The Slaughterhouse

- 3 -

The poor little male was shivering from head to toes in his little lair, that he called his home since the complete crash of society. He had made himself a little cavity inside the ground before the cold harsh months of winter began, but it didn't offer much cold protection to his skinny, almost skeletal body. It wasn't much, the flaxen-haired male knew it well, but it was now his home, the place where he passed most of his time in during the winter, except for the moments where he needed to go out to go grab himself something that was somewhat edible to fill his growling stomach. Having dug up his own cave of his own two dirty hands, it was barely big enough for his own body, and whenever he wanted to go to sleep in it, he had to fold his knees against his chest due to the confined space. It was quite dark, but the blonde hued haired male could see a little blinding white piece of the winter sunlight pouring from the above, where he had dug the entrance. His eyes had been so used to the complete and utter darkness of his little home that each and every single time he tried to look up at the sky, his eyes shut themselves automatically, the light being way too bright for his poor unused eyes. Puffy and heavy cotton-like snowflakes were blown into his lair every so often, pushed by the biting cold wind, and after barely a day of lying completely still in the comforting darkness, the scraggy male was completely dressed with a thick blanket of snow. Barely dressed up with something that once resembled rags and a big blanket, now so used that they both just looked like swiss cheese, Jimin's teeth were chattering, as his body was slowly becoming a human popsicle. The tip of his fingers had turned bluish, which he knew wasn't a very good sign, and even if he tried to breathe on them, they didn't really change colour, to his demise. So, to heat them up a little, he put them into his mouth, which was probably one of the only few places which were still warm. Well, there were some other places...but none he purposely wanted to stick his fingers into. His fingers were like ten icicles in his mouth, but after a little, they had finally warmed up, a prickling sensation proliferating through his digits as he finally started to feel something, even if it was his bumpy and wet tongue under them. Slowly, as if it demanded him the collective efforts of a thousand men, he forced himself to stare blankly, still lying down like a wounded soldier, at the above heavens for any sign, any promise the sky would stop taunting him with more snow which he neither needed or nor loved anymore now that he was spending his first winter outside. The season's harsh conditions had made him lose all conscience of time. Had he been in this hole for one minute, two hours, three days, four weeks or five months? He didn't know anymore, he didn't even know the current date, time escaping through his fingers like sand, unable to be stopped or held down.

That little ball of bones answered by the name of Jimin, one he wore proudly, which was very probably the very last thing that he truly owned in this world where the strong ones were kings.

Unexpectedly when he laid his head still to listen to the outside world, the blonde-haired male heard noises outside, ones that sent chills up and down his spine because of their unusual nature. Right outside of his den, he heard voices, speaking the same language as him, but the people that were currently speaking outside seemed rather eloquent, their choice of words being one of the most intriguing to the young male. The speakers used expressions and words that Jimin knew undoubtedly that since they weren't used by any locals he had talked to before the whole societal collapse, it meant that it only came from one particular place.... the Slaughterhouse.

Immediately, rather than to investigate the sounds and check if they were nearby or further away, by simply sticking his head out in the manner of a gopher, he decided to simply hide, as best as he could, underneath the earth that welcomed him. The cries seemed to be getting nearer and nearer, but Jimin was too tired, too cold to say anything or to hide better than he already was. He neither moved nor breathed, trying his best to make himself unknown to the unwanted visitors.