Fake Love

Prologue

Jimins POV:

"It's okay sweetie, just take your time..." I look down towards my hands, my bruised wrists were healing nicely, but the invisible scars would forever be there. A constant reminder of the hell that I lived through. I sigh, my breath feeling heavy on its way out as if some imaginary wall is trying to block it, trying to kill me.

The police officer sitting in front of me looks to be around his late 40's. The way his tired face tries to comfort me tells me that he has been doing the same job for quite some time. His hair shows signs of aging and whenever he frowns, his wrinkles become more prominent. He has had his uniform for quite some time. The shirt has traces of old stains that he has with minimal effort, tried to remove. The coffee in his hands turning colder by the minutes, he has clearly forgotten that it even exists.

Giving it up, he places it on the table between us, taking a deep breath as he does so and gently attempts to smile in my general direction.

I don't buy it.

I don't feel like I can trust anyone anymore. The last time I set foot in a police station, they brought me straight back to the hell that I have finally escaped from.

I feel tiny, small and insignificant in this massive world that is surrounding me, choking me. I've never really been claustrophobic, but I swear to God this room is getting smaller by the minutes.

It's like it knows. 

It mocks me.

The four grey, sad-looking walls are slowly, but ever so surely crumbling in on me and I strongly feel the need to cower. I shiver, causing the officer in front of me to tilt his head. I suddenly feel cold, which is odd considering I'm currently wrapped up in a huge blanket.

I got it from the ambulance, the paramedic said I could keep it for as long as I wanted to, but I know that I will eventually have to give it back. At least I can keep it while the police officer questions me.
In such a short amount of time it has already become my fortress of security; a safe haven of sorts, where I can hide and forget about all the dreadful things that have happened to me.

I really like this blanket.

My feet are tucked securely underneath the blanket as I rock back and forward on the tiny steel chair. It feels cold against my overly sensitive bum, which is again covered by the blanket. My cheeks are stained with dried tears, cuts and bruises.

There's nothing left. I stopped crying some time ago when I realised that there wasn't a point.

I was starting to loose hope, slowly falling into the delusional idea that the men who held me captive where actually my saviours...

Stockholm syndrome I believe it's called.

"Mr Park, are you still with me?" The officer has a worried tone wrapped around his voice and I can clearly understand why. I'm honestly surprised over the fact that I haven't been sent to a madhouse yet.

I probably looked and behaved like a crazy person when they found me.

"I'm with you," I practically mumble, my voice strained and still distant. I'm still recovering from the trance that I have been slowly falling into.

"Whenever you are ready, sweetie" the man in front of me smiles.

I've really come to hate that nickname.

I can promise you that there is nothing sweet about sweetie.

The microphone in front of me is staring intensely back at me and again I feel the need to cower. I want to get away; I really don't want to be stuck in a police station right now.

I should be in a hospital, recovering from the traumatic events that I have experienced before I slowly but surely develop PTSD and have to go to therapy for the rest of my life.

I'm not right.

Nothing about this is right and my body and mind is too relaxed for my liking. It's as if they have already moved on from the happenings, decided to ignore what has actually taken place and pretend that it never did.

"I don't like that name," again I mumble and again the officer tilts his head, looking at me like I'm some kind of an alien.

I remember looking at one of them, thinking he was some kind of an alien....

"I do apologize Mr Park," the officer bows, showing me respect even though I feel that I should be the one showing him respect. He is older than me, more educated. I'm just some stupid boy who got tangled up in this mess.

It wasn't my fault though. I can't help that I was born with a surname that apparently everyone is after. "I don't want to be associated with that name anymore," It's true; I don't want anything to do with my family name anymore.

They're not the ones I thought they were. The Park name can only be associated with pain and misery and I've already had my fair share of both.

"I do apologize again," he adjusts his seat and at the same time the microphone so that it again stares intently at me, making me feel uncomfortable. I take a deep breath, feeling how my breathing is shaky before I finally let my voice escape the barrier that my throat has been working so hard to build up.

"Leave no details out," he quickly comments, causally leaning back on his chair. He stretches his arms towards the roof, yawning as if he has the most boring job in the entire world; 

I reckon he has.

All the memories come flushing through my mind, hitting me like a fucking truck and I instantly feel a headache approaching. I decide to ignore it, at least the best I can considering the situation as I desperately try to steady my raising heart by clutching it through my chest.

It works, in a strange way.

"My name is Park Jimin. I'm 22 years old and I was kidnapped. Trapped in a living nightmare. My own personalized hell."