CIGARETTES AND TULIPS // jikook

18 - relapse

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jimin laid on his back in the dark, staring at the ceiling, his chest feeling hollow, like it was collapsing inward. 

a few days had passed since he had been in the bar celebrating the ending of his uni assignment with his friends. the days had passed eventless, a blur of studying, eating and sleeping.

but today, the familiar numbness crept through his veins, curling around his heart, suffocating his thoughts until all that was left was the crushing weight of his own failures. the progress he'd made, the tiny steps forward—none of it mattered now. he'd been slipping for days, but tonight felt like rock bottom. 

his throat was tight, his breath shallow, and he bit his lip hard to stifle the sobs that wanted to break free. his mom was asleep, and he didn't want to wake her. she didn't deserve that.

the text he had received earlier that day, the message still open on his phone. 

"hey, i'm in town. would love to catch up over coffee, talk about life. what do you think?"

the words had blurred the moment he read them, his vision swimming with tears. at uni, he'd felt the ground disappear beneath him, his mind emptying of all thoughts except fear. it was like falling into a void—there was no sound, no color, nothing but the overwhelming rush of panic that sucked him under. and now, hours later, he was drowning again. 

this is so stupid, he thought, pressing his face into his pillow, trying to keep quiet. this is so stupid.

but it didn't stop. 

his mind twitched, thoughts spiraling out of control, intrusive memories creeping in. the rain outside was soft against his window, but even that couldn't soothe him tonight. it usually did—he always loved the rain, found peace in it. 

but not tonight. tonight, it felt like the world was closing in on him, suffocating him. and the memories, god, the memories...

he could feel his hands on him again. rough. unwanted. 

the way his boyfriend used to kiss him, the wet, smeary sensation that left him feeling dirty, like he was being smeared with shame and guilt. jimin had wanted to say no, he had wanted to push him away, but the words had never come. he had frozen. 

he hadn't kissed back, hadn't touched him. his body had been stiff, rejecting the advances in every way except the one that mattered: words. no. 

he hadn't said it. and so it kept going. the undressing, the rough hands on his skin, the weight of his body pressing him down into the mattress.

jimin had tried, scooted away inch by inch, until he'd hit the wall. but even then, the hands didn't stop. thrust after thrust, shame washing over him in waves, drowning him in self-loathing. his body had gone numb, his mind disconnecting from it all. he had pretended to be asleep, or dead, hoping it would end, that maybe he would stop if he saw how much pain jimin was in. but he didn't stop. 

jimin's face had been twisted in agony, his brows furrowed, his lips pressed tightly together. he hadn't said a word. if only i'd said no, jimin thought, clutching his bedsheets. 

his breath hitched, the pain in his chest growing sharper with every sob that tried to break free. he felt filthy. his skin crawled with the ghost of those hands, the memory of that night clinging to him like a second layer of skin. 

he scrubbed at his arms, his hips, desperately trying to rid himself of the feeling, but it was no use. the sensation was always there, always waiting, just beneath the surface. he scratched harder, his nails digging into his skin, and he watched as dark red lines began to form, but even that wasn't enough. 

get off, get off, he thought, but nothing ever came off. no matter how many showers he took, no matter how hard he scrubbed, the feeling stayed.

his body was ruined, dirtied. he would never feel clean again. he would never be okay again.

the text on his phone screen taunted him, still glowing faintly in the dark. his ex was back. 

he couldn't take it. he stood up, chest heaving, his sobs spilling out despite his efforts to keep them down. the pain in his chest felt physical, like someone was carving into his ribs with every breath he took. 

he tiptoed across the room, holding his breath as he slipped out of his bedroom and into the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him. his hands shook as he rummaged through the drawers, searching for the scissors he knew were there. cosmetic scissors, small and sharp, once bought for a purpose he'd never used them for.

he sat on the edge of the bathtub, pulling down his pajama pants and staring at his thighs, his skin pale in the dim light. disgusting, he thought, his fingers tracing over the old scars that marred his legs. 

his hands trembled as he set the blade against his skin, pressing down until the flesh turned white around it. then he sliced through. after the white line a thin line of red bloomed slowly, the blood pooling into tiny beads. it was... relieving. 

for a moment, the pain inside his chest dulled, replaced by the sharp sting of the cut. but it wasn't enough. it never was.

he needed more.

he set the blade against his skin again, this time pushing deeper, harder, dragging the scissors through his flesh until the blood came faster, darker. 

the tears on his face were cold now, but he didn't feel them anymore. he was too far gone. the blood was running in thin streams down the side of his leg, and that's when it hit him. 

the reality, the taste of tears and snot in the corner of his mouth, the way his throat burned from crying. his chest hurt, a deep ache that throbbed with every breath, and he curled in on himself, collapsing onto the bathroom floor. he was alone. again. 

his sobs came hard and fast, his body shaking with the force of them, the sound of his crying filling the small space. he didn't know how loud he was. everything was drowned out by the rushing in his ears, the deafening white noise of panic and shame. 

he pressed his hands to his face, trying to muffle his sobs, but they kept coming, ripping through him like they would never stop. 

and all he could think was, i've relapsed.

he slapped himself onto his head, pulled his hair, but the pain was nothing. 

the pain was nothing.

nothing against the fact that he was crying alone on the bathroom floor, in his underwear, his blood all over the white tiles.

the pain was nothing against the fact that he had fucking relapsed.

eleven months clean. gone. just like that.

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