Sunday had passed with Jisung lying motionless in his bed, scrolling aimlessly on his phone. He occasionally ate, but only when his mother insisted, her voice tinged with worry and frustration. The room, dim and suffocating, mirrored his inner turmoil. His meals were tasteless, mere sustenance forced down his throat.
Average teenager life.
It was around 9:43 pm when Jisung finally summoned the courage to text Felix. Felix had tried reaching out multiple times since getting Jisung's number, but Jisung only ever responded to practical queries, like what to bring to the sleepover.
He had actually enjoyed the sleepover. Despite his confusion over Minho's sudden kindness after the indifference or cruelty, the night had been a rare moment of feeling like he belonged.
Hey
Hiyaa
What's up?
Nothing I just wanted to talk haha
Weird siting lmfao
anyway, you good?
Yeah
Just thinking about some things
Like what if you don't mind me asking?
Jisung hesitated. Should he really open up? Felix was the closest to him, but could he be trusted?
Just Minho
Ooo
He's hot, right?
Well he is
But isn't he being weird lately? He's been so nice to me. I appreciate it and all, but it's definitely unusual
Yeah I understand. Do you want
his number?
Uhm why?
Just in case you wanted to talk to him.
I'm giving it to you either way 😊
+82 27 1433 3875 (guys pls don't dial this number acc 🙏🙏)
Oh thanks haha. I have to go now.
Bye, I'll see you at school.
Bye !!
Jisung didn't have to go anywhere. He just wanted to end the conversation because he couldn't figure out what to say next. His anxiety, a constant companion since childhood, gnawed at him. His mother had only believed him when a therapist confirmed his condition, but his father used it as a weapon, making him feel even more insignificant and broken.
He sighed deeply, putting his phone down, and stared at the bathroom door. The drawer. He hadn't given in to the urge in a few days, but it was stronger than ever tonight. It wasn't sadness; it was the need to feel something tangible, to transform his inner torment into a physical reality. The pain was his secret refuge.
He moved silently to the bathroom, careful not to alert anyone. The wooden door closed with a soft click. He stood before the mirror, a reflection of misery. Dark circles marred his eyes, his collarbone jutted out sharply, and his hair was a disheveled mess. He hadn't brushed his teeth in days. The sight of himself was revolting.
Tears welled up as he stared at his own image.
How could I do this to myself?
I look fucking horrible.
How do Minho and his friends always look so good?
Why am I different?
⚠️
His self-loathing peaked as he yanked open the drawer, grabbing the razor blade with trembling fingers. He sat down in the shower, pants pulled down. The blade felt cold and familiar in his hand. He admired it briefly, then pressed it to his thigh, dragging it slowly to create crimson lines that trickled blood.
Such a small thing that could do so much damage.
Each cut brought a surge of pain that was both unbearable and relieving. He carved lines into his skin, on his arms, stomach, and thighs, watching as the blood oozed out. The blade danced over his flesh, leaving behind a tapestry of anguish and self-hatred. Every stroke was a mix of agony and ecstasy, a nightmarish ritual that he felt powerless to stop.
Time lost all meaning. When he finally put the blade down, he was a bloody mess. The floor around him was stained with red, and he could feel the warm blood trickling from his fresh wounds. He looked in the mirror, seeing a body covered in cuts and a face twisted in sorrow. His vision blurred with tears as he turned on the shower.
The warm water stung as it hit his broken skin, washing away the blood. He slid to the floor, the cool tiles against his back, shivering from the contrast. Knees to his chest, he wrapped his arms around them and buried his head, silent sobs shaking his body. The water mixed with blood, spiraling down the drain.
When the water turned cold, he forced himself to stand. He stepped out, dripping and raw, and shut off the shower. His eyes fell on the razor blade, still stained with his blood. He wanted to throw it away, to rid himself of this horrifying crutch, but he couldn't. It was his twisted therapy, his way of coping when everything else failed.
He tucked the blade back into the drawer, his hands shaking. In that moment, he felt more alone than ever. He knew that this wasn't a solution, but it was the only thing he had. As he crawled back into bed, his heart heavy with despair, he wondered if there would ever be a day when the pain would stop, when he could look in the mirror and not despise the person staring back.
The silence of the room was deafening, and the darkness seemed to swallow him whole. Jisung layed in there, tears streaming down his face, his body aching from the fresh cuts. He felt a hollowness inside, a void that nothing could fill. The world outside moved on, oblivious to his suffering, and he was left alone with his pain, a prisoner of his own mind.
YOU ARE READING
𓊆ྀི۫ ̣̣̥ ݂ ⑅ unseen pain 𓏽ִ minsung
Fanfiction: ֺ ⠀﹒. "after everything you have been trough, you can't give up on yourself." "i'm sorry." 𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 - they both find comfort in eachothers presence, but how long will it last?
