Whiplash | jjk.

[09]: Death of Me

If there was one thing that you were absolutely sure of, it was that training was not going to get any easier.

Every time you hit a new goal, or surpassed a milestone, your coach was right there waiting just to tell you to keep going.

It was like running a marathon, and right at the end, when you cross the line and are just about to collapse onto the grass, someone tells you to do another lap.

It felt endless.

In ways, it was exhausting and felt like you could never reach success at the rate you were going. Everyone was progressing faster than you, and you weren't on an even playing field to begin with. Every one of your winnings was dismissed, and you never got any recognition for any of it.

But, as much as it was tough, it was the best thing for you.

You had developed a real, raw hunger for what you were chasing: the skills it would require to track down your father. You had been polishing them up over time, and your progress was unmistakable.

Some of the men had even given you compliments on your slowly-bulking arms when you once wore a singlet to training.

Crazy, right?

As you re-rack the barbell after hitting yet another PR, you breathe out a dark sigh and glare at yourself in the mirror in front of you.

You're sweating, and panting. The scratch that Yeri and her friends had made near your eye had left a two-inch scar down your cheek, and the tissue seemed to glow in contrast to your red face.

A part of you liked having it there.

A reminder.

A physical reminder of the breaking point that finally showed you what you needed to see to take the leap and start chasing your new life.

You had no idea what was coming, and that was no contempt to you - who felt completely helpless and submissive to the universe who had never given you much of a say.

That's when you notice yourself smiling.

"The confidence is crazy."

Fuck.

You did look crazy.

As one of the boys walks past you to return some dumbbells, he laughs at you. And, in his favour, it did look odd.

You were leaning against the bar, red-faced and crazy looking, staring into your own eyes in the mirror, and grinning.

It was like psychopath 101.

You decide to take a small break, and headed back over to the lockers where very few of the other boxers hung out. You grabbed your bag and moved to sit on the floor.

You unzipped your bag and crossed your legs, finding a carton of strawberry milk that was room temperature, but still toe-curlingly good.

You almost had a smile on your face as you unwrap it and pierce the straw through the top, taking your first sip.

God...so good.

Your body almost shudders at the familiar sweetness.

You stay like that for about ten minutes, reading your favourite book and happily drinking your milk.

Unfortunately, though, your peace was short-lived, as you were soon approached by the emperor of irritation.

"Sup Peanut," Jung(fucking bitch)kook mumbles, coming over to casually kick at your shoe. "Looking exhausted from all that heavy lifting, I see."

Your expression shows no level of amusement as you continue to look down at your book.

"We all know you weren't born looking like that, Jungkook." you groan, "Quit acting like you're somehow above the beginner stage."

"Oh, so you like how I look?" he muses, grinning. "I had a feeling you were fruity, bro."

"Don't flatter yourself, asshole. You're not my type."

If your type was extremely handsome but absolute pinheads who still seemed to have the emotional intellect of five year olds, then maybe that would have been a lie.

But luckily for your sanity, it wasn't.

"Mm. Doubtful."

"What do you want?" you say as if your patience had wore thin, which it had. A long, long time ago. "What do you want to torment me about this time?"

"Must say, I'm not even surprised to see you drinking strawberry milk." he scoffs, "That's so you."

"Yep." you shrug, taking a sip. "I'm just a big sissy who loves girl drinks. What a hard life I live."

He stared at you somewhat confusedly. He didn't like your lack of reaction.

"Do you drink anything else?"

"Sometimes tequila," you sass, not giving him the satisfaction of bothering you. "Sometimes your mom's breast milk."

His face visibly curls up into a cringe, "Ew."

You shrug again, a proud smile creeping onto your lips.

"You drink? Y'know, like how normal people drink. Like actually drink," he questions sarcastically, putting his hands in his short pockets. "You mean you're not so weird that you don't sometimes divulge in getting fucked up like the rest of us."

You stare up at him flatly. "Nope. I love to divulge."

His eyebrow perks up.

"If that's true, why don't you come drink with us this weekend. You can show me how much of a fucking lightweight you are." He laughs but it doesn't infect you.

"To be honest, Jeon, I couldn't think of anything worse."

He snaps.

His ego is bruised for what seems like the first time in his life, as he faces the foreign concept of rejection.

"Whatever." Jungkook's eyes become fleeting as he looks away from you for the first time. "I was hoping you'd say no. It was a dare to ask anyway. Fuck you."

He throws his hands out of his pockets and marches away, heading back to his safety group.

Glad to see you keeping up with the five-year-old-intellect theme, buddy.

That conversation had you feeling a little better than you'd like to make public, as it was clear who had the upper hand. It was a good thing Jungkook's friends weren't around, because they'd never let them hear the end of it.

You ignore the idea of that conversation being unnecessary, because you were more than used to it. You carry on doing your thing, letting your body recharge and energise with the help of your delightful milk, and finish up the chapter in your book.

Five minutes later, it's time to keep going.

So, you place your milk back onto your shelf and head back over to the squat rack where you had been doing overhead presses, and find your towel to wipe down the bench.

You sit back down in your spot and mentally prepare for the next set.

As you're breathing slow and trying to get enough oxygen into your blood before you hold your breath for the whole thing, something hits your head.

"Ow," you whisper to yourself, turning around to see a boxing glove rolling away from you.

You look up to the direction it had seemed to have come from, and see Jungkook with his friends, flipping you off.

Your face screwed up into a grimace that reminded Jungkook of his neighbour's pug.

Then you turn away, and roll your eyes.

This man will be the death of me.