in a dead language - vmon

x.

The last time you tell me you're fearless, your hands are bound behind your back and your soul is bound in your body, still.

"Your mum will kill me," you murmur, ignoring the orders and the barks. "I love this."

And then someone makes a mistake.

Maybe the mistake is his; the sadistic laugh as a sharp knee stabs my spine, or maybe it's mine; the agonised scream that forcefully ripped itself from my throat.

Maybe the mistake is theirs; the way they irrigate our lands with the blood of our kin — the blood of Jimin, or maybe it's yours; the way you let your father beat you until your skin is sunsets and sunrises, phases of the moon, hundreds of timezones on a single canvas, ripped and torn and aching, because you're okay with it as long as he doesn't cross the line your sister curls up in a ball behind — because you're okay with this — you're grinning and I can see the blood in your mouth and I know you're wondering if I'll taste it when I kiss you — but the line was crossed with my scream.

Time slows down and I can hear a bullet and I can hear the dominos falling, one by one, until it's your turn to fall and you're on your knees, you're on your palms, you're on the ground, cradled in my arms.

Time slows down and I can feel the sharp pain in my back, the flame in my throat, the car shaking as you push against it, the chill breeze in the air, my hands unbound, your hands unbound, your hands on my shoulders, your hand on my arm, your hand on my elbow, your hand on my wrist, your hand almost touching mine, the vibration in the air, the wetness under my fingertips, your heart beating so fast, so fast, so fast.

Time slows down and I can see you pushing the murderer off your back and the sadist away from mine, I can see the concern in your sad eyes and I can see them widen when something, something, something — something mundane pierces through your back, and you're still on your feet, but I can see the redness sip through the thin cotton of your shirt like watercolours when we're being artists, like food colouring in dough when we're being bakers, like scraped knees when we're being children, like bullet wounds when we're being martyrs — like you, like Jimin, like too many artists and bakers and children for us to keep count of.

I yell at them to call an ambulance, and I squeeze your hand tight like I'm holding on for dear life, or like I'm forcing you to do that.

"Joonah," you say, and all I can think is this is what my mother calls me. I'm your Joonie, remember?

"You won't die," I say, because you were shot in the back and not in your chest, where your heart is. "Stay with me," I say, because your heart is beating so fast, and you're breathing so fast, and you're alive. You're alive. You're alive. How can a dying man's heart beat so fast?

"I'm not scared," you lie, shaky breaths between every single word. "Can you believe I got shot?"

"Yes," I laugh, "mum will kill us." You close your eyes. "Tae. Taehyung."

You open your eyes. "I'm not dead. Just tired."

"Stay with me," I beg, and you just hum. "Stay awake."

"'M dizzy," you say, blinking hard like it's a chore to keep your eyes open, like we're texting at three in the morning and I'm begging you to stay up a little longer so we can talk about whatever's keeping me up this time.

"Tae," I say, again and again and again, like I'm singing a lullaby, like I'm talking to a child. "C'mon, Tae, stay with me. We said this won't happen, yeah? You're living. We both are. C'mon, Tae."

"We're alive," you say, "right now. We are. Look after her, please. She's—"

"Don't give me a fucking will, you're living," I snap. "Taehyung. Please."

"She's your sister too, okay?"

"I promise," and I think you're stupid for worrying about her now, but that's what you've always done, isn't it? "It'll be over soon, Tae. Just stay with me."

"Joonie?"

"I'm right here." I hold you tighter. You don't answer. "You'll be fine, Tae. Everything will be okay."

The parademics arrive and they rip you out of my arms before I could do anything — like kissing you one more time before they fix you up, or like telling you I love you, or promising to visit you in the hospital, or promising that I'll be waiting back home if I can't come —

And then you're gone. I look at my bloody hands and I think of your grin, of the blood on your teeth.

They lock me up in a random station for the night. There are kids younger than us and we're all crammed together in this room.

It's cold and I want to go home. I hope you are warm.

Some of us cry but I don't, because why should I? I don't have a dead lover to mourn or a funeral to attend. How can a dying man's heart beat so fast?

(Here's how: blood loss. I lost you to a bullet wound.)