𝐌𝐈𝐙𝐏𝐀𝐇 - TMR, Minho

𝟢𝟥𝟦，𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐠

"Hi, Bark."

Nick kneels down next to the dog the second he sees it.

I lean against the wall of the Bloodhouse. Winston's already inside by now, most likely busy with chickens.

As weird as it sounds, he's a bit strict when it comes to the Bloodhouse. You can absolutely not trespass. After Minho vomited in there, and he had to clean it up, he decided that whoever else vomits should clean it up themselves. He doesn't really want anyone but Slicers inside, and he also hates it when people pet the animals, knowing they'll be on their plate sooner or later. And you can't pet them unless you wash your hands.

There's probably more, but I've forgotten.

The dog's tail wiggles in a slow rhythm. I watch Bark and Nick from where I stand, leaning against the dirty wood of the Bloodhouse wall, picking at a splinter. It's a small, almost invisible thing.

Nick scratches Bark under the chin. The dog's eyes close in satisfaction.

I wonder what it would be like to be that simple—happy just because someone gave you light touch.

Before Minho lost his memories, I did understand that feeling. I'd get tons of butterflies just because his hand touched mine for a split second, let alone when he hugged me.

I don't really make physical contact—or any contact—with him at the moment, but I don't think I would still get butterflies. Not as many, at least. The way he acts towards me has also changed my perspective about him.

It's kind of crazy, because it means I really, really like the old Minho, and I keep thinking about him, but the new one is some kind of... failed thing. It's sick.

I glance toward the door of the Bloodhouse. I imagine Winston hunched over. I picture the chickens, too—alive one minute, staring at you with those beady eyes, and the next, nothing. Just stillness.

I rub at the back of my neck, trying to shake off the weird sensation crawling up my spine. I used to feel bad for the chickens—used to, like, really feel it.

Obviously, I was still capable of slaughtering them, but I still felt bad.

Now I just think about how they twitch after they're already gone. It's kind of fascinating if you look at it long enough. I can't explain it.

"We should go ask Winston what we can do," Nick announces.

I nod, but don't move.

Nick doesn't, either. He laughs when Bark licks his face. I try to remember the last time I laughed like that—if I even can. Lately, the closest I get is a weird sort of giggle that feels more like a hiccup. Like my body's trying to remember how to react, but it fails.

I keep scratching at the splinter until my finger feels raw, and then I shove my hands into my pockets. "Winston's going to yell if you keep petting him, you know."