𝒽𝒾𝓇𝒶𝑒𝓉𝒽

𝐢 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐠𝐨𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐬𝐲𝐜𝐡𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ

'' ᶦ ᵗʰᵒᵘᵍʰᵗ ᵐʸ ʰᵒᵘˢᵉ ʷᵃˢ ʰᵃᵘⁿᵗᵉᵈ, ᵇᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵃⁿᵏ ᵍᵒᵈ ᶦᵗ ʷᵃˢ ʲᵘˢᵗ ᵃ ᵖˢʸᶜʰᵒ ᵇʳᵉᵃᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᶦⁿ ''

Summer was coming to an end. The breeze had recently begun to have a hint of chill in it, and the tree leaves were gradually losing their vibrancy. Some of them were already tumbling to the ground, colouring the edges of the dull pavement in various shades of orange and yellow.

As he made his way back to his penthouse apartment with one hand carrying a bag of groceries and new school supplies while the other was shoved deep into his hoodie pocket, Lee Suho wondered what shade the pavement would turn if he—just like the leaves—tumbled to the ground from the balcony upon his return. He knew it would be red, but what shade of red? Dark or light? Would it pool beneath him, or would it trickle as far away from him as possible just like every other thing in his life that seemed hell-bent on escaping him?

He accidentally bumped shoulders with someone on his way, jolting out of his thoughts and ducking his head into an apologetic half-bow. In return, he received a multitude of curses and a 10-minute lecture on how 'youngsters these days have no damn respect!'.

While shifting his groceries into his other hand to lessen the strain on his fingers, Suho remained silent and waited for the stranger's shrieking to be over so that he could continue on his way. I'm too tired for this, he thought while muttering another half-assed apology and brushing past the still-fuming elder male who eventually gave up on shouting curses after him, stalking off with a huff. I can't be bothered to care.

Not like he could be bothered to care about much these days. He was far too done with life for that. Besides, his heart hadn't felt emotion for a good long while now—it had frozen solid over the years and a thick layer of bitterness coated it's icy exterior now. Caring about things wasn't even an option at this point. Suho sometimes wondered if the muscle keeping him alive even remembered how to do anything other than simply pump blood through his veins because it sure as hell seemed as though it had long forgotten its other responsibilities.

As if it wasn't partially his fault that that's how he had ended up. Emotionless, expressionless, and borderline lifeless—Suho was now nothing but an empty vessel aimlessly shuffling his way around the void of tragedy surrounding him while wishing that god (or whoever the hell was up there) would strike him dead. It didn't have to be now—whenever they were ready. Preferably soon, though.

He hadn't always been so morbid. Once upon a time, everything had been different. Once upon a time, he had been different. Once upon a time, the brightest of smiles had adorned his face every day and a pool of bubbly happiness had filled him to the brim from sunrise to sunset as he skipped through life in a carefree manner, living in the moment without a sliver of fear or pain or hatred tainting his being. But then again, once upon a time, he had been 7 years old with a loving family, living in a home filled with warmth and comfort while surrounded by people who lit him up from the inside out, making him the closest thing to the sunlight's rays in human form. It had been a fairytale, and little Suho had wished with all his heart that it would never end.