Knowing - jikook au

Beaches.

Beaches. Jimin didn't like beaches. They reminded him of the fucked up society he was forced to be a part of. They reminded him of the fucked up people he'd come into contact with. They reminded him of the fucked up choices he had made in the past two years.

Jimin could remember the last time he'd been to the beach. He had watched the mighty sea of society splashing against the pebble beach, asserting its dominance by raising up in great waves, showing off its power, crashing down to make the pebble people crumble under its strength.
The pebbles were worn down by the relentless ocean until they turned to dusty sand, all their strength lost. It reminded him of that quote he had read 'nolite te bastardes carborundorum, don't let the bastards grind you down'. Easier said than done.

Seagulls swarmed the skies, their piercing, beady eyes trailing the ground, governing the beach, looking for two things. The first - fish jumping out of the sea, people who had thrown themselves out of the norms of society, daring to go against the flow and be different. The second - bits of fallen food, the homeless who were dropped and abandoned on the streets of the beach town. The seagulls of authority swooped down, showing no mercy as they pecked and picked at those who dared to be different and those who had been left behind, those who were alone and unwanted.
Joining them in the air were the smaller birds, those exempt from the seagull's vicious rule, who were greedy enough to go after the dropped food and leaping fish that the seagulls didn't catch, despite already being rich in worms, beetles and hermit crabs.

The hermit crabs scuttled along the sand, trying their best to find somewhere to fit in. They passed shells too big, shells too small, and finally ended at shells that were just right. They snapped their pincers at other hermit crabs contending for the shells, contending for that small space of belonging, until eventually one is victorious, and takes the shell as its own.
Jimin thought of himself as a seashell. Hermit crabs would come along, seeking his warmth and homeliness, only to abandon him when they had outgrown him, moving on to find a bigger, better, prettier shell than Jimin would ever be.

Eventually, somebody would walk down the pebbled beach with a bucket in hand. A bucket full of seashells. Jimin would be picked up and thrown in with seashells just like him, yet not the same. But it didn't matter if Jimin's stripes were slightly more pink, or if he curved in a different way, or if he shimmered when the other shells shone. He was forced into a bucket, under a label, his individuality stripped. He was generalized as one the many, when he wanted to be seen as one of the few.

Maybe he wouldn't get thrown into a bucket. Maybe, somebody would come along and pick him up carefully, inspect him for a little bit and wipe away the dusty sand coating his fragile body, before taking him home. Maybe there they'd clean him up and sit him on their windowsill, placing him in a position of attention but never sparing him a second glance, putting their own self first and making Jimin stand back and watch as he gathered dust, fated to fade into the background.

Perhaps, one day, somebody new would see him on that windowsill, ask about him, be gifted him. Perhaps this new person would take him home, clean the dust and examine him gently, getting to know every curve and line, recognizing everything that made him unique to the other seashells. Maybe this person would sit him on a velvet cushion and put him in a protective see-through box, to gaze at whenever they needed inspiration or a pretty view whilst they sorted their thoughts. Perhaps this person would show him off to others, point out everything they loved about him, explain that Jimin was there to be a home to the hermit crabs, but shouldn't be abandoned just as he had. Perhaps this person would love and admire him for the rest of time.

Most likely, that wouldn't happen. Most likely, he would sit on that beach every day, watching the clouds drift by. Most likely, somebody would come running along the beach and crush him underfoot, not bothering to stop when they heard the cracking of shell.
Most likely, Jimin would end up broken and abandoned, a crushed seashell with nothing to do now but be swallowed up by the crashing waves and be swept back out into the clutches of the societal sea.