yoongi became very aware of as a kick landed onto his stomach, forcing him to curl into a ball on the floor, trying to protect himself when he knew it wouldn’t work, when there was nothing he could do but wait until it was over. Everything hurt, the glass, the kicks, the fall, and Yoongi felt a sob escape from his lips as he tried to breathe, lungs not wanting to cooperate.
The tightness in his chest made no sense, not when the feeling of his flesh being hit again and again was so familiar, when the pain he felt from each blow could be considered an old friend. A particularly sharp strike of a kick on his stomach completely winded Yoongi, a muffled scream after a struggled inhale trying to escape from sealed lips and gritted teeth. His father must have heard it, must have noticed the noise that was so desperately attempted to be hidden, and Yoongi knew that would be bad, that his father hated him even more when he made noises like that, when the man was doing what he thought was right.
Fingers in his hair, and Yoongi was being dragged across the floor, hands rising to desperately try and scratch at the grip on the strands attached to his head, doing everything he could to dig his nails into skin, anything to stop the pain from the force pulling him over glass and the cold floor. It seemed as though the attempt was successful, because his father was releasing him with a loud stream of curses falling from his lips, the words too distorted for Yoongi to really make out even when he could understand the sentiment. With the grip lost, Yoongi’s head fell to the floor, luckily where there wasn’t much glass, and the impact was almost a nice change, it somehow hurting less than his father’s blows, even if it was all just a mental cushion to the sensation.
Lying on the ground, Yoongi waited for another strike, waited for his father to punish him even more for trying to stop the pain he was in, but nothing came, making Yoongi feel so anxious he could faint. It made no sense for his father to stop now, but he didn’t move a muscle to check what was happening, not when his whole body was hurting and aching in every way, when his father might be waiting for him to become hopeful it was over before he turned on him again in an instant. There was a tingling current in his fingers, toes, a hum that ran through his body alongside the pain, making everything seem so much more distant, like Yoongi’s life was a phone call that was being disconnected, static because of a bad signal.
Still, there was nothing, not until the fridge was again being opened, stumbling hands pulling out what sounded like a glass bottle, the sound of impact on the counter making Yoongi flinch. It was probably more alcohol; he had seen his father open a bottle many times by hitting the lid on the edge of the counter to detach the metal lid, and the sound of something tapping on the counter as it fell was enough to prove he was right. There were unsure footsteps, and Yoongi could almost cry when he realised they were in the direction of the door, relief flowing through his body at the thought that his father might be done with him, that the pain for the day was over and he could be left to pick up the pieces of his broken body and broken mind.
The way his body was winding down was why he almost had a heart attack as there was a crashing smash of a glass bottle on the wall just above the counter Yoongi was lying next to on the floor, every muscle jolting out of instinct and fear as the sound seemed to echo around the room. It made his chest constrict uncomfortably, and even though footsteps where getting further and further away in the house, the panic that was coursing through Yoongi’s blood wouldn’t see reason, making his breaths come faster and faster, needing to tilt his head back to open his throat up more, let the air into his lungs his body was begging for.
He must have made a pathetic sight, he reckoned, struggling to breathe while lying on the floor, not even able to do the simplest of tasks his body needed from him. It was like his mind had remembered every single instance his father had called him useless and decided to fulfil the role, giving up fighting the resistance to the words and embracing them with open, willing arms. Head spinning, Yoongi knew he needed to pull the pieces of his soul together again, knew if he didn’t do it soon then he would probably fall unconscious on the floor, his father not hesitating to continue the torture if he was found in an ideal place to be beaten even more.
It was sheer will that made Yoongi focus, made him count the timing between his breaths, forcing his lungs to comply with the rhythm he created himself, coughing occasionally as he gasped. This was something he was less used to, had only starting having episodes of panic like this for less than a year, hadn’t gotten to grips with how exactly he could stop them like he stopped the fear affecting his actions. It seemed they were getting more and more common, and Yoongi worried what that meant for him, whether this would become a regular thing he couldn’t stop as his father left him alone after having his fun. That would be bad, another thing for his father to taunt him with, another reason why he was broken, why he was no good. It would just make the whole situation worse, but Yoongi knew that with his luck it was likely the panic in his blood was here to stay, that his father would notice it eventually and scoff as even Yoongi’s lungs failed to fulfil their purpose, just like him as a son.
It took what felt like hours, but really probably closer to minutes, but eventually his chest was rising and falling at a rate that was a lot calmer, Yoongi’s head not spinning like a planet in orbit of the sun. His whole body felt detached, now that there was no immediate pain being rained over him, only the ache of his father’s blows lingering on his nerves, the tightness in Yoongi’s chest that he would probably feel for the whole evening. It made an almost tingling sensation start up in his muscles, contrasting with the cold floor, the glass he could still feel in places embedded in his body.
