lucky charms ✧･ﾟ y.m [book 1]

thirty-eight

Yoongi remembered feeling his fingernails digging into the soft skin of his arm, leaving bruises that in a few days became scabs, and eventually, just small scars. They were, to him, just unwanted reminders. Soon enough, they disappeared, leaving him with only painful memories.

Yoongi remembered sitting there by his bed one day, doodling on a pencil with a permanent marker to distract himself from his father in the other room. The pencil had nearly no eraser and had been found, neglected, on the floor. He picked it up, drawing tiny triangles on the sides and later coloring them in when the yelling and screaming hadn't stopped like he'd hoped. Yoongi was very mature for his age, he had to be. He was forced to be, him being part of a dysfunctional family, needing to know exactly what not to say or do to anger his father.

He remembered the feeling of washing his face once he found himself finally able to pick himself off of the floor, bloody, bruised, and broken. Washing his face of all of the tears and at times, blood. He looked into the mirror, tears instantly filling his eyes again if they hadn't already. He hated how disgusting he looked. He hated how puffy and red his eyes were, yet how much he still just wanted to cry his eyes out at the unfairness of it all.

It all ended so quickly, when his mother was killed. But the truth was, it never really ended. The end of it all was fast, and Yoongi was relieved to not have been there to witness it. It was only later that he began to think back to that day, creating questions that lingered in the back of his mind for the longest time, questions that would probably never be answered.

What if his mother hadn't called for help and his father had escaped after killing his wife? What if his father never attempted to kill her and Yoongi was still living with them, in that wretched house?

What if Yoongi had been there when his mother was killed? Would he have died too?

Sometimes, Yoongi wished he was there. Sometimes, he wished that he was killed alongside his mother, or even better, killed in the place of his mother.

Sometimes, Min Yoongi wished he would die.

Not sometimes. It was an underlying sort of desire, only emerging when called upon, when Yoongi was in the sort of state of mind to consider dying, of all things, to avoid his problems, to avoid everything.

In a way, it was both never and always there. Just waiting until Yoongi was at his weakest.

It's something he couldn't share, not even with his best friend. It was too personal, and Yoongi couldn't possibly find the right words to express the world of pain he once experienced, the world he still felt trapped in.

Jimin was his paperweight, but sometimes, his presence just wasn't enough to keep him from flying away like a paper lost to the wind.

Yoongi remembered closing his swollen, red-rimmed eyes as he lay in his bed, feeling tired, tired of everything, just too exhausted to stay awake any longer. His father visited him in his dreams, too. Yoongi remembered waking up to tear-filled eyes, a heavy feeling pinning him down, impeding any movement. He despised that helpless, vulnerable feeling, as he had felt it way too many times already.

Yoongi remembered every little thing.

He wished he didn't.

It was funny, how life always seemed to work against him.