arrested || jikook

thirty three

thirty three —

it was an odd day. one that seemed particularly slow thus far, and it was slightly annoying. because it being slow meant needing to find things to do, and being in a prison and with hefty restrictions no less, finding entertainment was a feat.

one could look to creative activities, bodily exercises such as dancing, sports and even domestic things like cleaning or reorganizing your current living abode.

however, yoongi preferred the creative outlets when dealing with boredom and it always seemed to quench his thirst for creation. for putting together paragraphs of lyrics and rhymes that read of things many would sweep into a box and hide from society. for building rhythms with syllables that would create the very thing he used to console his longing for outside, outside the fences, outside these walls, outside this cage.

but a fool could dream right? after all, it wasn't like he wouldn't go to prison for such an act that was beheld by his person, and according to fate, was worth the trial that would destroy all of his remaining familial relations, smashing them to pieces that clearly, could remain no more. not after the past at least.

but those bouts of memories that were to be, for now, left alone deep inside one's pit of a brain out of sight were and are irrelevant.

the act, the crime, had been done, stamped onto the letter sent by fate to blow into yoongi's shaky hands while he looked, while he gazed with blank anxiety at the set in stone future before him.

he never thought him, a tired and lazy young man, for a murderer. it wasn't like he meant for his mom to drink from the marble mug on the counter. he didn't mean for the coffee initially meant for his dad, with sickly sweet poison whirling at the bottom, to find its way to her plush lips down her throat, to rest in her stomach and destroy her from the inside out.

he just wanted his father to pay, to pay for everything he'd done to them. he, his mom, and younger brother didn't deserve the constant yelling and threats. they didn't deserve the beatings, or the poverty. the bruises, the lung problems because of the mans smoking.

yoongi would never forget the sounds of his mom crying, sobbing, pleading with her husband to stop, to not throw a vodka bottle at her youngest son that would later leave his hand anyways and scare his face forever. he'd never forget the sounds of his little brother screaming bloody murderer while he ran upstairs and locked himself away for what would be months.

he'd never forget his father hit his mom with the leg of a chair, from the dining room where they all used to sit as a family and eat happily together. those days were obviously no more, and scarce in abundance even in memory.

however those memories, those days, were in the past. years ago. his brother had left the house before he did, finding himself a job while he went to get a masters degree in science. later scoring riches he never thought he'd have.

his dad left, to australia if he remembered correctly, with a new woman on his arm and talks of starting a business. that would hopefully never happen with his track record.

while yoongi was the only one, the only one who stayed behind, the only one who went to the funeral, the only one who said goodbye, the only one who paid their respects, and the only one who was locked away for what was supposed to be 10 years.

yoongi often hoped a miracle would float down from the heavens and whisper into his life hymns of hope and goodluck, that just maybe he'd get out of here earlier than that. he had a case against his dad, and he needed justice. plus he didn't want to waste his life away doing nothing.

he hated not being able to do as he wanted. he hated being pushed around and treated like a dog. even if it wasn't everyone, he just wanted to leave this hell hole.