suicide notes 「 jungkook 」

∥VII. MORNING∥

오늘따라 훨씬 더 조용한 밤
a night that's much quieter today

I slept in really late, waking up at about two in the afternoon. I thought I remembered Jin coming into my room and trying to wake me up at some point, but I just groaned and rolled over, pulling my covers over my head and going back to sleep. I was lucky that it was Saturday.

When I finally dragged myself out of bed, I cringed at the sharp pains in my feet that shot up my spine, proving that last night wasn't just a dark dream.

Last night.

Jungkook.

I sighed in irritation at myself. Could I not go a single freaking minute without thinking about that man?! It was getting to be a bit ridiculous how often he crossed my mind.

Images of last night, laying in his bed with moonlight soaking his face flashed through my mind.

He looked barely conscious when he asked about my eomma, his hooded eyes looking into mine as if he was trying to see the memories with me as I relayed them to him.

I told him everything.

Well, almost everything.

I told him about her crying and drinking in the dead of night and how she'd hit me, but I'd still hold her hair out of her face as she spewed her stomach's contents into the toilet with the bottle still in her hand, even as she screamed at me to leave.

I told him about the bruises on my arms and neck left from her grabbing my small limbs and choking me and throwing me against the wall, and how I'd hide them when I went to school.

I told him how she'd scream at me over and over again that it was all my fault. That if I'd been paying better attention, if I would've come home quicker, if I would've been easier to raise, if I would've 'loved him as much as she loved him'.... Then he wouldn't have killed himself. He wouldn't have purposefully rammed his car into an eighteen-wheeler.

I told him all this and I couldn't stop my chin from quivering; I couldn't stop my tears from flowing.

"How did you make it through all of that unscathed?" He asked tiredly, his words slurring in the most melodious way.

How did you make it through all that without becoming like me?

But he didn't know that I hadn't, though.

Because I didn't tell him what I did to myself.

I didn't tell him how I tried to end it all.

That was a story for another time, I decided.

And maybe it was because all the broken glass from the soju bottles had torn his curtains a bit, but he told me some things as well. More than I thought I'd get from him in the short three weeks we'd known each other, anyway.

He spoke of growing up in the Busan ghetto, and his family. He had an eomma. He had a younger brother named Jungseok. He had an appa, but he died of lung cancer when he was twelve. He loved them all.

He spoke of scarcely having enough money to survive, and then coming to Seoul to make some for them when he was eighteen.

He spoke of how he felt like he was right where he started, as he could barely afford rent and he could barely send more than a few won back home every week.