remember me

*One*

Strings, everyone had strings. Everyone but him. A red thread tied to your pinkie, except his own.

His mother used to tell him myths and tales of the strings, of why the gods created them, binding each soul to another. How they could never be cut, maybe frayed or tangled, but never cut.

They appeared on one's sixteenth birthday, a red piece of thread wrapped around your pinkie like a ring. Only you could see your own, nobody else's, that is until your soulmate was near. Then did the string lengthen, connecting the two souls together. Afterwards it stayed, stretching with the distance, but then coming back together when needed.

When his mother died, so did the stories. His father followed soon after, not coping with the loss of his bond. He was left alone at the age of eight, falling into the hands of his aunt. His mother's sister who they had lost contact with years before he was born, he understood why very soon.

A two faced woman, who chose wealth and power over her own fated. If he was able to see her thread he was sure it was torn and tattered, worn away by time and heart break. Not hers, she had no heart. If it was there it was likely frozen, or possibly decayed.

Living with her he learned that the good in this world was hardly there, only greed and hunger were present. His hope came to him on his birthday and he held on tight.

Too tight.

When the clock struck midnight he looked to his pinkie, finding nothing. No string. No hope. No end.

He kept it to himself. What good would it bring to share his misfortune? Not even the gods thought he was someone to cherish. His parents left, so why not keep the cycle going?

Most nights he wished for it all to end.

They were passing thoughts but sometimes they stayed. At least they were company, until he met him.

After his fate was sealed of being alone forever, he came into his life. Like a comet gracing the sky, he wreaked havoc in his life. Made him fall into a deep abyss too far in to crawl his way out of. Breaking him down more than he already was, letting him lie there open and broken.

He was alone, so alone and he craved for the warmth and he was given it, only it wasn't the same. It was treacherous and harsh. It left scars and wounds that would never heal, not physically but emotionally, mentally. The man had taken advantage of his vulnerability, used it as a weakness.

Used him.

His mother would be ashamed, his father wouldn't be able to look at him if they knew.

Because he knew. What happened that day forever haunts him.

Even now he still thought of him, unable to sleep a full night without waking up to nightmares, memories playing in his head. Playing with his mind, tearing him down, piece by piece.

Red coated everything.

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"Hey Jungkook"

He looked up from his book, smiling politely at his returning customer. It was fake, that smile.

He had been working in the small little book shop for two years now. He had spent a year hopping from one shelter to the next until he finally got a break when he ran into the little old woman who owned this place. Why she hired him on the spot, only she would know, because he still didn't.

"Good morning sir"

The male rolled his eyes and laughed, showing off his beautiful, genuine smile. The male was handsome, there was no doubt. "How many times do I have to tell you, call me Hoseok or hyung, or my close friends call me Hobi. Ok?" He approached the counter, leaning against it. "Anything but sir, makes me feel old."