STYROFOAM [jaeyong]

[styrofoam]

A/N - mature themes! this book will only have five chapters that range ~8000-10000 words :)

if you read this chapter/story and liked it, please feel free to vote and comment! It really encourages me to write knowing that someone is enjoying it. Thanks!

JAEYONG.

[STYROFOAM]

"From the unknown, I ran away, I don't think I'm coming back home. Like a crawl space, it's a dark place I roam. Ain't no right way, just the wrong way I know. I problem solve with styrofoam. My world revolves around a black hole, the same black hole that's in place of my soul. I'm empty. I feel so goddamn empty. I may go rouge. Don't tempt me, big bullet holes. Tote semi-autos."

≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺

THE trickle of water echoed in the unkept bathroom, slightly deafening out the loud, trembling bass of heavy music outside the door and a particular boy's soft quiet cries. A cracked mirror was merely clinging onto the water-stained wall and several puddles of water clouded the blue tiled floor—the floor where the boy was lying in a pathetic ball induced by an alcoholic mental breakdown, mixed with insomnia and a little bit of depression.

His name was Taeyong, although right now if you were to ask him he may not remember that.

A tingly buzz droned through his mind, but it wasn't enough to keep the anxiety from festering throughout his brain. Tears flowed down his flushed cheeks, getting caught in the cracks of his dehydrated lips and sinking into his dry tongue that tasted of straight liquor. His throat was raw and burned like hell, all of his muscles ached, and his eyelids were heavy over the whites of his eyes.

Taeyong was malnourished—all he's been doing is drinking and going out every night. But nobody gave two shits on this side of the city he moved to years ago. He didn't care either. If it gave him a long night of relief and escape from his sober thoughts he'd do it a thousand times over again.

That's probably why he defied any evidence of a sane human being when he eventually got up from the floor, wiped the tears staining his cheeks, fixed his smudged eyeliner and smoothed out his wrinkled clothes, then walked out of the bathroom as if nothing ever happened. Like he wasn't just sobbing on the floor, his hand limply holding an empty bottle of vodka and contemplating suicide.

He assumed it was just because he wasn't drunk enough yet. 

The boy swerved his way through sweaty, cramped bodies, and after awhile of searching and small talk he finally found a stranger to dance the few hours of the night away until the sun rose East above the gray buildings of Seoul. He might've took a few drugs and smoked along the way, but he didn't remember. He usually didn't unless he woke up with someone in his bed.