Desperate

ONE

 Undeniably. It had been decided amongst the cold, chilling breeze of the winter season two years ago, that dying was a disease and death was not an option. It is hard to know whether the beautiful blonde haired male would be deemed a hero like a soldier at war; or the coward that could not take the pain any more. A thick red substance oozed from the perfect thin lines, scattered across his wrists. Hidden underneath a layer of white bandage, masked by the small emotionless smile. A man covered in darkness, wondering when he would be allowed to die.

Whenever you watch a movie or read a book, they always tell the story of happily ever after. As if, happily ever after is the prize you win; after fighting a battle that almost lost you the war and loving someone who could never be yours. But, happily ever after is not a side affect of fighting for love. Happily ever after is an unrealistic delusion. (Love is also, an unrealistic delusion. A dream, that only comes true in fairy tales- or movies.) Haunted by his overbearing and totally out of touch parents, who took him to see a Doctor out of fear that he would damage their pristine reputation if his condition was not deemed a medical episode, it was decided that Park Jimin had somewhere along the lines managed to loose is mind. Therefore, it had been agreed upon that he would attend weekly support groups.

This support group contained a small number of individuals who had decided that death was not a disease and in fact, dying seemed like a perfectly feasible option. Why was the group small? Some of those people had chosen to die. Because death was better than admitting that you liked men. Apparently.

Obviously, there was no helpfulness in attending these meetings.

The group would meet every Saturday evening on the roof top of an old abandoned primary school, which had boarded up windows and barely visible lighting. The people would sit around a rusty metal table, where each person would stare off into the abyss and contemplate whether tonight would be the night they would die.

It was painfully apparent to the four or five people that regularly attended these meetings that death was not an option, they must live to please the people that raised them and only when those people deemed it necessary were they allowed to die. The blonde male would listen to Joon explain for the millionth time- how he too had wanted to die and that death was an option he looked forward to but he couldn't die because it would taint the image his parents had created for him and so here he was, as a fully-grown adult on the roof of a derelict building in the middle of Seoul, unhappy, addicted to alcohol, mostly alone, attempting to make use of his depressing life by making money off of other depressed individuals, slowly working his way towards straightness, but being as bent as a circle and waiting as everyone else has for death.

He has not yet, been so lucky.

Each person in attendance had to introduce themselves. Name. Age. Mental diagnosis. And any progress we've made. I'm Jimin, the beautiful blonde would whisper. Twenty Two. Apparently I have lost my mind; ever since my parents found out that their perfect little money maker was being fucked in the basement of their mansion by one of their staff members. No progress, I still enjoy being fucked by men. Still a sinner. Still wanting to die and hoping that death reaches me soon. He'd say.

Once each person had, had their turn to speak, Joon always tried to get someone to overshare. Oversharing with the group was meant to be a way of 'curing' your disease. That's when the unbearable jerking off starts...the fake smiles and even more fake mumbles in support. No one was there because they wanted to be, and no one really wanted to be cured. In fairness, to Joon though, he wasn't bothered whether we talked about our need to be cured of disease or death. Although, most of the people Jimin had met were never going to kill themselves. Most would live a long; pleasured life, as Joon had.