Trying to feel slightly more human, slightly less like he was floating away from his body more and more as time ticked by, Yoongi tilted his head back down, so that his chin was pointing towards his chest. It allowed him to look in the direction of his hand, which was limp on the floor, palm up, having moved from clutching his stomach when his father was having his fun. Watching closely, Yoongi felt detached from reality as he made his fingers twitch, every movement heavy as he commanded his hand to move, the action delayed but eventually followed as he clenched his fingers into a fist.
He knew time was passing, and it was the reminder that his father was just in the next room, the reminder he would likely want more alcohol to fuel the evening that forced Yoongi to muster his strength, taking a deep breath as he tried to search for feeling all over his body. The last thing he wanted was for his father to initiate a round two because Yoongi was in the way, and so he braced himself as he pushed his hands against the floor, gritting his teeth as his whole body protested the movement. It was like he weighed ten times his original mass, and his arms nearly gave out and made him collapse back onto the floor, but Yoongi clenched his jaw, forcing his body to move into a sitting position.
There was red on the floor, and it took Yoongi a moment to realise it was blood from the cuts over his skin, glass still left with the previously amber liquid around the shards stained an off-putting pink. His t-shirt was stained with the colour, and he was internally grateful he changed out of his school shirt, knowing the blood wouldn’t have come out and he would have only been left with one shirt to wear the entire week, his father only buying him two in the first place. Yoongi didn’t want to look at the cuts he knew to be under the fabric, and now it wasn’t his main priority he banished the thought to the back of his mind, focusing on getting up and staying out of harm’s way.
Reaching with a painful stretch, he pulled the cloth from the top of the counter he had intended to use to wipe any water from the washing up once he was finished, the already stained cream piece of fabric clutched in his hand. Moving a little further away from the destruction on the floor by carefully pushing his body with shaking arms, he took a breath as he turned onto his knees; feeling slightly lightheaded at the motion, mind spinning like he was trapped on a carousel. By now, Yoongi knew he would just be in even more trouble if he didn’t tidy the mess his father had made, and so he took some deep breaths to make his body cooperate, blinking the spots in his vision away.
With careful hands, Yoongi slowly gathered all the glass he could find and threw it in the bin, wiping the liquid with the cloth until there were barely noticeable stains left among the others smeared over the floor. It hurt his arms, it hurt everything to move, and his knees started aching with the dead weight placed on them in his kneeling position. It took gallons of mustered energy to bring one of his hands up to reach the counter top, nudging the cloth onto the side before he steeled himself with a deep inhale, one shaking arm on the floor and the other on the counter allowing him to clumsily climb to his feet.
As soon as his weight was on his feet, Yoongi’s knees nearly gave out under him, the muscles shuddering from the strain, from the aches and pains in every nerve. He was forced to catch himself on the counter, didn’t want to fall to the floor when he knew it was likely he wouldn’t get up again, and the sharp cooking knives were just a few draws away, a thought that was tempting until he remembered the last failed attempts which involved a blade. Nothing ever worked, and the reminder made a quiet, dry sob force its way out between Yoongi’s lips, making his chest tighten uncomfortably.
As much as he just wanted to give up, wanted to fall down and let himself cry until every emotion was banished from his body, he knew he was testing his luck with how much time he was lingering in the kitchen. Ignoring the hitch of his own breath, Yoongi lessened the amount he was using the counter for support, squeezing his eyes closed until he could finally remove his hands from the surface, legs shaking but doing their job at holding his body vertically. The action was already making him feel tired, but he ignored the fatigue, the heaviness of his bones, trying to power through until he was able to collapse somewhere safe.
Yoongi walked on the balls of his feet as he slowly made his way out of the kitchen, hands slightly stretched in the direction of the nearest wall as he begged his legs not to fail him, knowing they were already too frail to be healthy when he wasn’t feeling the effects of a beating. It was a slow process, partially because he didn’t want to be heard by his father through the thin walls, but also because it was the fastest speed he could manage, limbs refusing to be anything but sluggish in their motions.
It could almost be praised as a miracle that he managed to walk the span of the hallway, using his hands in front of him as he climbed the steps, every creak of the rotting wood making Yoongi flinch, wait, see if he had been heard, if his father decided he wasn’t quite done yet. By the time he reached the top of the stairs, every inch of Yoongi’s body was trembling from strain, overwork, overuse, and he had to take a moment once he finally dragged his body onto the old carpet of the hallway, allow himself to breathe air into his lungs which seemed to have shrunk to the size of tennis balls.
