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ㅡTHREE YEARS EARLIER. "you can't trust everyone and you can't let people too close. which is kind of sad, in a way, but it's true."
"rough day again, kid?" the janitor asks, finishing his nightly routine by placing the bucket full of dirty water and the single mop in the closet where yoongi was residing. the mint haired boy simply nods, refusing to let his eyes leave the rip in his jeans he was currently tugging at.
"i'd love to let you stay, but you know the drill. at eight o clock, my shift ends." yoongi stands up and flings his grey knapsack over his shoulder, nodding once more to the pudgy janitor before walking away.
as yoongi opened one of the four main doors to the school building, the janitor stepped out of the closet and called after him. he set down his mop.
"hey, kid?" he referred to yoongi as 'kid' due to the sheer fact that yoongi never told him his name. he didn't tell him his, either. they weren't exactly close, after all.
yoongi turns around and raises an eyebrow, looking at the janitor. now, the man actually gets a good look at the boy's features. he has a large bruise on his forehead and a cut above his left eyelid.
"you need a ride home?" the janitor asks, bargaining his offer by jingling his pair of keys. yoongi shakes his head and chuckles.
"no thanks." he says, holding up a hand and once again pushing the black bar attached to the front door. "i'll walk."
the janitor understandingly nods, though his worries for yoongi had been growing lately. the boy was exceedingly pale, he had been frequently beaten up by the students, and his voice had become raspy.
yoongi walks out the front door, letting the cool breeze overwhelm him. with the wind brings the thoughts of the day.
oh, how he loathed the wind.
•<><><><><>•
in many movies, the coincidentally nerd teen protagonist will complain about being invisible.
they'll say, 'i just wish someone noticed me' and go on a full on rant about how no one notices, and no one cares. to min yoongi, the fifteen year old freshman, invisibility was a myth.
no matter who you were or how irrelevant you were, someone would notice you, whether it was for the good or the bad. yoongi wished he could be invisible. and he was, to most.
but not the bullies.
he walks into the kitchen, his mother sitting at the table on the phone, a worried expression on her face.
"yes... no, he isn't... he was supposed to be home three hours ago. i... oh my god, he's here. yeah, bye." she hangs up the phone and rushes towards him, studying over his features with tears in her eyes before pulling him into a tight hug.
"oh god, yoongi. where were you?" he stands stiff as her hands snake around his back. he can feel her tears land on his clothed shoulder as his mother quietly sobs. he looks to the table to see she has papers scattered around it, displaying various school phone numbers.
"at the school." he says plainly, working his way out of the hug. "i had to study."
yoongi's mom sighs, rubbing her temple with her left hand. she smiles, tears still dripping from her brown eyes. she nods, placing a kiss on his cheek.
"alright. just... don't do it again, okay?" she knew their was no point in arguing with her son. he was already mentally unstable as it was, and she didn't want to push him over the edge.
"i'm going to go to bed." he says plainly. he makes his way up the stairs and stops in his room. he is relieved his mom hasn't said anything about the new bruises, yet. there's nothing she'd be able to do anyways.
he ends his pace when his room door creaks open, revealing the pale grey walls and black and white patterned bed sheets lazily strewn on the floor, along with a pile of clothes he hadn't bothered to wash. he knew his mom would pick it up at the end of the week.
he stops in front of the vanity mirror hanging above his dresser. on his dresser is a collection of stacks of clothes he didn't feel like putting away, a hairbrush, and a coffee mug filled with pens in various colors.
he hears his mother turn on the television. clink, clink, clink- she drops three ice cubes into a heavy-bottomed glass and soon after pours in what he assumes is whiskey. he hears the microwave begin to run, he comes to the conclusion it's for leftover pizza and begins to hap-hazardly change the channels on the tv.
he won't take a real nap, he decides. he lays on the bed, sitting in a sort of upward position. he will stay in the half awake state he recalls his mom referred to as the 'first stop on the road to sleep.'
he doesn't need to close his eyes, just rest. and breathe.
breathe in, breathe out.
he watches himself in the mirror across the room. his hair is frizzy, greasy, and laying in tassels at the back of his ears. he has two mocha eyes under black-line eyebrows, dark circles, and piggy nostrils. he has two new bruises, one new cut above his left eyebrow.
his lips are the worst part, though. a chewed up horror of a mouth. he can't stop biting his lips. it looks like his mouth belongs to someone else, someone he doesn't even know.
he gets out of the bed and takes down the mirror. he puts it in the back of his closet, facing the wall.
