Yoongi groaned as he woke, he woke with a feeling he hadn't felt in ages, except it wasn't really a feeling, it was just there, something that hung in the air, like how there's sometimes a gloomy atmosphere, it was like that, but different, it's like the feeling was there, but it wasn't sinking in, it was stuck on the layers of skin on him, like needles digging into him, making him need to do something to control the pain, something that will let it sink in. He stood in a daze, not in control of his actions, stumbling over to his bathroom, dropping to his knees and rumaging through the cabinet, and then he saw it, in all it's glory. The shiny, silver blade he hadn't seen in months, soon to be covered in his crimson blood. He pushed his sleeve up, relealing the old scars, the one's he made on the ones he didn't, he held it against his arm, almost hesitently, he knew he needed this, hell he deserved it, he couldn't open up to anyone, he kept dissapointing people, he couldn't even keep his sister alive, he couldn't make his father love him, he couldn't even face the people he used to love like brother, he was such a dissapointment to everyone, he couldn't do anything right, he knew it.
So he pushed it down, watching as crimson blood billowed out his arm as his skin parted like the zipper on a jacket, he watched as the blood dripped of his arm, and onto the floor with a drop, loud and pounding in the dead silent apartment, he pulled the blade from the cut, moving to another space, repeating again again, he was punishing himself with passion, watching the blood fall to the floor with odd grace, it relaxed him, knwoing he was doing somehting, making himself pay for what he'd done to everyone and everything around him. Thats when the feeling settled in, pain, the feeling that was like daggers against his skin was settling into him, pushing past the surface through the cuts he made, he was controlling the pain and the pain he causing everyone else with his existence.
He dropped the blade as he came back to reality, watching as the blade hit the bathroom tiles with a deafening crash, grabbing the black towel off the rail, holding it against the many self inflicted wounds. He was going through a battle, they were battle scars, nothing more, and it was an ongoing battle, the battle will never be resolved, it will never come to an end, so long as he was fighting, pushing through like he was, everyhting would be fine, he was in an ongoing battle, a battle he had to be in, a battle he'd caused by hurting everyone and everything and this was his punishment.
He sighed as the blood stopped oozing, going from a puddle of blood to a couple of drops to none at all. He threw the towel on the washing pile, grabbing the roll of bandages and wrapping his arm tightly so they didn't re-open while he was working.
Work
He needed to work harder
He didn't work enough
He was letting himself down
His fans
His company
His friends
He needed to work harder, so he can make up for the trouble he'd caused, the hours upon hours of work he did? Wasn't enough, he wasn't doing enough, hell, he wasn't enough.
He felt tears coming to his eyes, wipinng them away like they were never there. But they were, tears would always be there, he wasn't emotionless, his emotions just weren't expressed, he couldn't express them, so he remained cold, pushing everyone away. Hurting everyone, like he was hurting himself in his personal battle.
He stumbled into the kitchen, he opened the fridge, pulling out his breakfast, but as he sat down he found he didn't want to eat. He needed to be skinny, he needed to make people proud, he had to lose weight, he was too fat, he'd been told only a couple days ago he needed to lose waight by the company, so he would, he become skinny, skipping breakfast would help, along with all the exersise he planned to do, he'd be skinny in no time. He had to try to be enough, he had to be, he wanted to be, he needed to be, he needed to make people proud, he needed to make up for the harm he'd caused.
But if only it was that easy.
