Lost || jjk

7- (dying)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　♬　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧　

Is a dream a product of reality? Or is a dream simply made up by the subconscious? How can you ever know for sure of what is happening, or what isn't? It seems too simple to live in a world with such obstructive rules that limit ones own physical and mental capabilities. It seems so boring to live in a world in which you are forced to conform to the likeness of everyone else- carry out the same duties and tasks, only to surrender yourself to death in the face time itself.

What is there to life? What is there to death? Is life linear or broken up, spaced out, across galaxies, millions of lightyears away?

You've decided a long time ago that there is no distinct answer to any of these philosophical questions. Truly, ignorance is the perfect pill to swallow when life itself becomes too hard to understand.

But now, as fractals of memories have come back to enlighten you, you know just little bit more.

This world around you is a mask of other worlds around you, a disguise. You should have known from the fucking start, four fucking chapters ago that this, this was never the home that you knew. This was not earth.

You clutch the gun in your pocket.

Sweat drips down your forehead as you count the minutes. The rhythm shakes the floor, you bite down on your bottom lip while you think about your next move.

Honestly, you can't remember very much. Only bits and pieces of a man with dark hair and black eyes. You remember a man with silver hair, a woman with blue eyes, another man who spoke perfect Korean and had golden hair and always wore a suite. You know that the past six months on earth were simply a fallacy. Not real. They were apart of a dream that lead up to this moment, a moment that must surely define the reason as to why you were taken to this planet in the first place.

In short, after that night on the beach where you exchanged yourself for some random stranger in the sky, in a false act of heroism, you were actually taken to a different planet. You woke up in a garden, you met with the man in a suite, and made him a deal in exchange for your freedom. You spent an eerily long amount of time with the silver haired man, someone you remember to possess the name of 'Jimin' - this someone would be crucial in your journey leading up to this very moment. Months passed in vague training for something (you have yet to remember the specifics of the training, and the reason for such training).

And then, you were put to sleep by Jimin and the dark haired man, only to wake up to the false pretense of your own planet.

You can only imagine that the key to your memories all along was to knock on their door.

Or maybe, it was just to meet them.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　♬　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧　

The bathroom is all white tile and smells of fresh sweat, cum, piss. It's enough to make you dizzy enough to gag. It's bad enough that you're sitting down in it all, back leaning against the wall while you feel the world around you spin on its axis. It feels like you're high on something, drunk on something, but as far as you can remember you're completely sober. You're incoherent thoughts on the other hand tell a different story, and you have to look up at the ceiling and breathe out slowly in hopes not to throw up everywhere.

Knuckles rap against the door and you barely register it from the music playing outside.

"Hey, open the fucking door! I gotta piss man!"