Inside The Devil | M.yg × P.jm✓

Prologue

The man sat behind the cells, alone, in the darkness with the other old things. Cold and long-forgotten. Staring at his shadow that seemed to have its own brain and looking back at him with imaginary cold-lidded eyes. His ears were conscious of the clamor and invisibly bleeding with incessant screaming he'd heard almost every day.

He was silent but his mind was observing everything. The young lad could tell almost quickly whose scream it belonged. From the wicked hysterical laughter of the insane old man, the weeping of the poor girl, to the furious raving of the bald guy. And even the disturbing whispers of the voices behind his head. He recognizes it very well.

Yoongi was ill — that is what the doctor said to him.

He was mentally ill, that is what everyone believed he was.

Min Yoongi is twenty-two years old and he is diagnosed with Acute Schizophrenia. Ever since he was a kid, his life had been plunged into the blackness of the supernatural. He is seeing ghosts, unearthly creatures. He would wake up at luridly 3:00 am, and see a girl in black sitting stolidly at his foot. And at the age of three, he would scream for his mother, and she would come running and soothe him. And Mother will only tell him they were not real but just a bad dream. But Yoongi knew they were not just silly nightmares. Yoongi is certain of it, they'd speak to him sometimes. But then mother would insist they're just creatures inside his head and nothing more than that.

Yoongi tried to believe that those ghosts are just part of dreams and they existed only in his mind. But his doubts soon replied to his thoughts when Yoongi turned sixteen. Things get more real. They're not just ghosts or creatures inside his head. They're devils, sprouting out from hell and claiming to be his owner.

Yoongi was no possession of anyone. He was a possessor of himself.

Yoongi lost his mother when he was five and with her ashes, the light in the centre of Yoongi's heart faltered as well. It was a sudden death like how the bubbles exploded in the thin thorn of wind, leaving no clue how it had happened. And Yoongi didn't get to see his father. Whenever he tried to ask his mother about it, she would just change the subject or never answer at all to which Yoongi never attempted to question his mother again.

He was taken into the care of his cruel aunt who made his life a living hell. He was never treated like a family in that house. He was a maid; a maid who cleaned their mess in the morning, afternoon, and night. Little Yoongi learned to cook at a very young age, clean the pig's shits, sweep the yard, and clean the whole house — and he was not allowed to take a rest. Big responsibility to put for an innocent child who only craves for his mother's touch.

He doesn't have friends for the reason that everyone thinks he is weird. A chunky man with thick black greasy hair falling on his beady lavender eyes that glow like enchanting Amethyst when put against the sunlight. He has pale skin, smooth and delicate like the silk petals of white roses.

Yoongi is a taciturn person. His dark aura scares everyone. He would try to speak, but it would only come out as a stutter or a crook. The voice just won't come out of his stubborn throat. Whenever he tries, a flash of searing pain would come scorching up his throat. His aunt never brings him to a doctor thus they don't know what's wrong with him — and the people around him are already used to his silent nature.

When Yoongi finally learned the truth from lies, he realized that the real monsters are not those that live inside his closet, those under the bed, or those that are staring at him intently from the ceiling. It was the person he got to live his life with. They're the real monsters.

No one would ever believe that a young boy could commit such a heinous crime.

The loud screaming of Mrs. Chui remarked in Min Yoongi's head. She broke into perturbing gags as Yoongi dragged the knife deeper into her throat, the blood pudding around them, letting her sit in her own scoundrelly blood. Die … Die … Die … The phrase goes on repeatedly on his tongue. Die … Die … Die …