Love only an author can tell

Seven

Silence hangs in the air of a hospital waiting room, six boys patiently waiting to hear news of their friend. Hoseok can only chew nervously on his bottom lip, the older's blood still staining his sleeves. He'd washed and scrubbed vigorously, but it hadn't all come off. He feels guilty. If he hadn't pushed the older, dumped his confession on him out of nowhere, Yoongi wouldn't have run away in the first place. He stares down at the reddish tint stained into his skin, hearing Jimins quiet cries from a few seats down, he sighs heavily. He'd been such a fool, he should've waited until the older was ready to hear such a confession. It must've been such a shock for Yoongi... His eyes sting at the mere thought of how much pain the older must've been in, it isn't fair. How can someone be given such a cruel life? Yoongi had lost everything... His parents, then a close lover, and right up at the end he felt he didn't have Jimin. Hoseok feels his hands trembling, and he pries his gaze away in fear of another failed attempt to wipe the crimson stains off, instead focusing his attention on Taehyung who is hugging Jimin from his seat to the red heads right while Jungkook holds his hands from his seat to the left. Then his eyes wander over to Namjoon and Jin, tightly holding hands in worry. He can tell Jin feels guilty. Their last words had been full of hatred, not that his own conversation with Yoongi had ended well either... He closes his eyes, biting back tears as he awaits an answer. The room is still, everyone's collective thoughts hanging in the air in a near whisper of 'I hope he's ok.' Everyones sitting on the edge of their seats, in anticipation and anxiety of what might happen, while battling their inner guilt. They'd all shut him out, unintentionally, but nonetheless excluded him. Only it was too late when they realized it. Guilt and shame eats away at each of them, they'd been terrible friends.

All collectively unaware of the internal struggle Yoongi faces.

{Yoongi's POV}

My eyes flutter open, it takes me several seconds to adjust to the strange surroundings. I'm standing in the middle of a vacant barren road, pitch darkness veiling everything except the cracked road. Where am I? What happened? My head hurts... Everything feels fuzzy, like a dream of sorts. A very realistic dream... Suddenly, a whistle echoes from the shadows. The melody is achingly familiar, a lullaby. I remember my mother humming or whistling it nearly every night to help me sleep when I was a kid. A horn blares, and my gaze snaps up to the left only to see a car speed by. My eyes narrow in confusion, what does this all mean? Before I can investigate the empty road a crash echoes from the direction of the speeding vehicle. Before I can even register my own actions or even plan what I might see ahead, my legs carry me towards it at full speed. An odd thought of 'I have to be there as soon as possible' creeps over me. My mad dash only pauses when I'm standing before a small music store, car crashed through the front store window. My eyes land on an old piano, identical to the one which used to live with us in my childhood home. Mother had taught me to play at a young age, but when they died... I retired. I can't seem to touch a key without having an anxiety attack. The piano reminds me too much of her, just as a paintbrush reminds me of my father. The sudden memories stir a remorseful pang in my chest. I decide to walk closer, realizing that the car is empty with small flames leaking from under the hood. Where's the driver? Did he flee? My eyes land back on the old piano, and much to my disdain, see flames creeping up it. On the wall behind the piano hangs a familiar painting, my fathers prized piece of art that won numerous awards.. It was a simple painting.

One of me In fact, I remember the weeks in which he had been working on it. He had told me to sit on a stool, and hold a blank expression, every evening for three weeks until it was completed. Finally he had finished it, a simple black and white painting of me, as he pictured me to look as an adult. The artwork held so many emotions, it always amazed me how he conveyed so many emotions in my paintings eyes. However one evening, my parents had an argument. I can't recall what it was about... But I do remember them screaming at one another, they didn't fight often so it was sudden for me. I had looked through the doors crack to watch. They had been in my fathers studio, shouting and arguing until my father picked up numerous paint cans and splattered it across my paintings face. The once black and white painting now dripped with vibrant reds, yellows and other colors. He'd ruined it. Or so he thought. My mother entered into an art competition without his knowledge as a surprise, and the judges rewarded it first place. After that incident, he entered in more competitions and won every single one. Critics and judges had praised it as unique and chaotic in a calm way, a seeming mess with an impossible and underlining beauty, a paradox in itself.