Across The Boundary • Yoonmin

🚫 15; Crimson

You were mine for the night
I don't know how to say
goodbye
-

WARNING;
this chapter contains self-abuse, mentions of suicide, self-harm 🚫 please don't read if you aren't comfortable.

-

'Tick tock'

'Tick tock'

'Tick tock'

Yoongi blinks multiple times, as he stares at the blank ceiling from up above him; without moving.

It was painfully quiet, except for the ticking of the clock that sounds like a ticking time bomb in his ears.

He began sitting up and looks at the clock which stated that it was closed to 2 in the morning, and the painter groans in a frustrated manner.

The painter turns his head to the side, to the blank canvas sitting casually on the wooden easle near the wall of his room and thinks deeply.

'How can i do this? I haven't started even a tiny stroke yet,'

Yoongi turns his eyes back at the clock, and sighs.

"This is pathetic" he mumbles to himself.

He started to stand up and walks his way towards the easle. He picks up a brush mindlessly and dips it into an open paint container, and strokes it on the canvas.

The red paint decorated the white background in an instant, and Yoongi suddenly drops the brush in fear.

Memories started clouding his mind again as he stood there frozen, with two words ringing in his ears over and over.

Red

White

Red

White

Crimson

Pale

Crimson liquid

Pale skin

Yoongi bites his lower lip hard to stop another sob from escaping, just like what he always did before.

Exactly what he did before.

He can now taste the copper taste of his blood from how hard he was biting his lips, but he never stop. He didn't.

Instead, he picks up the brush and dips it again to another container and aggresively strokes it on the canvas; just at the top of the red line it has before.

He strokes the brush over and over in a repetitive manner, looking all flustered and angrily - and didn't notice that the brush had bore a hole in the center due to the pressure.

Yoongi continues to stroke, and only stops when his arm felt numb. He drops the brush and sits down on the floor exhausted.

He combs his fingers through his blonde locks and took deep breathes, eyeing the messed up canvas in the process.

He felt numb, and empty.

He felt like everything around him is suffocating him to the point where he can't breathe.

He hates this. Hates this feeling of vulnerablity, of being weak.

He hates it ever since he first felt it.

He grips his hair tight, feeling the pain on his scalp and starts to whimper as he slumps there on the cold tiled floor, feeling weaker and weaker by the moment.