THIRST || BTS

I

*Seokjin's POV*

So... it's already been twenty-two years?

That's funny. Well, perhaps funny is the wrong word... incredulous is more like it. This frail body of mine has made it this far somehow even though the cleric only gave me until age 16 to live. Either someone lied, or the gods truly are as cruel as I thought.

Most days, my legs didn't have the strength to carry my own weight- and I barely weighed anything at all. You see, I depended heavily on the nurses, as well as my mother to help me get around, and as you could imagine, having no choice but to rely on others in order to live is a unique brand of suffering that I wouldn't wish upon my greatest enemy. However, if I had enemies, maybe I would. Who knows?

What's more is that I couldn't even go outside during the peak hours of the day because the sun would punish me with severe burns if I don't stay in the shadows. I never really understood why I was born like this, but it sure made socializing a lot more difficult- especially with the church breathing down my neck and branding me a demon.

Truth be told, the main culprit of my declining health was the disease within my blood which often left me weakened and dazed. The doctors didn't know how to cure it, however, the only temporary remedy they found for me caused an eruption of backlash from the church. That remedy, was the consumption of blood.

Ever since I turned eighteen and became the officially recognized heir to the throne, everyone including myself realized that I was not nearly fit to fulfill the wishes of what my father expected of me. As I am, I couldn't even dream to become King. Not for long at least. The weight of the royal expectations that sunk me down since birth have since gotten heavier, however, the fear of disappointing my mother was heaviest of all.

My mother, Queen Eri Kim, was always by my side, constantly reassuring me that I'd recover by account of some miracle and be king one day. Deep down, I'm sure we both knew that was just a simple fantasy, but she always found ways to keep my mood up even at my worst moments. I love my mother dearly, so being a burden is the last thing I want for her.

That night, my discouraged, heavy heart allowed for my trembling, pale hands to pierce the weakened flesh of my abdomen, plunging the sturdy blade down to its kilt- thus marking my third and final suicide attempt.

"I'm so sorry mother," were the words that echoed persistently in my mind. "I'm sorry to disappoint you one last time."

Did I desire death? No, of course not. It was life itself of which I desired an escape. It was life that I did not desire in the slightest capacity, and it became very clear that life did not desire me. This was especially apparent because my own body never ceased to fail and decline despite my decent looks. Because my mind succumbed to depression, there came a point where I'd beg to the gods above for my own fated demise to happen sooner; however, the gods ignored me; they simply turned a deaf ear to my cries.

My consciousness alludes me, but what I do know is that in this moment, my body is growing colder and colder as I lay in a growing pool of my own warm blood. It's an interesting sensation, and it's taking a bit longer than I wanted it to, admittedly. If this doesn't work out, I guess I'll simply just have to wait until death says it's my time to go- though with my luck, I'll probably outlive my mother and father and be a burden for as long as I live.

My vision was long gone, and the strength to keep my eyelids open had long since escaped me. As I felt the slow creep of death begin to swallow me, I heard what sounded like extremely muffled banging sounds, followed by a stampede of clunking footsteps and many voices shouting over each-other. Though, I could barely make out any words over the sound of my own labored breathing.