My Light, My Jimin

Chapter 37: Projects

YOONGI

Stabbing Young-sang didn't kill him. Obviously.

I could spin the story. I could say that I never wanted to kill him. That it was all an act of self defense.

I'd be lying. My hands knew exactly where they were going. My brain knew exactly what to do.

Since being discharged from the hospital, I've regretted not stabbing him more and finishing the job.

But I know how to disappear, and I know how to hide in plain sight. I was raised by my Appa who taught me how to be invisible when I played piano, a musical genius who could turn into someone else with a smile in the mirror and a distraction of something pretty to the ears.

I cross the street and find his address, an easy task to do once you have something as simple as a name. Young-sang was once an ambitious kid, just like Jimin, posting online with his location turned on. It wasn't hard to track him down, especially after the smoke cleared and the campus was no longer a crime scene. I've kept a low profile for a while, but now is when I choose to move.

On the edge of the city sits empty buildings, vacant warehouses, and apartments stacked on top of each other that barely fit the alley cats in with the tenants having screaming matches with each other at three in the morning. I find a small apartment building and enter through the lobby, past the empty front desk, and to the stairway. I want to do this as quickly as possible.

I come to the third floor and enter in a small hallway. My feet are cold as I walk, each step echoing. It's the second to last door on my left that I stop at.

The door's open a crack, and when I push it open, no one notices me. No one charges at me. It's an eerie sort of welcome, one that I count on as I step inside and shut the door behind me. There's a source of light from the glare of the television in the center of the room, with a beat up couch facing it and the window.

I can see the outline of a head laying on the couch, deep snores set in a rhythmic pace. And that's when I turn to see a bloody scalpel sitting on the countertop in the kitchen.

I almost run. The fear wraps around me and squeezes until my bones are almost carried away. I almost turn around and flee.

But instead, I move toward him, toward the man I know could have killed Jimin. It's the bravest thing I've ever done. Also the stupidest. But I have the leverage of being awake and prepared.

In the dark, I spot a desk tucked in the corner. Leftover ramen bowls and crumpled up papers scatter the surface, but my eyes focus on a cup with pencils. And a pair of chopsticks.

I guess that will work as a backup plan.

He's still asleep when I walk in front of the television, probably too tired after being chased from the police for a week now. It's almost enough for me to pity him, how he's able to sleep soundly knowing that I'm still alive.

I snake my hand to the pillow propped under his head and in a swift move, pull it out and press it hard over his face. He thrashes underneath me, his screams muffled, and his hands flying to my throat. I press down harder.

"What are you doing?" he shouts as he clamors to sit up. I don't let him. I pin him down and use my knee to kick his finger into the couch. He cries out in agony and a sick feeling of victory swims through me.

He grabs my arm and pushes out, my trap now broken, and I scramble to my feet and away from him as soon as I'm caught.

Things happen fast after he squints and recognizes me. He runs for me, but it's sloppy, and he nearly trips over his own rug. He lunges for me, and grips my shoulder, shoving me hard into the couch. I fight him again; I've got nothing to lose.

I race to the kitchen and spot a broom leaning against the wall. I take a chance and the handle, spinning it around and aiming high. He blocks it. The old wood snaps in half against his arm and he howls. I think I hit his elbow. I have just enough time to run, out of reach, and head for the wood block of kitchen knives. If I can just reach one. . .

But he lunges, grabbing me and jerking me backward like a doll. I slam awkwardly against the floor with a horrible crunch, but my head doesn't smack on anything. Then a body is pinning me down, the shock of the sudden weight crushes my chest, and then I'm sucking in air that's not there anymore as my body seizes against the pain.

This was a horrible plan.

My lungs shudder. I can't focus. My fractured mind's frantically trying to reboot and get me to safety. I have to appreciate that my own mind will convince me that I can get to safety when there's clearly no chance of me escaping.

"You're definitely going to die this time," Young-sang tells me, hands wrapped around my throat and squeezing tight.

My eyes cross for a second. I'm out of time. Use the backup.

"Thanks for the heads-up," I say, "but I'm fine, thanks."

When he lets up for just a second, I flip the chopsticks until they're properly situated in my hand. Then I bring them up on a harsh stab to his gut, the same place the scissors cut into.

A muffled scream rings out and I dig them deeper until it feels like my wrist will disappear. My muscles strain as I take the chopsticks out, blood leaking into my face. I stop only when he falls on top of me.

My chest is heaving, the exertion causing me to lose track and almost go overboard. His screams have fallen silent, I don't know when they stopped, but I get out from under him and over to the kitchen sink.

I scrub the blood off my hands and dry my hands. When I turn back around, Young-sang is dead on the floor, my job done.

Two hours later, the room is clean and his body is slumped in the bathtub, empty bottles of pills scattered around him with the chopsticks placed in his hands. A vicious, gory suicide, but stranger things happen every day.

My neck cracks as I let out a sigh of relief, the anxiety of what comes next temporarily muted from the pleasant way justice was served tonight.

It's late enough where I don't cause attention walking back to my house in bloody clothes. The only problems I have is when I pass through the lobby and make eye contact with a stray cat sitting outside. It mewls and goes back to licking itself.

I take the stairway up to my apartment just to be on the safe side and walk through the door, glad to be home again for once.

Heading to the balcony, I grab myself the pack of cigarettes sitting on the coffee table and light one before sitting outside, soaking in the moonlight and peace before the night is over.

My phone vibrates inside where I set it on the bed and I stand to go and unlock it.

NAMJOON: It's done. I hope this helps the both of you.

Sighing, I run a hand through my bloody hair, tilting my head to the ceiling and cracking my neck, taking a deep inhale of the cigarette.

My chest is throbbing, and I don't think that's going away any time soon, so I ignore it. I walk through my apartment silently, stripping down and getting into a shower without the lights on. The water sprays me in darkness and I scrub the blood of Young-sang out of my hair.

It's done. Namjoon's favor, and my mission to be rid of the man who attempted to kill Jimin. I desperately want to deliver the good news to him, tell him that he's safe again, but I know I can't. Not without us being pulled apart again.

But now that I've been without him, I would do just about anything to see him again. This line of wishing has to stop if I want to go through with my plans. I calculated this carefully, before I was too wrapped up in Jimin and my conflicting emotions to think clearly. Now is the time that I listen to the logical, past me. The me that had a plan for everything.

Drying off, I change into a T-shirt, jeans, and throw on a black hoodie just to be safe. No lights are turned on as I work in silence. The last thing I do is make my bed, and my fingers pause at the sheets; where Jimin once slept next to me.

It's pathetic, really, how I end up crying now when I'm doing something as mundane as making my bed.