one shot | yoomin | ✓

part one : hero

I was put into an orphanage when I was only six years old. An orphanage for the recovery of abused children. I was in the awful place because, surprise surprise, I was an orphan. My parents had been murdered.

The judge had thought that it was an accident. After all, I was a precious little kid, hardly old enough to go to school. It was impractical to assume I had actually thought through and systemically murderer my entire family.

Impractical. Sure.

The judge banged his gavel and it was decided. I was too young to know what I had done. I would be sent to an orphanage for abused children, although they could find no markings of abuse.

It wasn't that I hated my parents. They had simply been unfair. Taking my brothers to the club and not me? Taking shots with my uncle without me? The idiots ignored me for too long.
I remember exactly what the orphanage looked like the first time I laid eyes on it. The hulking building loomed over me, casting a shadow over everything in its reach. I stepped through the scratched doors and felt any trace of hope for a better life disappear.

The place was a bleak, blank, bland hell. Oh, the other children laughed and played, enjoying their lives before adoption, but it wasn't long until the older residents had spread the news that I was a complete freak. They didn't know the truth, only that I "was possibly mentally disturbed by a traumatic experience."

I didn't care. I was fine with eating alone, fine with not having to share my dorm, fine with growing up alone. I was standing in the front hallway the night it happened. Rain was dancing devilishly on the roof, drowning the sound of laughter from the cafeteria. My sandwich had the usual tasteless, soggy texture. I hummed quietly to myself as Mrs. Kim knitted next to me.

There was a almost inaudible knock on the weather-worn door. Mrs. Kim and I looked at each other. She was a kindly woman, old but cultured. There was no hint of frivolity in her eyes at any given time. The knock came once more.

Mrs. Kim stood slowly, and twisted the knob with her wrinkled, shriveled hand. A tiny boy stood there, hair soaked wet by the rain, face soaked wet by tears.

"My eomma told me to give this to Mrs. Kim."

The wizened woman plucked a crumpled sheet of dirty paper from his shaking fingers, reading it aloud.

"His name is Jimin. His father had come too close to killing him for the last time. I don't want him to be hurt anymore.
He is allergic to bees."

Mrs. Kim finished in a soft voice, barely heard over the pounding of the rain, then smiled at the child. "You are Jimin, then?"

The boy nodded.

"Welcome. We'll have to have you go through a physical examination first, but soon enough you'll be in a warm bed."

I peered at Jimin. He seemed small, fragile. I reached out and grasped his tiny hand. His thin, bruised fingers were icy cold.

When the examination's results came back, they reported what Mrs. Kim had already guessed. Jimin had been physically, emotionally, and sexually abused. I wanted to give him a hug.

He was only four, Mrs. Kim said. He was too young to understand anything.

I believed it. Jimin was so innocent and kind, the other children accepted him immediately. He was pulled right into the popular clique, I was only to watch from the sidelines.

A month passed in agony. I wanted to talk to him. He had a light that drew me to him, a moth to a lamp. I tried to hold out; tried to stay away.

I was sitting alone as usual. Forcing bites of the tasteless sandwich down my throat. I jumped af someone plopped down beside me.

"Thanks for holding my hand hyung," Jinin said brightly, wrapping his tiny arms around me and squeezing me into a hug.

I started, staring at Jimin. Hadn't he heard the rumors? Didn't he know?

After a moment, he released me. He looked up at me, beaming. "So, what's your name?"

I was close to speechless. "I'm... Yoongi."

"I'm Jimin! Oh, well, you probably knew that. I came here because my eomma asked me too. I really enjoy it. Mrs. Kim is nice. The food is icky, though. I like the beds! The pillows a soft too, and..."

For someone so small it was hard to believe that he could say so much. I nodded along to the beat of his words, breathing them in.

Eventually, it became obvious that the lunchtime visit wasn't a one-time deal. Jimin came everyday to sit with me, and soon I realized he wasn't going to leave. Jimin chattered away every single day, practically glowing. Whenever I made any acknowledgement, a noise, anything, his face lit up and the rate words poured from his lips tripled. The conversations were one-sided, but I loved it. Even better, Jimin did too. From then on, we were joined at the hip.

However, when Jimin stared school things changed. We sat together, but the world seemed to grow quiet. I tried not say anything, but I was starting to really miss Jimin's  shining smile. Finally, I broke the silence and asked him what was wrong.

It all came pouring out. The kids at school were teasing him, hurting him. Every. Single. Day.

"My fat cheeks. My dumb smile. My stupidly small height." Jimin's voice broke.

And so did my patience. "You should've told me," I said quietly. "I'll wait for you everyday after school. They won't touch you."

I was already forming the plan in my mind. That day, as we walked past the gates, a group of nine and ten year-olds jumped out at us.

I sent Jimin ahead. Then I beat them into a fine pulp. The idiots ran back the way they had come, tail between their legs like worthless dogs they were.

This continued until the school learned. Jimin was under my protection. No one was to touch him, and no one dared to.

I had succeeded in my duty.