The Foreign Exchange Student - BTS - Jeon Jungkook

제 3 장

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Walking out of the house, drained and lost as to what to do next.

"Baby..."
You looked to your neighbor's house where your neighbor Nancy was kneeled on the floor beside her boyfriend Rafael. You've seen those two every once in a while, mostly during the summer when they go out on their yard to chill.

Ever since a few weeks ago, you've been hearing those two fight at night non stop that you even ran over to their house one time and old them to shut up. You even heard them fight last night.

But now, Rafael, who used to work with your Grandpa out on the strawberry fields, was on the floor was a shots through his chest. His mouth bloody, and he didn't seem to be breathing. She ran her hands through his matted hair.

"Please don't leave me. I love you so much, baby." she looked up and around her. "Somebody help me!" she cried out loud.

But nobody was going to help a lost case. You knew he was dead. Around here, a person ain't nothing more than a tally mark. You know this. Everybody knows this.

Shaking a bit from the exhaustion and frustration, you walked down the steps to where the streets were blinking with red and blue lights. Black uniforms and gold badges ran around, blue shirts pushed people into gurneys, and flashes blinked, taking pictures of the scenes before them.

Families were crying, others were watching in pure shock. You managed to limp your way through the neighborhood undetected until you got to the end of the block. Turning the corner, your feet stumbled on something on the floor, and you tripped, falling on top.

"What the...?" you got up immediately and got off the mysterious object before you realized this object had arms, legs, a face, and a bloody gash on its chest.

It was a body.

Your black hoodie was now soaked with the red pigment, you could feel it seep into your tank top underneath. Once you got down on your knees, you got a better look at who it was.

Daniel Mercado, the block's biggest druggie. He was known for taking drugs into school and selling during class. He was kicked out of his home at fourteen, and he lives with his brother.

He was in your grade, and you knew him pretty well. If you needed product, he had it. Your relationship with him was strictly dealer to customer.

Not wasting time, you started checking through his pockets, eager to find something. He had to have something. Money, drugs, anything!

You reached into his ankles were you felt a hard bump in his right leg. You lifted up the bottom of his jeans and saw a bag of weed taped to his skin. He would only do this if he were going out to sell. You sighed in relief, taking one last glance at him before getting up and running away.

Compton was never a place you wanted to call home. It was like the flaw you always saw when you looked in a mirror and you couldn't anything of it because it was a part of you.

Roaming the streets alone was as dangerous as breaking into a home. You never knew what would happen or who you'd meet. If you were lucky, you'd find something you wanted, maybe even shelter.

That was what you needed: shelter.

With half a kilo in your front pocket, you wandered around the streets with your head low. You were a walking corpse down the sidewalk. The soles on your feet were weak, your stomach was rumbling, and you were cold.