MUST HAVE BEEN THE WIND | JIKOOK ✔

CHP 22

The next morning at the Kim residence is quiet and painfully so.

Both Namjoon and Taehyung have gone to work and Haechan is at school, meanwhile Jimin is laying in dead silence on the king sized bed, staring up at the ceiling with a blank, lifeless expression.

Last night he just couldn't get to sleep - if the brooding purple splotches beneath his eyes are of any indication. Taehyung offered him some sleeping medication and although not being prescribed he took them shortly after they managed to calm him down.

Jimin holds up his injured hand, staring at the hefty repair on his palm. At the moment he didn't think he'd cut himself that deeply but clearly the severity of the bandaging says otherwise.

Every spark of pain and torment during that moment had been doubled in the destructive midst of tornadoes off in a whirl in his head. The endless tears and weeping - the desperate screeching and cursing just for the agony to go away. It was far too much to handle but what does he get in return...? The man feels totally numb and hollow.

And honestly, he's surprised that anyone even felt comfortable enough leaving him alone taking into consideration Kai's visit as well as his sudden episode on the kitchen floor the night prior. But he supposes people have lives they need to live and duties to attend to - he's not always going to be number one priority.

Jimin swipes his tongue over his dry lips, swinging his legs over the bed as slow as a zombie. He's mindful of his hand as he stands up, needing a brief moment of pause to inhibit the crude spinning going off in his head.

The dizziness fades away and he begins to walk, bare feet sweeping along the ground with each step he manages to take. He doesn't feel like moving - nevermind eating - however Taehyung desperately asked him to make sure he at least eats a single piece of toast so he's going to try.

Jimin ambles down the stairs, eyes cloaked by his fuzzy fringe. The worst part about all of this is that he doesn't even feel the need to turn corners cautiously anymore or watch for strange and intrusive figures looming just outside of the house. Body still reeling from the exhaustion it endured last night, the teacher's energy is totally spent for the day.

He reaches the first floor and enters the kitchen, forcing aside the vivid images of last night's incident. Jimin reaches for the tied up bread and unravels the bag, reaching for a single slice. He pops it into the toaster and awaits in his own silence while staring down at his feet.

It's a harsh type of quietness. There's no white noise or other voices projecting, taking him away from his prison-like mind. He's forced to think about every little thing but most importantly those that have gone wrong.

His back is slowly sliding against the lower kitchen cabinets and yet once again he finds himself on the floor, in the very same spot, staring at his hands with a widened gaze. But why can't he cry this time? There's no burning sensation rounding his eyes and his face is still. However the want to weep is there, unfortunately alongside the inkling to throw up.

Jinin hasn't even eaten anything this morning yet his stomach is churning and coiling in the worst possible of ways. He's scrambling to his feet and feels the vomit breach his mouth. With a grimace he holds it in before he's above a toilet, releasing his insides into it.

The moment he's done he flushes the toilet and wipes his mouth with the back of his uninjured hand, slumping against the porcelain bathtub. The man is staring at the wall, seemingly but a mere vessel awaiting emotional release. But there's nothing there. His face is falling into his hand in a sense of further defeat.

"...Mister Park?"

The man slowly cranes his head up, seeing Haechan standing with a worried expression in the doorway. It appears as though he has just gotten back from school, a single backpack strap thrown over his shoulder.