It was a sad reality that Yoongi had this whole process down as something that was almost like a routine, repeated in a series of days that had no pattern other than the fact his father drank enough alcohol to drown in, that it always ended with Yoongi’s mind and body pleading for everything just to stop. He was already weak before he was beaten down by strong hands and powerful blows, bones protruding from his skin from a lack of food, skin pale from a lack of sunlight, mind either too panicked to think or too numb to care. It made the whole process more difficult, and sometimes Yoongi wished he was taller, stronger, able to fight back when the pain was blossoming all over, but he knew it probably wouldn’t make a difference in the end, not when his father was the monster that he was.
Realising that his body was too tired to haul itself onto his feet again, Yoongi crawled along the floor, wanting nothing more than to retreat to his bedroom, to finally go and just sleep his pain away. Although that was the one thing he wanted to do, he turned instead into the small, mouldy bathroom which was positioned on the other side of the hallway, taking deep breaths from the exertion of having to move as he leaned against the cold, plastic bathtub. It took more effort than it should have to pull his shirt over his head, and he let his arms just fall limply to his sides as he looked down at his flesh, the red patches staining snow white skin.
Even from where he was positioned in the room with barely any light, Yoongi could see the glass shimmering from where it was embedded in his skin, the small pieces thankfully close to the surface, probably only half a centimetre deep. He knew he needed to remove them, and so he forced his arms to follow his commands, sluggishly opening the cupboard under the sink to reach for the small store of medical supplies he had put there for a situation just like this. The sight of all the pills on the shelves was tempting, but another reminder of failure flashed into his mind as he glanced at the razorblades, an image of the puppy Yoongi had brought home years ago that his father had killed in one of his rages imbedded into his skull. The blades were better used for Yoongi to inflict harm on himself when he felt like it, the marks on his thighs evidence of an unhealthy habit he couldn’t shake off.
Slowly shaking his head, Yoongi struggled to open the packet of disinfectant wipes, finally pulling the flimsy container enough for it to rip. He picked up the tweezers, cleaning them before shaking hands were holding the metal object close to the first shard of glass, Yoongi trying to concentrate on being careful as he began to remove the pieces from his broken skin. It stung, and Yoongi had to grit his teeth to stop sobs from coming from his mouth, tears pouring down his cheeks and making his vision blur. It took a while, but soon he had a small pile of glass next to him on the floor, which he disposed of in the small bin in the corner of the room, brushing the disinfectant wipe over the cuts to clean them.
It had taken longer than Yoongi wanted, and by the time he managed to crawl back to the hallway and this time into his bedroom it was dark outside, body exhausted from all the movement it had been put through. The last grains of energy were used to get Yoongi’s weight onto the bed, pulling the covers up to his neck as he finally let his eyes fall shut, knowing it wouldn’t take long for sleep to claim him. Every position was uncomfortable, skin promising deeply coloured bruises the next day, but eventually Yoongi’s nerves became numb to the protests of his skin, allowing him to drop off into rest, dreaming of nothing but a pitch black void.
Waking up the next morning was just as much of a battle as it had been to get to bed, and Yoongi could immediately tell it was far too early in the morning, the sky lit up in little patches of yellow and pink. It was pretty, but the image was ruined by the sensations Yoongi felt all over his body, the sharp aches wherever he was lying on his cheap, old mattress. It was fortunate that his father had to go to work so early, and Yoongi could already hear the man downstairs, probably getting himself ready to leave in the kitchen, that was if the man was actually going to work. It was a fifty-fifty chance of going to his work and the local bar, and Yoongi knew which one he preferred, which would result in less pain on his end.
Shuffling feet, the slam of the door with no consideration for the son who was meant to still be sleeping inside, and Yoongi felt his body relax even when he didn’t realise all his muscles were tense in the first place, and it reduced the aching he felt all over. He was alone, he definitely wouldn’t see his father again until the evening, and it reduced a burden that weighed on his shoulders, giving him the energy to drag himself out of bed. Even with the pain he was feeling, he knew his father wouldn’t be pleased if Yoongi didn’t go to school, and with that in mind he forced himself to go through his normal morning routine despite the way his body just wanted to rest, ignoring the pain to prepare himself for a long day.
School was the same as always, and Yoongi never diverted from his self-assigned role of being practically invisible, not talking if he could help it, not making eye contact, not doing anything to attract attention, either good or bad. The only thing he would say was to answer to his name in the register, and then he would remain like a shadow in the back of the room, doing his work in silence, but not too quickly as to be praised, remaining completely and perfectly ordinary. Being surrounded by people always made his heart race and mind whirl, and a classroom was one of the worst scenarios he had to suffer through, only behind his father’s abuse, the constant aches and pains in his bones.
