September 23rd | jjk

Now

Jungkook's bedroom was cold when he awoke. The fan at his bedside hummed quietly, providing a blanket of white noise that should have helped him fall asleep more easily last night. 

It didn't. 

In books and movies, people always take a while to remember the reality of their life when they wake up in the morning. Then they do, and the force of it knocks the breath from their chest. But was never like that for Jungkook. Every morning for the past 6 days he had woken with the same sharp ache in his chest, and the same quiet ringing in his ears. If the room was too quiet, he could still hear the sound of the car meeting the bridge rail. He could still hear her scream. 

The cast around his arm pinched uncomfortably where it lay snug around his bicep. He was vaguely aware of the pain shooting through his bones, but it was hard for him to acknowledge it fully. It was hard for him to acknowledge anything fully, actually. 

He continued to stare at the wall until there was a soft knock at his door.

"Jungkookie?" His Mother's voice whispered. He watched in silence as her head peeked around the door, eyebrows furrowed and gaze solemn as it landed on him. Seeing that he was awake, she pushed the door open and moved toward the curtains. Jungkook shielded his eyes from the light as they were pulled slowly open, the sun streaming through the windowpanes. "How did you sleep, baby?" 

The bed dipped as his Mother took a seat beside him, her thin hand coming to rest on his forehead. She smoothed the damp, sable hair back from his forehead.

"I don't have a fever, mom," he said quietly. His eyes landed on the simple black suit hanging from the back of his wardrobe. His mouth was suddenly dry. "It's today."

He didn't look at his Mother's face, but he could feel the air shift as she grimaced. It was the same pained, pitiful expression she had had on her face ever since she picked him up from the hospital. Ever since he came home, alone. 

"Yes," she replied. 

"How long did I sleep?" He said, meaning another question entirely.

"We need to leave in two hours."

He didn't speak again. His Mother left the room. 

Jungkook went through the motions of getting ready mindlessly. The froth was red when he spat his toothpaste into the sink, but he didn't remember nicking his gum. The eyes that stared back at him when he looked into the mirror were sunken, heavy bags belying his poor nights' sleep. They weren't the eyes he had known for the past 18 years of his life; no, they were something else entirely. He felt that way about most of his body these days, though. As if his limbs belonged to someone else. As if his skin was a party costume. There was a disconnect between his brain and his body that hadn't been there. Before. 

--

His Mother took his good arm as she lead him to the car, smoothing her hand over the now-bulging tuxedo he had managed to squeeze his casted arm into. She wore a simple black dress and light makeup. It isn't working, he thought dryly. We can still see you've been crying.

The drive to the church was wiped from his memory the moment that he stepped out of the car door at the other end, as it was with every car journey he had had since it happened. If he thought about it more, perhaps he would have reasoned that it was his brain protecting him from re-experiencing a traumatic event. A biological response to a tangible threat. He didn't think about it more, though. 

Someone shoved a small, cream memorial card into his hands, and suddenly he was seeing her again. His knees almost buckled at the sight. 

He kept walking toward the swarm of black gathered at the doors of the building. Toward the group of six familiar faces that watched him. He and his Mother split away from one another as he walked toward his friends, and she headed over somewhere to the left. They were still for a moment, and then they were walking, no, running toward him and pulling him into a hug.