Hostage Handbook

Chapter Twenty-Eight | Make Believe

YEOREUM

I take the pen from Jungkook to fill in the details on my half of the form. The slovenly characters I scribble down looks like chicken scratches next to Jungkook's neat writing. Every stroke he placed is so well aligned that the characters look like they were typed from a computer.

"I have a bullet journal in my room at The Organisation's headquarters. It would be nice if you could fetch that for me," I say as I finish filling in the last column on the paper. "It's pink, so it should be quite noticeable."

Jungkook's smile widens as he checks to ensure everything has been correctly filled in. He puts the document into a plastic sleeve before he flips me around for me to face him.

"Sure, my dear wife," Jungkook says with a giggle.

Jungkook kisses me victoriously. His lips deftly move around mine with a sucking motion that sends a queasy feeling down my throat. I want to respond to him, but simultaneously, I want to push him away and spit into his face. The two extremes play a tug of war over my body, and eventually, the latter urge wins.

I shove Jungkook when he curls his fingers around the elastic band of my leggings. My elbow hits the pen next to me, and the diamante material plunges into the sink. The sound echoes like a gong, warning Jungkook away from making any further advances.

Jungkook retreats with his face as tense as my tightened fists. "Take care," he mumbles before he darts away.

My pink bullet journal arrives soon after lunch. A small silver padlock still latches the furry covers together. I pull the key out of one of the middle pages, and the thin pages easily fall ajar.

The first page is filled with doodles surrounding a polaroid Yoongi took of me at the supermarket. I was clinging to him to hide from a shopper who nearly recognised me, trying my best to hold back a nervous laugh. A sob escapes me, informing me that tears have already rushed down my cheeks, dampening my shirt collar.

I cry too often these days. The cold touch of tears merely feels like another fondle or caress that is supposed to be loving.

I am not the Song Yeoreum in the polaroid anymore, and she'd probably feel humiliated if she knew I am a version of her. I can no longer scrawl such incoherent sweet nonsense, nor can I ever spend my time meticulously fixing washi tapes and stickers around sketches I've done of Yoongi. Fuck, I can't even imagine myself doing that.

Yoongi must be happy now. His company should be running smoothly, and he has Dakyung beside him. Dakyung was interested in Yoongi the first time she saw him, so she is probably overjoyed to be able to start a family with him. Perhaps, they already have a child. Every piece of the puzzle falls nicely in place without me, and I no longer carry a purpose.

I flip to the back of the journal for a blank page. My hand manages to hover on the tip of a gel pen I stole from Jungkook, but it fails to put any word to the paper.

I shut my eyes to forage for something to babble on about—everyday events, my numbed emotions, Jungkook—but nothing tempts my hand to move.

A sigh escapes me, and I carve a line of words across the top of the page. It is nothing revolutionary or innovative. On the contrary, it is something that is perhaps too corny for my state of mind. Suicide Note. All three characters look ugly with awkwardly fitted strokes that struggle to look coherent.

This messy heading feels more hopeless than what I was going to write beneath it. My hands have grown clumsy with a pen, but they are proficient with seducing a man to bed. I fucking hate it.

I close my eyes and bury my face into a cushion to release a wail. The sound judders through the cotton and feathers, plunging into a muffled mewl.

The frustration clogging up my throat continues to feel hefty. I want to rip my chest open and pluck out all the anger and sorrows piled from the bottom of my stomach. But I can't. I can't do anything aside from taking refuge in my meaningless tears.