Four | BTS ✓

12

Jimin sits on his bed, watching as his hands tremble to the bones underneath his scarred, bruised skin. His breath puffs out of his flared nostrils in spurts of hot air, and an ache begins to blossom in the young man's chest as the rage bleeds into every crevice of his being. Slowly it begins to engulf his senses.

He hears his father's drunken yells through his bedroom door, and he feels his thread of sanity snap in his fiery mind.

Jimin stands up from his bed, the floorboards groaning underneath his boots as he moves towards his door. His movements are erratic and not entirely his own; the furor has replaced the calm, if not mundane, everyday Jimin that he tries so desperately to portray.

When the rage wakes from its fitful sleep, Jimin tries and ultimately fails to hold onto control. He succumbs to the painful tingles in his skin that aches to release the blood-boiling anger he holds within himself.

When he rips the door open, nearly off its hinges, Jimin sees his scars littering the skin across his knuckles - proof of his attempts at condensing the violence into its smallest, least destructive form. He lets the rage consume him, yes, but he takes the anger out on his own body. He lets the pain fall onto his own hands in his desperation to not spread it like a plague.

But it is a disease. A virus that wants to consume everyone in its path.

Jimin's father hears his son's bedroom door fly open, hitting the wall behind it as it makes contact, and Jimin can almost imagine the smirk on his father's face.

His father will use this as an excuse to take his own rage out on his own son. How dare someone under his own roof slam doors so carelessly when they don't pay the bills?

Right?

Jimin walks into the room, his face red as his ever-boiling blood screams to be released from its confines.

Jimin has no intention of spilling his own blood tonight, though.

He is tired of the yelling. He is tired of the bruises given to him by someone who was supposed to protect him from harm.

Most of all, he is tired of the pain in his chest as the fury rips him apart cell by cell every moment that it is awakened from its slumber.

He just can't take it anymore.

"Who do you think you are slamming doors in my fucking house, boy?" Jimin's father says, taking a few swaying steps towards his only child.

Jimin just stares at the man who gave him life, wondering if his blood is the same shade of red as the blood he spills as he punches through mirrors and windows when the rage sets in.

"I'm talking to you, fucker," his father says in a low, menacing tone as he walks closer to his son, a half empty bottle of vodka hanging from his shaking fingers as he jabs the pointer finger of his free hand towards Jimin. "You answer me when I talk to you."

"I don't owe you shit," Jimin spits, knocking the bottle of alcohol from his father's hand. The contents spill across the hardwood floors as the glass shatters, much like the mask Jimin wears when he is pretending to be normal.

Before Jimin's father can react to what his son has just done, Jimin lurches forward, grabbing the back of his father's neck before slamming his face down into the broken glass. The stench of alcohol fills Jimin's nostrils as he kneels in the puddle, his knee aching as glass shards dig into his skin.

His father says something, though his words are muffled as his face is pressed against the floor littered with vodka and glass.

"You don't fucking speak to me," Jimin says, his voice echoing around him as he pulls his father back up and slams him back down into the mess beneath them.