A World of our Own | K.TH *COMPLETED*

Pasts Collide

"Your turn," I poke him, breaking him out from the trance he seems to have put over himself. "Hello? Tae?"

"I'm here." He grips my wrist tenderly, like I was made of glass and he was afraid of breaking me. Was it because of the story I just told him?

"Your turn?"

"Yes."

Then the world twists into nothing.

When I look down at myself, I'm standing on an edge— an edge so close to the darkest and deepest abyss I'd only imagine in my harshest nightmares. Instantly, I suck in a breath of horror as I step back, afraid of getting pulled in by the pitch darkness.

Then something urges me to look sideways— and when I do, there stands Tae. The moment I lay my eyes on him, the first thought that strikes me is that he looks so childlike. He had to be younger than seven, but older than five.  Even though youth should blur out his features like most people, his is still the same.

Beautiful. Ethereal.

Beautiful. Did I say that already?

The light wind ruffles his ebony hair as he fixes a deadly stare into the depth of the crevasse.His eyes are blank and empty, like he wouldn't even give a single damn if someone pushed him in.

"Tae!" I yell helplessly. "Get back!"

But he doesn't hear me— and only then I'm reminded this isn't real. None of this is real— it's just the weave of Tae's words and his past. This is the reflection of his past.

A wave of sorrow rushes over my body as he lowers his small body down on the ledge. Then he withdraws two things from his pocket— and I take a closer look to only have my heart stopped.

My breath wraps around my throat.

It's a lighter.

But why? What would he need fire for? All I can do is hope that he doesn't burn himself by accident, or by purpose, for that matter. Then he takes out something else from the side of his jacket, and everything makes sense all at once.

It's a picture of his mother and his father. In the photo, the two look younger— perhaps when they were in their late thirties or early forties. But Tae doesn't give me much time to examine it before he tears it in half.

Before I can get over the shock at what he'd just done, he sets fire to his father's side— the flames flickering in his dark irises. Then he throws it over the abyss, whilst tucking his mother's half into his pocket.

Now I'm in a room, instead of the edge of a cliff. It's dark inside, only lit up with the full, circular moon glowing outside the large window. The moonlight streams in to reflect only half of Tae's young face. Even though he could only be no more than nine or ten, his expression is stormy with anger as he paces restlessly, hissing occasional words.

None of those words are pleasurable.

By the way he speaks, it sounds like he's talking to someone— someone that he doesn't like that much. But when I look around, there's no one else in the room except for him.

Tae runs his fingers roughly through his hair, like he's frustrated. With the look of his face, anyone would assume that he was insane— needed psychological treatment or some mental care.

But I know better. Those stupid things won't ever help him— they would just undeniably make it worse. This kind of mental mindset wasn't curable with some drug or medicine— there was only one cure for it, and that was constant love and affection.

I knew, because I'd been through the exact same situation he's going through right now. Even though the illness might not be the same, I knew how it felt— and I knew what made it better, and what did not.

"Get out of my head," he snarls, his voice low with feral anger. And he was just so young. "I'll kill you if you don't shut up."

Schizophrenia. Did he not tell me that he struggled with voices in his head?

Tae suddenly stops, drawing my attention immediately. His hands are so tensed that it's pale white against the gleam of the moon— and his eyes are wild with fury and an agonized anger. Did the voice tell him something that made him like this? It must have been. Because the next thing he hisses out is something that should never come out of a child's lips.

"Then I'll kill myself."

Then an invisible force takes me by the collar and pulls me through to another time, another dimension. It's sad that no matter how much time passes, the dark always stays the same.

In this time period, Tae looks slightly older than the pasts I've experienced. A new aura of maturity surrounds him, but without a doubt, the childish features of youth are still present in his figure.

I'd guess twelve or thirteen, but I wasn't so sure. The first time I'd met him, I'd believed he was in his early twenties, when he really was eighteen.

Then the door creaks open behind me, nearly making me jump a mile into the air. The blood chilling voice that comes behind my back makes my lips go dry.

"Already healed, boy?"

No— no, no. I don't want to see this. I don't want to, V. Taehyung— please. Please.

When Tae doesn't give an answer, his father's face twists in rage. He hurls the first thing in reach at the boy— which turns out to be a hardcover book, its pages torn and ragged with age and abuse.

Even when the book misses him by bare centimeters— Tae doesn't give any reaction. Fear seizes my throat in its grasp as his father advances toward the unresponsive child. Only when he's a few feet away— only then V looks up.

His face is twisted in hatred and disgust as he snarls at his father— rising to stand face to face. Even though he's young, that doesn't hide his defiance and fury as he meets his father's gaze without hesitation.

His father never broke him. He never did.

"What do you want—" Then his father drives his fist into the weak boy's body, making him stumble to the side. As he crumples to the ground with another unmerciful strike, his slender figure wracks with spasms of violent coughs.

Something wet and thick runs down the side of my face, and I press my sleeve against the bloodstained skin. Struggling to keep from bursting into tears, I watch with a numb emotion as V gasps for breath after receiving a heavy blow to the head.

His back pressed against the cold walls, his fingertips tremble as he accepts the blows without resistance. But that doesn't mean the fire in his eyes die out any time soon— they seem to grow even brighter as each blow meets his skin, and not the other way around.

By the time that psychopath is done, V lies still as stone as his father leaves, spitting and cursing. When the door shuts behind him, V struggles up to his feet. He looks exhausted, with blood spattered on his ashen skin and his right eyelid closed halfway with strain.

Then the door opens again, this time revealing something completely opposite the hell that had visited him a few minutes ago.

V breathes out shakily as his mother sobs against his shoulder, her body wracking with the force. My own heart breaking for the thousandth time, I watch as V's emotionless features twist into a pained wince as his mother squeezes a bit too hard.

"My beautiful boy," She sobs out as she grips his shoulder gently. "I can get you out of here. I swear that I'll get you out of here." With another tearful noise, she wraps her arms around her son again as V's head drops limply onto her shoulder.

"I'm fine, mom."