"Life is about give and take; you know this better than anyone; the deal is clear, either you take an in, or war it shall be.
"It's indeed give and take, so why do I feel like the only one who gives without receiving anything in return?"
"Because th...
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The pitch-black night always narrowed visions, made them see without really seeing anything other than the illusions with which the brain fed the stream, succeding in creating images that didn't exactly relate to reality, but from it, they were inspired, feeding the emotions with a big spoonful of lies and a splash of truths, leaving a sour aftertaste and heartburn.
Bourbon doesn't exactly help heartburn, on the contrary, it increases the reflux of gastric acids, slowly burns the esophagus. And when it encounters unknown emotions along the way, which have occupied the bloodstream with their poison before the alcohol could penetrate and earn a place, a war takes place, and a feeling reminiscent of vomiting begins to choke the chest with an overpowering pain that is only dulled by an explosion as a form of release.
Taehyung wondered if an explosion would help his case or worsen the state of his wounded pride as he sat on the couch in the living room, accompanied by silence and darkness and parasitic thoughts. The house seemed calm if looked at from the outside, exceptionally quiet without the lights that usually served esthetic purposes, without the guards that were usually found in multiple corners, and without his car that usually occupied the runaway, just a few steps away from the front door. Taehyung was alone, with only his bottle of brown liquid to keep him company, only the darkness and silence of the house were his defenders against the carnage of monstrous thoughts and a few pixels printed as vignettes.
Merciless images.
For they never gave way, never gave his drink a place to help him fall asleep and forget the ringtone of his cell phone that chimed every time another image reached him, never gave him time to digest the first before he was forced to swallow the second, and he wondered, amidst the chaos that played out in his head, if he had the right to say no, I don't want to open my mouth, I don't want to eat.
The last beep of his phone had sounded about fifteen minutes ago, but he still held the device in his hand, contemplating the details of the scene, the colors of the brochure, the warmth it radiated, the placement of arms against waists and shoulders, and the hand that stroked hazelnut, and the mouth that seemed to whisper comfort that was no match for the grief he caused, and he became charged, hand trembling, almost dropping the phone, and in a moment of incomprehension he questioned the reasons for his condition and the blandness of the taste of the drink he always thought was delicious.
The gray, toxic fog caused by his cigarette eased the pounding of his heart, but the filter became wet between his sweaty fingers, reminding him of his heartburn and bringing questions back to his mind. Questions about topics that included you and Min Yoongi in the same sentence.
And the cigarette was quickly extinguished and tossed into the ashtray, along with her friends who were the first to meet demise, and his phone replaced it in his hand, the sound of quiet static contrasting with the rapid heartbeat loud enough to speak sense into his head that nonetheless, went unheard.