That morning he had managed to finish his homework, and so Yoongi had stolen a little bit of money from one of the random pockets his father had created of cheap notes when he was too drunk to organise everything, knowing the man wouldn’t realise if it wasn’t too much. It allowed him to buy the thread he needed to mend his blazer after school, and so Yoongi had hidden the rip from existence, thankful his father had never found out, probably wouldn’t now that it was mended and the man was always too drunk when he saw Yoongi to notice the repair.
All things considered, Yoongi felt oddly content as he sat in his bedroom later that afternoon, not having to rush and do his homework because it was a Friday, meaning he would have a chance to do it when his father was out for the majority of the weekend drinking. He probably had around two hours until he had to be doing the washing and cleaning in the kitchen, was musing that he would probably go down to wait just in case of a slightly early return in an hour or so when there was a knock on the door, a firm rhythm of beats on the old wood.
There was not even a single idea in Yoongi’s mind about who it could possibly be, perhaps his father forgetting his keys in a drunken haze or something alike, and he thought about not even answering the door until there was another knock, and he reasoned if someone was being so insistent in getting the door answered then it was probably important. Slowly going from his room to walk down the stairs, he tried to make out the figure through the blurred glass of the front door, but all he could see was a single dark body, a different shape to his father. Other than the older man, Yoongi had no clue who could be visiting, and so he was cautious as he took a breath, turning the door handle slowly like he would be attacked for any sudden movement, which was likely if he was mistaken and it really was his father behind the barrier.
Trying to dampen the anxiety in his gut at talking to someone, Yoongi peered through the doorway which was now half open, trying to not show anything different in his expression when he realised it was a police officer in front of him. The man was probably in his late twenties, short black hair and serious features, the uniform with its badge which glinted in the light of the afternoon. He immediately met Yoongi’s eyes, mouth moving into a small smile as though to try and be a comfort to Yoongi, but it didn’t do anything against the racing heart trapped within his chest.
“Hello there,” the officer greeted, and Yoongi could only swallow and nod in response, opening the door further when he realised the man was most likely not going to hurt him. “Is this the Min residence?” At the question, Yoongi could only give another nod, the older male suddenly having a sadder look in his eyes. “I’m afraid I have some bad news…”
It was like the world had stood still as the man informed him that his father had been in a car accident, that he had died in the hospital, that they had found his address through the licence in his wallet. Yoongi didn’t know how to feel, relieved that his abuser was gone, sad that he now had no family left, happy that he wouldn’t be put through the pain he had felt for years again. He just kept his expression blank, not moving an inch as the officer told him that because he had no legal guardian and was underage he had to be placed in the protection of child services, only moving to let the officer into the house when he asked.
The world was suddenly a blur, and Yoongi could feel himself panicking in his head but his body seemed to be moving too slowly, stuttering an excuse before he ran out the front door, the officer trying to follow but eventually disappearing as Yoongi slipped away. It was as though he had been detached from life all together, a machine that was unplugged after years and years of nonstop use, and it didn’t explain how Yoongi had managed to find his way onto the roof of the tallest building he could think of, it having been far too easy to slip into the hotel and ride in one of the lifts to the very top floor.
Yoongi supposed the world must be taunting him with how easy it had been to get to somewhere so beautiful, especially when he would definitely die if he jumped no matter how many failed attempts he had had before. The rooftop was high enough in the clouds to let him peer all over Daegu, see all the roads and busy streets, the sun which was beginning to get lower and lower in the sky, as if it was bidding him farewell too. As he climbed over the railing, he was thankful the last sight he hoped to see was so pretty, the sky beginning to be painted in so many different shades of colour, pinks and oranges and purples blended so perfectly the image almost made Yoongi cry.
There were so many emotions now in his chest, but he knew there was nothing left for him, and the timing was perfect, the Nakdong River running by the edge of the hotel what felt like a mile below him looking inviting as a final destination. A burst of wind, and Yoongi was about to lean forwards before he heard a sound, the rooftop door opening behind him with footsteps bursting the bubble he had made for himself in what he intended to be his final minutes. There were voices, too quiet to hear until suddenly they weren’t, someone calling in his direction.
“Hey,” someone said, and Yoongi debated whether to turn or whether just to lean forwards and just do what he needed to do, but he would feel guilty if he didn’t at least listen to the person who was talking to him.
