𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄 ✺ 𝐦𝐲𝐠 ✓

≿ 02 ≾

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CHAPTER TWO
• ᴇxᴘʟᴀɪɴ •

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Year 1939

"Luca! Another Manhattan, please!" Yoongi shouts from the side of the bar. "Stirred!"

The bartender sends him a thumbs up and Yoongi sighs happily.

Even though he was unemployed after the Federal Arts Project went bust, Yoongi planned on using his last bit of money to get bat-shit drunk.

Yes, he understood that after The Great Depression, people around the world were still struggling to find jobs and art was the least of anyone's concerns, but painting was his passion. That was the only thing he was good at.

Yoongi decides to stay until closing time, wanting to drink his troubles away, but soon finds it's time to bid adieu when he's kicked out by a few brash fellows who mock him.

Drunkenly, the young man staggers through the streets and ultimately passes out on the steps of a house in an upper-middle-class neighborhood.

—

"Have a good night, Van!" You chirp as your friend walks up to her front door.

She happily waves goodbye and you're off as soon as she walks into her home.

As you walk down the dark street to your house, the silhouette of a person is seen lying on your porch steps. You gasp quietly as you quickly jog towards them.

"Oh, God," You squat down and softly shake the guy, needing to know whether he was alive or not. "Mister, please be okay."

The man grumbles in annoyance and you let out a breath of relief.

"Sir, I'm going to help you inside, alright?"

He doesn't respond.

You stand and grab his hands, using all of your strength to get him up on his feet. Thankfully he didn't weigh much.

You drape his left arm around your neck and wrap your right arm around his waist, helping him up the steps. Digging through your purse, you take out the keys and unlock the door, pushing it open.

You gently lay him down on the couch and hurriedly go back to shut the door. After, you head into the kitchen and turn on the stove, setting a pot filled with water on it.

Does he even like coffee? Oh, who cares.

"Mister!" You yell as you watch the man roll off the couch.

Once again, you go and help him, plopping him back on the couch. You crouch down beside him on the floor and sigh. Before you can stop yourself, your fingertips trace around the cuts and wounds on his face.

"You must've really been behind the eight ball, huh, mister?" You whisper, gazing at his delicate features.

With a sigh, you get up and head to the bathroom to grab the nursing kit you owned. Begging your parents to let you go to college and studying to be a nurse was finally paying off.

As you care for the man's wounds, you hear the front door unlock and your eyes widen with fright. The door swings open and in comes your lovely husband.

The first thing he sees is how close you are to the stranger that just so happens to be an extremely handsome young man. Instantly, fires of fury start to smolder in his narrowed eyes.

But angry eyes were just the start. Then came the slamming of impudent words along with the dreadful strikes to your already harmed body.

"Richard," Your heart pounds against your ribs as if trying to fulfill a thousand beats. "I can explain."

• • • •

Behind the eight ball: In trouble

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