trivia: cursed | BTS

Thanks But I'm... Not Suicidal?

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"Mom, you can let go of me now–yeah, Mom! Mom! Come on, I have to board the plane!" You hissed in the most discreet whisper you could. It didn't work. If anything it made her arms tighten around you even further, binding you against her chest. This was really embarrassing- you could already feel the mortification colouring your ears. 

"My youngest child is going off to college, leaving her poor mother alone and you're embarrassed? Do you want me to broadcast it?" Your mother scoffed, lifting her head from your sternum to eye you. (She was a short woman.) Before you could say anything, she whirled around and pointed dramatically at you. "Everyone! My youngest daughter is going off to college!"

People around you chuckled but otherwise seemed relatively indifferent. She turned back around and crossed her arms as if to say 'see? No one cares.' After a brief period of eye contact, she sighed and her demeanour noticeably softened.

Then, in the quietest voice you'd  heard in a while, said, "look, bug. Who knows when you're going to touch another human again? Like properly hug another human?"

Your lips pursed at the reminder, but your mother was right.

Since the first incident when you were thirteen, you'd figured out pretty early on that touching was the deciding factor. Even if it was a casual touch on the shoulder, a brief bump from a stranger or even brushing your arm against theirs underwater, that was enough. (All of the listed examples having occurred.) As long as it was skin to skin direct contact, that was enough to set it off. 

In fact, it was a big reason why you hated summer and loved winter. Clothes were a godsend. Long sleeves, scarves... honestly, if it was socially acceptable, you'd have rather worn a full-body jumpsuit 24/7 and wrapped yourself in clingwrap. But, alas, societal restrictions held you back.

The confusion was the first indicator. Usually, once the touch occurred, they would look around wildly and pause whatever they were doing. The swinging of the head and the blank look in their eyes were both tell-tale signs, eyes completely devoid of rationality and reason. It was frightening to you, no matter how many times it happened.

The look in their eyes was the second indicator. Once they spotted you and you made eye contact– that was it. It was over for you. They would barrel through anyone– unconcerned about their surroundings, as long as it meant they could get to you. 

After the first touch, you usually didn't stick around long enough for a third stage to occur. In more extreme cases? Stalking. Kidnapping. The best-case scenario? Fangirling. Awkward blushing. Stuttering. If it was a guy, maybe they'd even pop a boner. Whatever it was, they didn't stop. They would follow you wherever you went, whether it was obvious or not.

The only people who seemed to be exempt from this rule were your immediate family. Your mother, father, and two older brothers were golden. It took a year of skirting around before your oldest brother accidentally touched you. Everyone on the household had fully been ready to tackle him during dinner time, only to realise that he had gotten away scot-free.

You'd probably be driven out of your mind if you weren't able to touch anyone for the rest of your life.

Suffice to say, you'd moved schools a couple of times. It was a wonder how you managed to graduate with a GPA that was higher than 3.6. It was an even bigger wonder how'd you had managed to get into one of the top colleges (if not the top) in the country. Must've been karma paying you back or something.

"Mom, it's fine. I'll just bundle up with a jacket or something," you gestured to your baggy hoodie and sweatpants. At least it was autumn, you'd have about five or so months before long sleeves became noticeable. "Don't worry, I've had enough practi–" an eye caught on the time and the impatient flight attendant. "Oh my god, I really have to go! Bye, I love you! Mwah! Mwah!" Grabbing your bag on the seat, you zipped off to the gate, fumbling to take your passport out. If the flight attendant thought that you handing her your boarding pass and passport with a sleeved sweaterpaw was weird, she didn't say anything.