Hesitating for a long second, he moved his neck in the direction of the voice and looked over to see the man who had noticed him, anxiety bubbling in his gut at the fact it was likely Yoongi was going to have to talk to the other. On second thoughts, it would probably be best for him to just do as he had planned, but something in his expression must have given his intentions away because the man was raising his hands in surrender, stopping where he had started to move forwards, towards where Yoongi was hovering dangerously close to the ledge.
“My name is Namjoon,” the man introduced himself, and Yoongi couldn’t help but notice the fancy suit he was wearing, the way he looked as though he had wads of money in each pocket with the way he was fashioned. “This is my partner, Seokjin,” he continued, and Yoongi’s attention was drawn to another man beside him who looked just as well dressed, a kind smile painted over handsome features.
There were other people with them, dressed in suits which were plainer in fashion, lacking the patterns on Namjoon’s blazer, the gleam of expensive fabric he could see over Seokjin’s body. It made him think they worked for the pair, or at least were below them, especially with the way they didn’t move once Namjoon waved a hand behind himself, only one shifting to watch the door to the rooftop instead of the conversation happening at the edge of the building.
“Do you want to tell me your name?” Namjoon said, and Yoongi had an internal battle with himself, but in the end he realised he had nothing left to lose.
“Yoongi,” he answered quietly, breaking eye contact to look at the ground, admiring the shine of the pair’s pitch black shoes.
He had always hated having to talk to people, and he could feel the way his chest was clenching at the fact the other had all of his attention directed in his position, emotions pulled tight like the string of a crossbow ready to be released. Really, Yoongi didn’t know why he was subjecting himself to this, confused by his actions when his whole being knew that the easy way out of this situation was just to move a few inches ahead of him, not a single cell of his body scared of the death he had wished for, waited for.
“Well, Yoongi, it’s rather cold up here, why don’t you come down with us and we can get you some better clothes,” Seokjin suggested, but Yoongi could see through the nonchalant tone, knew what the duo were trying to do. It made him hesitate, subconsciously leaning further in the direction of the rooftop’s edge before the elder was speaking again. “Hey, no, don’t do that, it’s really not worth it.”
“But I have nothing, why shouldn’t I?” Yoongi asked quietly, turning his attention back to the skyline in front of him, the way the sky was getting darker and darker, and suddenly he was thankful for the delay as he watched the stars be ignited in the ink around them.
“Have you got nobody who would miss you?” Namjoon asked behind him, and Yoongi heard footsteps coming closer, but this time he didn’t lean away quite as much. “Well, now that we’ve met, I certainly will,” the other murmured, and the words he said made Yoongi feel even worse about his decision, now he knew he was letting someone down.
“Why are you doing this?” Yoongi asked, and he tried to ignore the way his words crackled with emotion, the way a tear forced its way down his face.
Behind the relief from his father’s death, the panic at having nowhere familiar to go, every single strong emotion that ran through his body like a race car, there was always an underlying sadness in everything he felt. It was a presence that Yoongi had become accustomed to having in his life, something he knew to just be a part of his essence even when the sources he searched would scream words like depression at him from black and white pages. The sadness now was overtaking everything else, was forcing him to bare his whole person on his sleeve like an offering, Yoongi frustrated with his mind’s insistence to trust trust trust.
“You say you have nothing, then come with us,” Namjoon offered, his voice so soft that Yoongi doubted he could have heard it if it weren’t for how silent it was so high up in the sky. “We’ll give you what you don’t have, anything at all,” the other promised, and there was something about the man that Yoongi believed with all his heart, but he of all people knew what horrible things people were capable of.
“How do I know I can trust you?” He asked just as quietly as the other, and he felt a large hand engulf his own where it had been resting on the metal railing, the warmth from the other’s skin almost making even more tears spring from Yoongi’s eyes.
“You don’t,” was the simple answer he was given, and something about that was what sold Yoongi on the decision his brain was begging him to make, his soul crying out for nothing but the clear care shining through Namjoon’s voice.
Ever since his mother died, his brother left, his father showed him nothing but hate and anger, Yoongi had shied away from affection like it was the thing that would hurt him. The impact of that was that it had left him starved for the contact he craved, and so the moment Seokjin moved to wrap his arms around Yoongi’s body he was turning, leaning into the touch with desperation like he was about to be ripped from the sensation of finally feeling something other than resentment.
Sobs came from his chest, and he was loudly crying by the time he also felt Namjoon’s arms around him, the two men he had just met being the first people in years to give him touch that didn’t hurt, that didn’t leave bruises all up and down his skin. Suddenly, the idea of just leaving everything behind and falling through the air to his end didn’t seem as perfect, and maybe, just maybe, he might give living life its final chance.