trying to behave (but you know we never learned how)

Chapter ten

October 2015

Friday, the 16th, 8:20pm

New York, USA

Park Jimin's almost a hundred percent sure he's having an out of body experience.

Nothing, except for the crippling pain everywhere in his body, feels real.

He doesn't feel real.

His existence doesn't feel real.

The white tiled walls of the tiny shower cubicle walls don't feel real under the skin of his clammy palm, or look real for that matter.

It's almost as if he's somehow ceased to exist in the past 17 hours, and he's not sure if that should concern him or not.

(The mild concern that goes through his hazy, disoriented, fucked out mind doesn't feel real, either).

The warm shower water rains down onto his sore back steadily and it would be comfortable on a different day when he actually feels alive and not like he wants to drop himself onto the nearest horizontal surface and complain, but right now, it's just defining the ache in his bones and he wants it to die.

He wants to die.

Jimin sluggishly rubs the shampoo into his hair, bleary eyes shut—as if he has the fucking energy to open them anyway—and toothbrush idly hanging from the corner of his mouth; he knows, distantly, that multitasking in the shower is as worst of an idea as it gets, but he can't be bothered generally, so now his mouth tastes like both mint and the shitty sleep breath he was trying to rid of.

Minty sleep breath.

His favourite.

He vaguely wonders if he's dying. Probably is.

The air outside the bathroom is downright icy compared to the warmth of the steam inside of it and Jimin whines and pulls the sleeves of Tre's ridiculously huge jumper over his knuckles, finds himself considering just going back in and sitting on the toilet until the pain in his heart, soul and ass passes and he feels functional again.

He's so cold, and tired and achey.

And hungry.

The sudden announcing rumble in his stomach takes the time to remind him that lounging around—on a toilet—is in fact, the worst idea that he can possibly come up with when his body is trying to kill itself and there's a vast black hole where his insides are supposed to be.

And Park Jimin has come up with some very shitty ideas in his equally shitty, meaningless 20 years.

The burning need for cereal and aspirin inside his system wins over taking a nap on the toilet, though, which should also concern him considering he's just slept for about 17 hours straight, but he's just so fucking exhausted and he kind of wants to sue everyone.

He wants to sue himself for ever thinking taking dick for a living was a good idea.

The main area is beginning to fill up with the workers on apartment duty for the night and Jimin thanks his lucky stars and all the gods he doesn't believe in for the convenient night off, because one more dick up his overused ass and he would've stabbed someone in the gut.

A quick glance at the living room clock informs him that he's wasted a full twenty minutes in the shower.

Twenty minutes he could've spent doing more productive stuff. Like eating.

Or dying.

Or killing.

Jimin sighs blearily, pushing his wet fringe out of his eyes and ungracefully tries to sidestep Alice to get to the kitchen that's only so many miles away, what with the pain in his legs and the cloudiness in his head.