a/n- slight trigger warning for this epilogue: self-harm, attempted suicide, homophobic slurs, mention of anorexia & depression.
if you kids ever need to talk, we're here. message either me (sung-young) or yeon-hyo, for we both collaborate and write this story equally. thank you <3.
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The floor was cold. Colder than the snow he loved could ever be. He didn't know what day, month, or even year it was. It was mostly quiet except for the occasional yells and curses that were audible throughout the prison.
Sure, it hurt to move. But he didn't feel it anymore. He didn't feel anything anymore. Bruises, cuts, scrapes and scars littered his body like it so natural for them to be there now. Some self-induced, some caused by his inmates.
Coming into prison with dyed-pink hair makes you a pretty easy target for abuse.
Though, he felt none of it anymore. He had grown used to the cold floor, the dampness in his lungs. Even if he drowned too long ago, he felt dead for what seemed like years. Sitting here, skin and bone. His once bright and healthy dyed-pink hair now a faded white-blond.
The one thing though that he could still feel, was the horrible pain of missing somebody you know you'll never see again. Someone who will have moved on far before you come back to see them.
He missed Jimin.
The one person in his life who made him feel worth anything at all. Who made him feel period. Who made him believe there was someone, and some people who were good in a world of bad, lying, abusive and cruelness. Taehyung, Hoseok, Jungkook, Namjoon, Jin. The aching feeling in his chest never left, it haunted him everyday.
He thought about the younger every hour that passed. And his friends. And he hated himself. More than anybody else could hate him. More than any person he's had a deal with could hate him. More than his own father hated him.
You left Jimin. You left him, and it's all your fault. You did this to yourself. You did this to him.
"You're a mistake, Min Yoongi. I hate you!" He growled, grabbing his wrist with one hand.
Tears welled in his eyes as he dug his fingernails into his already-scared and bruised forearm, pushing down and scraping his skin, drawing blood and opening healing wounds.
Good. He thought. It's what he deserved.
His head fell back against the cold wall sitting on the cold floor. His long, pale and cold fingers withdrew from his wrist. He missed the piano. The white one in the studio. The one he would never, ever see again.
Though, his thoughts were put to a halt when he heard the familiar foot steps echoing down the hallway up ahead. He had no hope to look anymore. It was always the guard. But, why was he coming now? He had already had breakfast, and their work in the courtyard wasn't until later in the day. There was nothing ever in between.
Though, he kept his head down as he calmly wiped the blood from his arm with his shirt. He's learned that if you make fast movements, they suspect more of you. More abuse, more hell. He's learned the ways of prison really, really quickly.
The harsh, everyday voice of the officer spoke to him like a messenger.
"It's your lucky day, scumbag. You've been bailed."
His heart pounded once, and then seemed to stop beating. No. Did he hear that right? Of course he didn't. He had probably finally fallen asleep, and this was some lame dream. He looked up, his cold gaze catching the one of the officer standing before him.
