The silence in my room is broken only by the rasping gasps escaping my raw throat. I sit there, a prisoner in my own bed, the discarded oxygen cannula on the nightstand mocking me with every breath I attempt to take. My lungs burn and my limbs feel like lead weights, the aftermath of my foolish rebellion settling in.
Is this what dying feels like? Trying to claw air into my starved lungs, each gasp a desperate plea for a single, precious moment more?
It's summer. Outside my window, the sun is shining the brightest and the birds are singing to my discontent. The world is alive, thriving in the warmth of the season, while I am confined to this room, a spectator to the life I crave but can't, in a thousand gasps, ever fully grasp again. This isn't life, it's a slow, agonizing suffocation.
My mind drifts back to the moments with my friends, the fleeting minutes where I felt almost normal, almost free. I think of Niki and wonder if he'd stay the longest at my grave. I think of Jake and Sunghoon and wonder if, this time, none of them will survive the heartbreak. I think of Jay, of his confession being drowned out by the sound of ambulance sirens when they find me. And then I think of Heeseung, a cigarette resting between his lips. Would he light it up in the night sky?
Mine is lighting it up so brightly it could rival the stars, and I can't put it out. I don't. I won't put it out. It's the only defiance in the face of my fading breath.
I lie on my bed, struggling to breathe, my trembling hands reaching for the cannula I've shoved away in a fit of rebellion. My body is a traitor waging war against my mind. I don't reach the cannula, but the knocking on my door keeps me awake and I cough, almost almost choking on the rebellion itself. The insistent knocking grows and my door opens, letting in my father who seems to lose his breath at the sight of me.
My father is crying out in a language I don't understand. It's a language of worry, of fear, of a love that feels suffocating in the small confines of my room. But it's muffled, distant, like a radio station struggling to find a clear signal. He's worried but he doesn't understand. He rushes to my side, his hands fumbling with the oxygen cannula. I feel the cool plastic touch my nose, an unwelcome reminder of my limitations. Of the air I can barely inhale, like an unrequited love you can barely touch with your fingertips.
"Y/N," I feel his hands on my shoulders, shaking me gently, desperately, but my body feels disconnected from my mind, floating in a sea of memories and dreams. "Please, stay with me. Just breathe."
I manage to gasp, a shuddering breath that feels like fire in my chest. The room spins, and my vision blurs, but I focus on his face, the lines of worry and fear etched deeply. My father, who has watched me slip away bit by bit, who has fought so hard to keep me alive, even when I wanted to run from it all.
The cannula is back in place, the cool oxygen rushing into my lungs, easing the burning, the suffocation. I close my eyes, surrendering to the exhaustion, the tears slipping silently down my cheeks. I don't want to die, but I don't want to live like this either and I don't know what to make of my reality. I don't know what to hope for.
It's a hospital room. The white walls and white sheets give it away, the sterility a feeble attempt to create an atmosphere of hope, but all it does is amplify the hollowness echoing within me. The sterile air, devoid of the earthy scent of the forest or the salty tang of the ocean, mocks the fleeting freedom I experienced in the darkness. Machines beep steadily around me and I'm tethered to this place, my freedom a fleeting dream. The harsh reality crashes back in waves.
"You're awake," My father's voice makes me turn to him, though I can't look him in the eye. I'm too guilty. I'm too angry. I'm nothing but a burden. "Why?" His once-vibrant hair is flecked with more gray than I can ever recall and he doesn't have to say the words because I understand what is left unsaid. But I can't find the words to respond. I feel like a prisoner in this bed, chained by my own failing body, and his presence only makes me hate me more. Hate myself more. I don't know if I'm simply an ungrateful daughter or if he's too controlling, or if we're both just victims of this cruel twist of fate. My father reaches for my hand, but I flinch away, the movement sending a jolt of pain through my weakened body. "Y/N, please, just talk to me."
