Black Rose | Jikook Fanfic [ON HOLD]

Chapter 10: Who He Messed With

Author's Pov

Jimin felt cold. Although he was draped in a thick baby blue duvet, he was freezing and shivering as a thin sheet of sweat was stuck to his forehead, wetting his blonde locks. He was squirming uncomfortably and whimpering and mumbling softly, like a mantra, in his sleep. His brows were stitched in a deep furrow and his little hands were clenched by his side.

"No... Mom.... Dad.... Jaemin... Don't."

His eyes shot open, wild and panicked, gasping for air as his chest heaved up and down frantically, somehow choking a bit. He let out an involuntary groan and held the side of his head. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes and stood up, legs wobbly just like a newborn fawn. He gasped and fell on the fluffy bed.

"Did I drink last night?" He mumbled to himself. He only remembered leaving the flower shop at an odd hour, but he didn't remember getting home. Maybe he was so tired that he didn't remember. It would not be the first time he came home and did not remember anything. That was a regular occurrence so it didn't seem weird to him, but the headache was.

Shaking his head, he stood up again, quickly regaining his balance and headed towards his usual bathroom when his head knocked against a stiff cold surface and landed on his butt.

"Ow." He rubbed his forehead, glaring at the beige wall when his eyes widened. There was no bathroom door there, and his walls back there weren't beige. So he was not at his place. Memories from last night came rushing in like a tornado.

He met his mom.

He cried (which explains the headache)

He stayed late up in the shop.

He saw bulky men rushed out from an alley.

He heard screaming.

He saw.... He saw eyes, wild and dark, eyes that murdered and saw people getting murdered, dangerously shiny eyes. He saw those same eyes boring into his.

Then nothing.

"Oh god..." He whispered, scrambling backwards until his back and head hit the bed's wooden edge. He glanced around the large room, probably larger than his apartment back there, eyes wider than before. The walls were painted beige, fading to white, completely bare with no hung up artworks or even a picture. Back at his place, his walls weren't plain. He had painted the walls himself a soft yet vibrant color and hung up a few pictures of his childhood. Bare pale walls reminded him of loneliness, and he didn't want to be alone.

(Me: *cries in bare walls*)

The room was dim with only four lamps from each wall, lit with a faint white light as the long velvet curtains wouldn't let light pass through the equally large windows which was at the left side of the bed. In the center of the room rested the king sized bed he was asleep (unconscious) and bedside tables at each side of it. At the far corner behind the enormous bed was a marroon door, probably the bathroom or the entrance to hell, he didn't dare to go investigate.

His hands were shaking non-stop and his lips were quivering. His dreaded eyes roamed on the bedside tables, snapping to his remaining senses. Wiping his sweaty hands against what he assumed, new sweatpants, not even daring to think who changed him because he knew he wasn't in the state to think straight and right now, he needed to find a way to get of there.

Swaying his arms on the bedside table to the right, he pulled open drawers, in high hopes to feel his phone somewhere. Much to his dismay, the drawers were as empty as his soul.

Annoyed, he climbed on the bed, going to the other side and swung his arms again, pulled open drawers to find nothing. Not even a packet of dry biscuits. How cruel were they? Who were they again?