SEVEN || BTS

Chapter 1-害怕不完美

It all ended with a gunshot and a trip of the bullet to his heart.

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He walked down the street, his bright red hair softly bouncing with each step he took. His shirt was clean and ironed. His shoes polished and his mind fogged with negativity.

He walked into his office, signed in and sat at his desk. The small space organised to the smallest millimetre, the pastel highlighters placed from warm to cold in a row, the set of white mechanical pencils and perfectly stacked notebooks.

He looked around, seeing the rest of the desks, disorganised and piled with papers and in a way he felt relieved that for today he did not have to worry about being better than the rest of them.

He began to work, editing the scripts and novels to the highest grade of grammatical accuracy. The hardest pieces of writing were given to him, because out of all of them in the office, only he could edit medieval texts.

He didn't know the others opinions about him though.

Because to him everything he did was horrible, a sea of mistakes and dissatisfaction and the only reason he was better than anybody else in the office, was because he was scared to be worse than them.

He walked up to the coffee machine and bagan to make himself an expresso. Half way, a visitor at the office walked up to him.
There's was a couple moments of silence as he waited for Jimin to finish.

"You drink coffee without milk or sugar?"

Jimin poured the thick dark substance into his white cup.
He nodded taking a couple of cookies from the tray.

"That's weird, I personally think it tastes better with milk. It's not as bitter you see"
The visitor chuckled a bit before loading his portion of coffee into the machine.

"I'm sorry."

There was nothing to apologise for, and the visitor found it rather confusing. But then again he was an editor, and according to this visitor- editors were introverted beings.

That visitor would never know that Jimin flushed his coffee down the toilet and threw the cookies in the bin.
Leaving the empty cup abandoned in the bathroom.

He walked back to his desk and opened his personal notebook. In a red pen he jotted down-

Drinking coffee without milk or sugar is wrong.

He opened his bag and took out some pills, gulping them down with water and closing his eyes as he savoured the bitter aftertaste.
But he had to take them, he had to if he didn't want to be floating in a sea of depression all day.

He stared at the script in front of him, a play that was discovered in an old basement, a story of tragic love and royal interest in the lives of those under them.
A wave of sadness washed over him and he began to worry. Maybe his hair was out of place, maybe his shoelaces were tied the wrong way.
He remembered that time he lost a race. It was 8 years ago and shouldn't be on his mind. But it was and it bothered him.

It was dark when he walked home, the street lamps barely lightened the way and as he walked he could hear his own footsteps echoing through the emptiness of the street.
He heard a thud. As if something metal fell to the floor, but not too big in size.

He stopped and looked around, there was no one around him. A faint reflection off a surface was what he saw in the dark, dead end between the two buildings to his left.
He was curious, as to what and who could be making noise at these times of the night.

Cautiously he made his way towards the object. Using his phone as a lantern, he saw it laying on the ground, rocks and rubbish around it.
And even though he did not want to admit to himself that what he saw was illegal, he couldn't help but pick it up and put it into his bag.

That was when his mind began to change, because a gun has a strange ability to play with people's thoughts.

The people around him screamed. They begged for him to drop the game, to consider his actions and realise what he is doing is wrong.
But he aimed and pulled at the trigger, admiring the beautiful red that oozed out of the victims head.
It was perfect really, the way he could be superior to them by doing this. The way that no one else could do it as well as he did.

One by one the people dropped to the floor, red puddles forming around them. They did nothing wrong. None of them had expected Jimin to do this.
The Park Jimin that they admired from afar, the person that they all wanted to be friends with. The person they could not approach.

But he didn't know that, he mistook their glances of awe and wonder as glances of disgust. He mistook their silence as his fault for not communicating at a certain level of accuracy. One wrong pronunciation and you could miss his presence for a week.

The world around him spun, and he spun around the world. A game that could not be played equally, a game that could not be won.

It all ended with a gunshot and a trip of the bullet to his heart.
A painful scream piercing through the air as the gun clattered meeting the bloodstained floor.
Followed by his light body.

He looked at the owner of his death, a tall figure standing a few metres away from him. And he could have been mistaken but he could see horror flashing through the officers eyes. He watched the figure slowly lower his weapon, hands shaking.
With his last breath he smiled at him. He mouthed the words that would not change a thing to the lives that he took and closed his eyes.

His suffering might have been put to an end, but really it was just passed on to the person that relieved him of it.

Atelophobia- the fear of being imperfect, the fear of never being good enough.