I Told You, I'm A Monster

Chapter Twenty-Two

Namjoon wakes up in a cold sweat, his eye twitching and his hands shaking as he comes down from the all-too-familiar high that comes from a dream about killing someone. Again, that someone was Seokjin.

After Namjoon heard about Jimin killing that kid – what was his name, Jungkoom? Jungcook? - yesterday, the visions and urges to kill had intensified to the point that Namjoon came in his pants just from dreaming about squeezing and fucking the life out of Seokjin.

But still, Namjoon has feelings for his doctor. He wants the handsome, dark-haired man to help him get better. He loves the way he makes him feel. He thinks that Seokjin can help him make a turnaround.

But he could practically see through Jimin's eyes, imagining the look on the kid's face as he had the life beaten out of him, feel the bones cracking, see the blood splatters, hear the choked groans the kid must have made as he took his dying breaths. The thought gets him hard again as he stands up and gets dressed, exchanging a white standard-issue uniform for the same uniform but one that's slightly less comfortable. He sighs and, like every morning, submits to the morning search of his room for contraband medications or weapons. Once that's over and he's eaten breakfast, he sees Dr. Lee waiting for him outside his room.

“Good morning, Namjoon. I have good news: Your old room has been deemed ready to live in again. The cameras aren't quite working, but we're going to have them back on line today. So don't try anything.” He chuckles good-naturedly, his demeanor around Namjoon having become considerably more easy since the patient had started seeing Seokjin. At that moment, a nurse walks out carrying the dirty laundry, and Dr. Lee takes over in escorting him back to his old room, which, except for a hasty but well-done patch job on the ceiling with mismatching tiles, looks acceptable. He thanks Dr. Lee quietly and digs plucks a book off of the shelf so he can sit on the bed and read after the doctor leaves.

His thoughts won't quiet, though. The ones of killing Seokjin in his favorite way. Of watching his life drain slowly from his neck. Of finishing inside of him after the doctor finishes breathing. He reads the same sentence in his book about thirteen times before giving up and throwing the book to the side with a sigh and glancing at the clock on the wall. Seokjin will be there soon. He hears beeping signaling the cameras are trying to work. The question is though, how much can he get away with?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dr. Lee is waiting for Seokjin with a grim set to his lips. “Good morning, Seokjin-ah. I know you're supposed to go see Namjoon right now, but you have to call Jungkook's family first. We have his contact information, so you don't have to worry about that part.” Quietly, he hands over the folder labeled JEONGGUK, JEON and places his free hand on the younger doctor's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Come on. You can make the call from my office.”

“Thank you, sunbae-nim.” Seokjin bows slightly and then follows the older doctor to his office. The elder sits behind his desk and slides the phone across it to Seokjin, who sits in one of the plush chairs on the opposite side and opens the folder on the flat surface in front of him, skimming the page until he finds a phone number for his parents. With fingers that are surprisingly more stable than his rapid heartbeat, he dials the number and takes a deep breath while he holds the receiver to his ear. It picks up on the third ring; a female voice.

“Hello?”

“Hello, this is Dr. Kim Seokjin from the Busan Mental Hospital for the Criminally Insane. May I please speak to the parents of Jeon Jungkook?”

“This is his mother. My husband is at work. How can I help you, Dr. Kim? Is Jungkook-ah okay?”

Seokjin closes his eyes and bows his head, taking a quiet, deep breath. “There's no easy way to say this, Mrs. Jeon. Jungkook is dead.” He feels his heart shatter at the anguished sobs that come from the other end of the phone, and he watches as his own tears pool onto the surface of the desk. “I'm so sorry.”