"You want me to stay trapped at home until I die," I force myself to utter, though I already know I'm hurting both of us by saying this. "I was trying to make it faster for you."
"Is that really what you think?" He asks, his voice trembling, and for the first time in my life, my father's voice sounds more fragile than I've ever heard it. "That I want you to just... wait to die?"
"You did the same with Mom," This time, I don't flinch away. I don't sugarcoat it. Mom passed away because of the same illness that I, too, suffer from. "She spent her last days confined to a hospital bed, and I watched you try to protect her from everything, even from the reality of her own illness. You wrapped her in cotton wool and kept her from fighting for her life."
My father shrinks back, his face crumpling with a grief I hadn't seen before. "No, it wasn't like... that. I wanted to ease her suffering. I wanted her to have peace—"
"But Mom wanted more than peace! She wanted to fight, to live every moment she had left. And I want that too," I finish, my voice cracking with anger. "The boy you held by the throat is the boy I love," I blurt out, the tears I'm so desperately trying to hold back finally spilling over. "He's not just a friend, Dad, he's the very reason you could still see me smile. None of those boys kidnapped me or forced me to run away, I did because I found my happiness with them and you... you took that from me."
"You found your happiness with a murderer?" My father's accusation makes my heart drop to the deepest pit of my stomach. I want to scream. I want to explain the truth about Jake, about the desperation that drove him to such an extreme. I think of millions of universes where Jake doesn't have to commit such a crime and I don't have to spiral into this desperate escape. I wonder if there's one where my father doesn't stare at me with so much disappointment and fear.
"How..." This universe, however, keeps on unfolding in the harshest of ways. And I wonder if it's our fault. Like the five petals of a Frangipani flower, the wind keeps on scattering us. Like the five petals of a Frangipani flower, we're withering away.
"With a bunch of boys who will put you behind bars for something you didn't do?" He stands up and I watch as he runs his fingers through his hair, utter fear settling in my heart. My father wouldn't tell the police about Jake. He wouldn't. He— "Your friend's mother called me. Apparently, she got my number from Hope Haven when all of you went on your little trip and told me about what happened. Do you realize the police are looking for your friend? Do you even realize that he killed—"
"But he was hurting him!" I sob, the words ripping from my throat raw and desperate. The sterile air of the room seems to constrict around me, stealing the oxygen I already fight for. "He burned his skin with a hair straightener and beat him until there was no spot on his body without bruises! He wanted to kill Jake and his mother, Dad, do you think he should have died so that some monster could keep hurting people?" I rasp, the words devoid of color, devoid of life. Nothing about this is fair, and for a brief moment, I wonder if there's a universe where Jake's story ends differently. Where this never happened.
Tears stream down my face, blurring my vision. My ragged breaths sound like a malfunctioning machine, each gasp a desperate plea for understanding. Dad flinches at my outburst, his face etched with pain, confusion, and mostly, sorrow.
"Y/N, I—" He starts, but I cut him off, my voice hoarse.
"You don't get it, do you? You never will," I choke out. "I will die. I will be gone and my friends will have to live with the knowledge that they could end up in jail. And they will blame themselves. Every sunrise, every laugh, every stolen moment of joy will be tainted with the guilt of what they did. They'll see my absence in every shared joke, every empty chair at the table. My friends, Dad, they're not bad people. They just want to help each other survive."
My voice cracks on the last word, and a fresh wave of tears spills down my cheeks. But my father doesn't reach for me again. Instead, he walks to the window, his back stiff, and stares out at the cityscape bathed in the golden hues of sunset. "I will not turn them in. But Y/N, you will not be seeing them again."
"Dad, you can't—"
"I'm trying to protect you," I hear him say and his next words make my shoulders slump in defeat, "And if you don't agree to stay in the hospital and receive proper treatment, then I'll have no choice but to keep them away."
YOU ARE READING
✓ BECAUSE WE WERE YOUNG | NIKI
Fanfiction❝We're so young but we're on the road of ruin.❞
