a/n feels a bit dead but meh. I feel like somehow extending my jaw and eating a 7-foot burger. How are you guys? This is one hEnCh chapter.
—𝙘𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙨𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙩
It's twelve am and Kim Taehyung is questioning what the fuck he's about to do.
His curtains have been pulled to the side, letting streams of pale moonlight crawl into his tiny box room. The window is tiny—smaller than a large cereal box—and barred with off-white bars, crusty and a rough brown rust colour at the bottom, like a prison cell. He leans on his tiptoes and his eyes widen in awe as he scans the window. The sky is a drape of dark blue, pierced with silver studs that glint and shine in the pale yet bright gaze of the moon; faint silhouettes of houses with little triangle rooftops; the smell of briny air that tinges the entrance of Taehyung's nose; smattering of white clouds like dabs of grey paint dragged across a canvas of ocean blue; the occasional slither of golden light stuck inside of a window.
The boy's bedroom is enchanting—cast in shades of sombre blue as if locked in time—metal doorknob winking in the moonlight; the window casting a box of light on wooden floorboards; inky black walls; everything cast with a sheen of blue light; silence that steals the sound of Taehyung's heartbeat; dust settling. There's a certain eerie solitude that arrives with the moon's omniscient gaze. Taehyung shivers uncomfortably in it.
The shadow of his chair that he thought used to resemble a crooked villain from an old overly pixelated tv show now is a mere shadow, a block of black with thin spidery legs that Taehyung lays no mind to. His heart thumps against two overbearing lungs at the fright of being caught, no matter how many years have passed the matron is still a constant fear.
His shadow falls light onto the ground as he creeps out of bed, feet lightly resting on the ground. The sixteen-year-old falters with every step he takes, air pushed into his lungs and lungs strangling his little malnourished heart. His eyes skim across the floor, scanning for the floorboards that he knows will creak and groan and scream to the matron that Taehyung is out of bed. Past Curfew.
RIP Kim Taehyung, he lived a fucking good life. Never set a foot outside the orphanage. YOLO.
With a quivering hand that looks raven black, almost like the shadow of a monster's clawed hand in the darkness, Taehyung gingerly inches open the door of his bedroom. The block of inky black groans like a dragon that has just woken from a deep slumber and Taehyung winces, teeth digging in chapped lips sprouting bursts of pain. The creaks seem to echo in the hollow tunnels of Taehyung's ears and in the empty shell of his desolate bedroom.
When the door gapes wide open, mouth hungry, Taehyung's breath hitches. The corridor is black and grey; swathed in numerous shadows that lurk and tease the walls; it swallows the light and the silence screams down Taehyung's ears; the ominous stillness scrawls along Taehyung's rigid spine.
Deep breath in.
Deep breath out.
Taehyung channels the inner yoga video he had seen when he was twelve. Channels his chakra?—feels the air coursing through his lungs and the blood pumping through his veins.
Slowly he creeps through the doorway, leaving the door gaping wide behind him—the matron doesn't patrol the corridors after 8 pm. As soon as he sets foot in the corridor a strange fear engulfs him.
The corridors are dark.
They leer at him: crooked shadows; jagged black lines; there's a strange stillness, an ambience of inhumanity that claws at Taehyung's pounding brain. He takes a step forward and stops. Halts. He knows it's stupid—he's fucking 16—he shouldn't be this scared. He shouldn't feel hands trailing his legs or crawling along the nape of his sweaty neck. He shouldn't shudder and feel fingers grasp at his ankles.
