Art Block

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE:

"Taehyung!"

"Taehyung Kim!"

"When is your next piece coming out?!"

"Do you ever plan on releasing new work?!"

"Can you tell us about your hand?!"

"Taehyung, over here! Are you really retiring?!"

Taehyung couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't bear the constant pressure of the media.

He looked around, trying to find his way out of the circle the press had pushed him into. The flashing and shuttering of the cameras, the constant scream of questions, they only seemed to get closer.

Taehyung couldn't breathe. His head was spinning and he was getting dizzy. He needed to find a way out.

And so he pushed through. Or at least, he tried to. As soon as he exerted any force on the mass of people he was instantly pushed back, falling on the pavement. He braced himself on his gloved hand, immediately hissing at the pain shooting up his arm, blinking away the black spots that covered his vision, willing the tears to stay back as he rapidly blinked his eyes.

As soon as his vision was clear and he switched his weight onto his good hand, he slowly got up, trying again to push himself through the crowd.

He knew they just wanted answers. Everyone wanted to know why the "famous Taehyung Kim" hasn't been releasing any paintings. Is it true he's in artist block? Is he actually done painting for good? Why hasn't he released any new work?

No one understood. No one knew. And it wasn't their fault. Taehyung never released an official statement. He's been trying to keep a low profile in his New York City pent house.

He thought that if he wore a mask he wouldn't be easily recognized, that he could go to Starbucks without being spotted...he was wrong. Door Dash would have been the best option.

Taehyung would later find out that someone had followed him from his building and the news that Taehyung Kim had left his house went running from there.

But none of this helped him in his current predicament. He still couldn't push his way through the barricade of people. So he tried again, bracing himself this time, preparing for the impact so he wouldn't fall down a second time. But he wasn't strong enough to get through.

It never seemed like it was going to end. He would have to speak. He'd have to tell these vulturous people what they wanted to hear. Why he hasn't been painting.

He got as far away from the people as he could get in the center of the circle. Trying to clear the fog from his mind. He was crowded and felt unnaturally hot in his jacket and gloves on this unusually warm spring day. He took a couple deep breaths in and out. Willing his head to stop spinning. He could do this. He just needed to get out of this cir-

Someone grabbed his arm. He was moving, being pulled away from the swarm of people. The hands changed position and grabbed onto his shoulders from behind, protecting him like a vest as he was shoved through the crowd. The hands moved once again, this time just one arm was slung around his shoulders, willing him to move his feet fast.

And so he ran.
They ran.

Ran away from the swarm of people who were too shocked to even react to what had just happened.

Ran away from the pressuring media who wouldn't leave him alone.

Ran away from the soul thing he was trying to avoid.