The Bouquet

Chapter 8

The time of death was ten minutes to seven.

The kettle was whistling painfully loud.

Your fingers that had dried with blood were curled into Jungkook's tresses still attempting to soothe his shaking form. His wails had quieted down, the only sounds leaving his body being soft sniffles, hiccups, and the occasional sob. He was still shaking, horribly so, and his grip on you was near bruising as he refused to let you go. He was using you as his anchor, the only thing keeping him rooted in that spot and drifting away into a sea of dark despair.

The air was thick with the coppery scent of blood and half cooked food. The meal that Mrs. Jeon had been cooking was left abandoned long ago. You didn't know how much time had passed, but the blood coating you and Jungkook was stiff, dark, and flaking uncomfortably.

The body laying on the floor a few feet away from you was still oozing blood onto the tile of the kitchen floor. The skin though had paled significantly, and it's chest had fallen still. There was no other way around it, he was definitely dead.

He was finally dead.

Your breaths had slowed now, your heart settling despite the horrific scene in front of you. You tilted your head back and rested it against the base cabinets behind you, allowing your eyes to flutter shut and your chest to expand with a great inhale. Despite what you had witnessed that night, that felt like the first time you had actually been able to breathe without a weight on your shoulders or a glare drilling into your spine.

Despite your captivity, you felt free.

So, you allowed yourself those few, brief moments of relief. You allowed Jungkook to cry all of his guilt away into the security of your neck, your fingers sifting through his hair gently as you rested your chin on his head.

You couldn't rest for long though, you had work to do.

"Jungkook," You whispered, your lips pressed against his dark mop of hair. "You need to let me get up."

"No, no, no, no." He mumbled to himself, over and over again as he pressed his huddled form even tighter to your own. His shaking had begun to worsen, your neck beginning to dampen as a new wave of tears surged forward. He was traumatized. You had to go about this very, very carefully.

"You have to, Jungkook. I need to help your mother." You replied, running your hand up and down his back slowly as his breaths became deeper and longer. "I won't leave."

He remained absolutely silent, his little sobs ceasing, only leaving you with the feeling of his silent tears gently dripping down onto the bare flesh of your neck. He squeezed you tighter for a moment, mumbling something quietly to himself that you couldn't hear. And, very slowly, he detached himself from you, his eyes trained to the floor refusing to look at you. Those big, doe eyes of his were glazed with tears, his eyes, cheeks, and nose flushed pink from crying so violently. He sniffed a few times, his breath hitching every now and then. And still without saying anything, he turned and faced the corner base cabinet, tucking himself away into the space and crossing his legs while pressing his hands against his eyes, effectively cutting himself off from everything around him. He looked like a child being punished and sent to the corner.

Once you were free from his hold you hastily stood up and grabbed the handle of the kettle, removing it off of the heat to allow your ears a moment of respite.

The two living Jeons were in similar states, Jungkook's mother though, she was much worse. That foggy, far off look was still apparent in her eyes. It was like she was drifting off into a dream while still being awake, far away from her pain and the bloody mess before her eyes. She almost looked catotonic.