Jimin finds himself bound by a familiar six 'wondrous' men, civil and protective. He senses sanctuary within them. He remembered them.
But these men claim to remember things differently. Things that were much more civil, when Jimin swore he killed t...
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INTRO
The walls held by mistrusted tendering, shielded Jimin with the longevity of lorn.
He had nobody to see, speak to,
To mind his well-being.
He'd be alone like this, conditioned by sadistic trials and unforgiving punishments.
A peril belief to seek humility and peace in this place.
Not many could find theirs here.
Jimin would only manage with the sound of a severed piano,
And the clock's tick.
Or maybe the ambience the nurses had bled through the halls with their discerning cigarette smoke. Or the tea they'd drink to enamor with sugar during his therapy, only to share none.
Possibly the cat that would whine at night below the fifth story in which his room resided.
Or his faulting heartbeat.
Things to simply redirect his conscience.
Or rather the remembrance of the dream he'd always wake from, feeling the same, yet finding himself unable to recall any part of it.
And it would always further the thoughts that wielded his unhinged state of being.
Woken, with more afflictions than he had the night before.
One's he was blamed for, though he aggressively believed otherwise.
He was not harming himself, and thought himself too ill to be able to do so in his sleep.
If only he could remember the place he'd go to in his dreams.
The place-
A nurse opened the grating door, moving timelessly to tear Jimin's hand from his hair and onto the table in front of him.
The needle stuck through his inner forearm, missing adequate aim, yet still drawing blood to be pulled out with a sample and no aftercare sanitation.
He tore cloth from his shirt, his upper half nearly bare from the amount of times he'd done so to press onto the injection and stop the bleeding.
"Pill's." A wrapped plastic cup was tossed through the door's shrunken window once the nurse had left.
Jimin dragged over to take the cup and swallow the pills slowly, to get it down without provided water.
Jimin groaned, sitting back up kicking his heels onto the floor.
There went the smoke, though the window.
"I want a cigarette." He frowned.
"Here, take it."
Jimin turned around.
"What?" He'd struggle to stand and look around.
He ran up to the door, pounding gently.
"Hello? Nurse? Is someone here?"
Nobody was.
"It's not nice to tease." He trampled away, tripping over the chains bound at his ankles to fall onto the floor again.
"Mmm." He whined, twisting around to stare at the window.
The clouds left an echo of missing courage. It aided something truly depressing.
"Hey..." A muted notion at his door had Jimin looking at it again.
A glass of water was handed through, spilling from the lack of space that couldn't enable the handling.
Jimin took the water, sipping quickly before setting it down and hurrying up to the door to provide his gratitude.
"Thank-!"
They were gone.
"Th-Thank you sir." He'd sit back where he was.
Or maybe he had never moved and he had allowed delusion.
Delusion didn't agonize him like it did the nurses.
Because reality hindered his inventiveness. He couldn't think in a real world.
The real world is tarnished, fueled by judgment and punishing. If that were the life he'd live, he'd live it on his own, with his own preference.
That's why he both feared and adored his sleep. Sleep missed prediction. You never knew what you'd see or what happened when you were there. For him at least.
You can reimagine what you hope to endure, but that's your conscious that controls that.
Your subconscious controls your insight, and then the humble rest of your body to which your mind is set elsewhere.
When you're unaware and unable to manipulate what you want to see within jaded ambitions.
Jimin is lucid and 'fully aware.' That's the most he can remember, his lucidity.
What came during and where he ends up after, is where he loses any answer as to how or why.
How did he awake that night with a new scar around his mouth, stitches early that morning?
Or the burns at his legs?
He doesn't maneuver when he is asleep. He swears by that.
Maybe it's to confuse him. Another trial from the nurses.
He can't tell.
Is he asleep now?
He took a pieces of rusted metal that had been torn from his bed frame, and cut near his cheek.
He often carved his face to differentiate whether or not he was awake. Nothing else helped. Maybe that's where the other wounds are from.
