BEFRIENDING DEATH ᵗᵃᵉᵏᵒᵒᵏ

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JUNGKOOK hates crying.

Oddly enough, he feels immeasurably worse after bawling his eyes out. Jungkook doesn't know which he hates most; his bloodshot eyes, his red and blotchy face, or his puffy eyelids—they're all just proof of how fragile he really is. He also hates how sometimes, somehow, he finds himself enjoying the feeling of tears running down his cheeks and the taste of salt on his lips. But Jungkook knows he most definitely hates how it can happen so suddenly.

Jungkook has lost count on the times he's caught by surprise when a lone tear rolled down his face then followed by the rest in an unbroken stream. This moment adds another number to the list for sure. Every time he cried there was rawness to it like the pain was still an open wound. Yet this time, he can't quite put a finger on why he cried or, like last time; for who. The tears just. . . fell. The emotions just followed. Call him a crybaby, he knows that himself and he detests it.

After what seems like hours, Jungkook wipes away his last droplet of tear. His breath stutters as he tries to take a deep breath. Standing up, he takes in a rather dull image of his bedroom.

The lights are left off just like how he likes it, the only source of light coming from the half covered window. His white bed sheets are a disheveled mess, a stainless steel razor blade colored with blood sits atop. Jungkook's eyes move to the right, landing on the bookshelf he remembers stumbling into when he felt his consciousness started giving up on him that night. Below it lies a rug. A simple grey rug that bears his blood right in the middle. His eyes are fixated on the pool of dried blood, recalling his wrist leaking blood before it seeps through the material of the rug.

A strangled scoff leaves his chapped lips. A trip to the laundry is what he needs most.

Jungkook picks up the razor, tossing it into a drawer mindlessly before sitting on the bed with a squeak. He eyes the paper cups by his feet, hoping there is still coffee leftover but when he tries picking up the cups one by one, none of them hold any weight. His bottom lip juts out on instinct as he throws out the empty cups.

Now it's the vodka bottles that has gotten Jungkook's attention. He grabs one and laid back on the bed as he hums the simple melody of a song he once heard from the minimarket late at night.

He drinks and thinks and drinks.

Another hour spent just drinking, humming, thinking. His eyes flicker from one object to another, observing the littlest detail of his room and surely none of it seems new to him. It's just Jungkook's lifelong plain, old bedroom. A huge part of his day is always spent in this very room—if he's not being ordered around by Humpty Dumpty at the restaurant that is.

All of a sudden, a pain shot him in the stomach. It's as if someone keeps jabbing his abdomen from the inside. Jungkook sucks in a sharp breath between his gritted teeth. His hand hastily grabs the pill bottle placed on his nightstand. He wants to sleep, now. He wants to forget the pain. He wants to forget everything and just sleep and hopefully never wakes up.