PAPER HEARTS

32

Red.

Amidst the clutter, the mess, and Jimin's fist crashing against the guy's jaw, all I can see is red. I am scared to open my eyes at first, my breathing is uncontrolled and my fingers tremble so violently that I'm surprised they haven't splintered off. There's blood on the floor and the foul stench of attention rapidly blazes through me. I can't breathe.

Somewhere in the corner of my mind, I know it's all on me. It's my fault that Jimin is here, it is my fault that he needs to go to this extent of punishing someone for merely faltering in control. It is my fault that everyone is watching.

Everyone is watching.

Everyone is judging.

I'm so scared to open my eyes and accept their glares with an open heart. I'm terrified of what will become of me if I come to the conclusion of the wreckage bestowed on a calm night. Because of me. I'm at fault and I'm too afraid to understand that.

And their whispers won't stop echoing either. I hear voices everywhere, see frowns tainting their nameless faces with so much red that it's hard to get rid of from my head. I press my hands over my ears, head spinning with so many thoughts - like a fleet of trucks racing into my skull and stomping over my balmy composure with a dreary sense of anxiety.

Claws - everywhere - grabbing on to me, touching, nailing, and tearing me to pieces and I'm struggling to find my portal of escape. To locate the wonderland of serenity that's deemed a mirage in my infinite hills of sand dunes. The stress only brings a multitude of emotions coursing through the pit of my stomach.

I can feel the vomit rising in my throat.

My ears are buzzing with the sounds of apologies and splutters. I'm too focused on the loud thumping of my own pulse as it broils against my ears to notice my manager's words; a muddle of queries that I don't even know the answers to.

I'm pounding. The distraction is too loud, and I suddenly feel light-headed when Jimin grabs the petrified boy by his collars, and if anything, he's enjoying this a little too much.

"Why are you scared, bro?" Jimin teases, grabbing another fistful of the guy's hair after dropping a gun over the table.

The sight of his pistol makes me let out an alarmed squeak and press my hands over my mouth in shock. The room is alive with gasps and I can't actively process anything as more people draw their attention to the brawl.

The accused blubbers out so many words of apology, and he bleats like a lamb that's about to be sacrificed. For a deranged second there, I hoped that he would literally drop dead from the fright.

The girls' blood-curdling shrieks fill the room at the sight of it and Jimin winces, "Oh, what was that? You wanna go home? how tragic, I only just got here and the party's just 'boutta start."

A few people strut up to the scene, my manager and, and I'm staggering to find a wall to lean against. My head hurts from all the noise, the almost nostalgic feeling of something irritating whelms me with so much of fear.

I can't get the guy's rough grip off of my mind. It burns my skin as if the memory of his scalding fingertips is boiling in my body and that's when I turn ashen grey with disgust. I'm a mess of everything, my fingers are trembling, and I can't even detect half of what's going through my head when a few on-lookers pry Jimin away from the poor guy.

He's bleeding from the deep gash in his left temple and it's all because of me.

I slide against the wall and hug my knees to my chest. Someone hands me water bottle water, but I only flinch away from them, my hair dripping with sweat, and my eyes nervously flittering from one way to the other. They are asking me if I'm hurt and a few words of gibberish collapse from my mouth. I don't know in which context they mean to drill an answer out of me - physically? I'm fine.