𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐊𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒

Across Both Wrists

(Warning: the following will deal with disturbing topics such as abortion, mental illness and suicide. If sensitive to the topics, please click off this story. Read at your own risk)

It was a moment I'd waited on for a while. When the blood loss would finally take effect. When I'd finally drop lifeless to the ground. I'd done my research well, given that my only sources were a few websites on the internet. But I felt prepared. The instructions were clear each time. A quick stroke on each wrist; no unbearable pain; no regrets. Just quick, clean work. And so when I woke up a few hours later, in an ICU surrounded by doctors who were seemingly thrilled that I had regained consciousness, I knew I'd failed to follow the world's simplest instructions.

That's when all the things I anticipated would happen if I survived, happened. Insistence on talking to me. Paying me attention that I didn't want. Overuse of the words 'mental illness'. All my nightmares were coming true. And all I have are two scars across my wrists to remind me. My mother was driving herself and me mad, repeating the words "why did you do it?" over and over again. But I would never tell her. I would never tell anyone. So when my mother decided that I needed to see a psychiatrist, I lost it. I couldn't bring myself to tell my own mother. What made her think I'd tell a stranger with a clipboard?

After a long arguement, she got down on her knees, clasped her hands together and begged me to just give her an hour of my time. I knew I was a bad enough daughter already. If I said no then, I'd be the reincarnation of a demon. And that's the only reason I agreed. When my mother told me he 'specialised' in suicidal people, I immediately pictured an old man with a clipboard, a pen and a beard. But the man I met had no resemblance to whom I was picturing. He was my age, with dark hair and a face that betrayed no emotion. He introduced himself as Jeon Jungkook. "Your daughter's in good hands", he assured my mother, "you may leave now. I'll give you a call when we're done here."

My mother looked at him with pleading eyes. "Please help her. Please just find out why." He gave her a brisk nod and showed her out. But as soon as she left, his professional demeanour melted away and he rest his feet against the desk in between us. His hand reached out to start a timer.  "My record for making a client open up to me is 62 minutes. I wonder if I can beat that record with you." I was barely able to contain a scoff. "You can't possibly think you can get me to open up to you in 62 minutes." "Of course not", he responded, brows furrowed, "I'm going to get you to open up to me in less than 62 minutes." I rolled my eyes. "I can assure you it won't be that easy."

He sighed and got up, before walking over to a drawer with a lamp on it. He lifted it, held it in his hands for a minute, and then flung it at the adjoining wall, causing it to shatter and fall to the ground. I flinched and looked at him, but there wasn't a trace of anger on his face, but rather a childish grin. "This is obnoxious", I told him, getting up and heading for the door. I grabbed the knob and tugged on it desperately a few times, but to my dismay the door was locked.