No Longer Mine

i. Shot or Broken

"If you had a choice between getting shot or having your heartbroken, which would you choose?" The teacher paces in front of the classroom.

The humid late summer breeze drifts through the classroom windows. Our class is on the first floor, so our windows can be opened a few inches. All the other classrooms above ours have metal bars that lock the frames shut.

A safety precaution to ensure a suicidal student doesn't decide to throw themself out the window.

The kids around me bend their heads down to write their answer on the papers before us. It's a test question, and we all know it. Now a days— with suicide rates skyrocketing to devastating highs and depression being dubbed a national crisis— questions such as these are never asked for mere educational purposes.

They're asked to see and seek the next possible student who might be 'blighted'. If such a student is found, the student will be interrogated alongside their families by school administration. 9 times out of 10, that student will be dubbed 'infected' and dragged, most likely kicking and screaming, to the Curing.

That's where they took him.

A surge of deep pitting anger abruptly seizes me and I furiously scribble my answer on my paper below.

"Now class, I'd like some of you to share your answers and reasoning," the professor says. His weasel eyes sweep across the room where me and about forty other students sit in our desks. "Miss Hana. Would you care to share?"

The selected dark haired girl stands up shakily from her desk. Her eyes dart nervously around.

Idiot, I can't help but think to myself. She's drawing suspicion to herself.

As if to prove my point, the professor's gaze sharpens on Hana and takes in every movement of hers, down to the nervous twitch in her fingers. "Miss Hana?" He asks, voice softer this time. "When you're ready."

Hana takes a deep breath. "I'd rather be heartbroken, Professor," she stammers out. "Because thanks to our programs such as the Curing, we don't have to worry about being... psychologically damaged." Her voice falters and thins at the end of her sentence.

The professor slowly nods and Hana sits down with a sigh of relief. She's answered correctly.

My eyes flutter shut as two more students are called on and they both answer the same way.

Because of the Curing, we can be assured that our psychological needs and damages will be fixed right away. Because of the Curing, we mustn't fear things like heartbreaks or depression. Because of the Curing, we don't have to worry about putting a bullet through us to end it all.

The damn Curing.

"I'm proud of all of you," says the professor, smiling out to all of us. "It's heartening to know you know that the Curing has provided safety for you tender minds."

I can't stand it any more.

"Professor," I interrupt the weasel-eyed man up front. The entire class, as if one body, all snap their heads in my direction with unanimous expressed shock. "I have a different answer than the others." The expressions of shock transform into looks of horror, incredulity, and some even hate.

The professor arches a brow. "Miss Mei," he acknowledges me, "I'm curious as to your answer. Please do tell."

I jut my chin up. It's been a year. A whole damn year since they ripped him away from me and locked him into the program. He was the only one, only person I had left. What do I have to lose at this point?

"I said I'd rather be shot than heartbroken," I declare with more confidence than I feel.

"Please elaborate, Miss Mei." The professor's gaze pierces me like little needles.

"It's better to get shot than to have your heart broken. At least a bullet wound might eventually heal," I say.

That's when it happens.

The doors to the classroom burst open and several masked people in the pale yellow uniforms everyone my age knows and dreads enter the room. Curing Officials.

My heart slams in my chest. They're here for me. I know it. They're going to take me to the Curing. My eyes squeeze shut so I don't see them marching towards me and hauling me off to the program.

No hands grab me though. A strange silence fills the room.

"Class." The professor clears his throat. "I'd like to introduce you to a Returnee from the Curing. He'll be talking a little of his first hand experience at the rehabilitation center for the next few weeks."

My eyes only fly open when I hear this 'Returnee' speak. That voice... I'd know it anywhere.

The Returnee is saying some sort of introduction to the class. But I don't need any introductions as my gaze lands on the young man before me.

It genuinely does feel like someone has shot me in the chest, and I need to grab hold of the edge of my desk as I stare at the boy in front of me.

"Jeon Jungkook."

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