hysteria | minsung

chapter one

The voice is always there in the back of your head.

"Just one more little cut. It won't count as relapsing."

Living in delusions created by your own self is what deceives and drives you insane. It sometimes gets to the point where you become completely numb and unaware of your current situation, no matter how bad it is. Too numb to even notice the bloody mess, that was now Jisung's bathtub, that his suffering body was seated in.

When the blade doesn't look intimidating anymore and slowly becomes a normal thing in your daily routine, that's when you know you've had enough.

"One more cut. It won't hurt nobody." He talked himself through the whole process of slicing his thighs open, so belittling and degrading. "You know, Han," he placed the silver blade on his right upper thigh and stopped, letting himself talk with his pathetic self, "Maybe if you weren't so loose, none of that would have happened." He said and painfully slow dragged the blade across his leg, letting the crimson liquid stream down the muscle.

Try to be gentle when you're ripping me apart.

"Maybe if you weren't under the influence that night, he wouldn't have touched you," Jisung made another deep line next to the already blood gushing one, head clearing with each and every cut. "He wouldn't have forced himself onto you. He wouldn't have fucked you like a little slut you are. None of that would have happened if you wouldn't had let him. But you did. You let him and you enjoyed it, you were moaning. Stop lying to yourself you didn't like it, you did."

Han kept on rambling as he continued on with the blade. "Not his fault, but yours."

Gaslighting yourself into believing the illusions created in your sick brain is the worst kind of self manipulation that simply ruins your whole entire existence. Nothing feels real, nothing feels raw or genuine. It was a one big and continues hallucination.

The memories of that night were still slowly rotting in his brain. Oh, how much he just wanted to take it out and scrub until they erode away. And then, maybe Han would be able to function normally. Be who he was before that night. Before that party.

His body was on fire all the time, burning him away day and night. He had to cut the black out. He had to find a way to quiet down the loud.

He no longer felt connected to what's around him or his dehumanising emotions. It's crazy to think just how much worse everything had gotten after that incident.

Him waking up on that cold hard wooden floor in someone's room with a pounding fucking headache. Everything in his body hurt, his insides were destroyed, throat dry and abused, skin bruising bad.

"I fucking hate myself." He let out a hushed whisper and dropped the blade into the bloody water, splashing himself with it.

He stably put his elbows on the sides and carefully lifted himself out of the bathtub, immediately hissing at the cuts stretching out. "Fuck." Han cursed under his breath.

He sucked up the pain and straightened his back, fully standing up, but instantly was forced to grab onto the counter, since his legs were weak and extremely deprived of strength to keep himself stable, it was jello.

The blood was still heavily dripping down his entire skinny legs and was now soaking up into the white matt, it literally looked like a ferocious murder scene.

And maybe it was?

Depression kills what matters the most, leaving the physical part of you to finish off yourself.

Jisung took a deep breath and reached his hand to turn on the shower, letting hot water hit the nicely tiled white wall. He looked in the mirror, instantly shivering at the sight.

I am disgusting, he shrieked, fearing the person in the reflection. He was blind. Jisung was blind.

No one will ever truly understand just how fucking  uncomfortable he felt in his own skin.

He shook his head, trying to get out of there and pulled the shirt over his head, completely discarding it, pulled down his boxers, being extremely careful around the harmed parts and got into the shower, trying to wash the humiliating feeling off.

As soon as the water hit his legs, Han's body jolted, making him immediately step back, the wounds burning badly.

The boy groaned at the pain, hating having to take care of himself right after making himself even worse. He felt so old, so worn, but so young and alive at the same time. The feeling was rather strange and overwhelming, yet comforting at times. Cooler and calm inside.

Jisung's apartment was so dark and depressing, it drained every ounce of happiness out of him. Sometimes he just couldn't breathe in this goddamn place, his lungs felt like quick sand, pulling him deeper and deeper into the panic.

His bedroom was too quiet, so he walked around his apartment at night. His chest hurt, so he moved slowly. Everything was too quiet.

He traced a finger along the walls, he did this for hours. He couldn't go to sleep, he needed to be awake and aware. He could be anywhere. He could be there. He could be in the walls.

How long has he been here? In a dark place, I mean.

Memory is hazy, but probably since he was 14, when his parents got divorced. 5 long and exhausting years of problems upon problems and unhealthy amounts of tears spilled into the pillow.

When they got divorced, Han cried for days, he was sad. But it's not only sadness that he has been feeling recently. It's a black hole inside of him, filled with nails, rocks, broken glass and the words he doesn't have anymore.

Han often wondered what it felt like to be normal and have a silent mind. It was all he ever wished for. To have a fucking silent mind. He hated his thoughts that would eat him alive no matter what he did, where he went, who he was with.

It was just like cannibalism. Where humans eat one another. But in this case, it was Jisung who was feeding off of his misleading and confusing thoughts.

It all felt like a mush like moss feels like when you get deeper in the woods.

Han didn't want to be alone. He wanted someone to want him. He was lonely. He was scared. He needed to be loved, to be touched, to be cared for, to be held.

It was the sensation of the extreme need that frightened him the most.

Like any unloved thing—Han didn't know if he was real when he wasn't being touched. His body was burning up with the shame of not belonging.

He wanted a loving touch and soft fingertips to roam around his body, unlike what he got a couple of days ago. A filthy and rough touch, too forceful, too needy. Too uncomfortable.

Even the smallest bit of shown attention, intentional or accidental, would immediately get him attached. It scared him a lot, how quickly he could get to like someone with knowing absolutely nothing about them. He just wanted to feel what it was like to love someone and be needed.

He was emotional connection starved.

It's conflicting. Han was a paradox.