Black and Blue | ym.

6| Mini Hospital

Hey, author speaking. Chapters will probably be a lot longer from here on out. Cheers!

–Consplody xx

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A shiny gold handle rested under Jimin's fingertips, cold to the touch. He didn't want to push it down. He wanted to stay outside a little longer, maybe go visit a friend. But people don't always get what they want.

The door opened with an unnecessarily loud creak, betraying Jimin's arrival. A glare was shot in its direction, but the door was not remorseful. He stepped over the threshold, trying his best to step lightly, go unnoticed. He watched the door as it shut, slowly, carefully, click, that's it. 

When he turned around again, he nearly jumped out of his skin. There, tall and proud, was his father. Arms crossed, eyes boring into Jimin, digging holes.

"You didn't clean up," came the blunt accusation.

"Sir?"

"You didn't fucking clean up."

Jimin stared blankly. Clean up? Clean what up? His eyes trailed to the room around them, then widened. The house was a mess. Broken bottles were everywhere, glass scattered like confetti, puddles of who-knows-what that hadn't dried- oh God, Jimin was fucking dead.

"I'm s-so sorry, sir, I- I-"

"You what? You forgot? You didn't see?" The man gestured wildly at the pigsty around them. "Don't lie to me, boy. You and I both know you're deliberately an asshole just to piss me off."

"No, sir, I swear-" He was unable to finish. The breath was forced out of his lungs when he was pushed against the door, head slamming into the wood.

"I'm gonna fucking beat your ass, then you're gonna clean up this mess. If I wake up tomorrow and it's still here, I will literally beat you to death." Jimin knew he wasn't bluffing. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," he whispered.

"Good."

The first blow was landed on his nose. Tears came immediately- there's nothing worse than getting socked in the nose when you least expect it (except getting kicked in the balls but that's beside the point). 

"You useless piece of shit." A kick to the shin. "You're lucky I even let you out of the house at this point." A punch to the stomach had him on the ground. He was really vulnerable there, he knew- and he also knew that this was exactly where his father wanted him.

He was kicked in the head. The world got kind of fuzzy, his father's voice an echo. His eyes were probably open. He couldn't tell. There was a lot of pain. All over his body, everywhere, everything hurt. It lasted for a long time. He didn't really know how long. He couldn't really think. At one point a bursting pain shot through his eye, all the way down his optic nerve. It magnified to his headache, decreased his vision. His sweater was wet, probably blood, what a shame- it was his favorite. His father was speaking, probably yelling but his voice seemed kind of far away. It was like being in suspended animation, the three seconds before sleep when going under general anesthesia.

At some point, it stopped. When, he couldn't tell you. But it did, that's what mattered. 

His phone was discarded on the floor a foot away. He was lucky to have slipped it out of his back pocket, or else he wouldn't have a phone, and he'd have glass in his bum. He did have glass in his bum, though, from the bottles. That kind of sucked, but it wasn't new.

His senses came back to him at around four. He sat up, groaning. Looking around, at the floor, at himself, at his phone. One new message from Jinnie Hyung. He'd get to that later. 

First things first, he had to clean. That came before anything else. His wounds could be tended to later, but he had to make sure the house was spotless.

Sweeping was step number one. He swept the entire downstairs. Then mopping, getting rid of the strange puddles, getting rid of his own blood. It took only two hours. He was experienced in cleaning, after all. He tidied a bit as the sun rose, throwing away discarded solo cups, wiping ever surface. 

Then came taking care of himself.

The attached bathroom in his room was stocked with medical supplies. It was his own personal little hospital, which was kind of cool, but he probably should've gone to a real one. Oh well. 

He turned the shower on cold, stepped inside with all his clothes on, sighed. The cold water and some soap got the blood out of his clothes, and when they were clean he took them off. They were heavy until he wrung them out, forcing water out of them. They were thrown over the curtain to dry the rest of the way.

After his clothes, he cleaned his body. Cleaning himself was not quite as easy, because he had nerves and flinch responses. Wouldn't life be a lot simpler if he couldn't feel anything? Soap stung his cuts, scrubbing sent nasty sparks through his bruises. He turned the water to warm in an attempt to clear his headache as he washed.

When he was done he got out, dried off, and started the process of bandaging. He was a little low, so he made a mental note to go buy more soon. His left arm was slit open- his father probably got ahold of a bottle- and his ankle had been properly fucked up. Other than a few major and minor bruises (on major one being on his upper back, which appeared to have been repeatedly slammed into the floor), he thought he was okay.

Then he looked in the mirror.

His eye. Oh God, his eye.