Autumn Angel | JHS ✔

.thirty-three.

I can't do this. I can't do this. Every movement, every step feels like it requires the last drops of energy I don't have. My mind is fuzzy and it can't focus as I attempt to put in the correct passcode to open my door. For ten seconds, I open my eyes wide and force myself to concentrate as I press the pad of my thumb against the digital keypad. On the third try, it sings in greeting and my entire body weight shoots down to my hand when I turn the knob and stumble inside. 

Steps are heavy and lethargic, making the sounds of bags dropping and shoes being kicked off seem almost light and graceful. I felt like a corpse that was being forced to go through movements. I didn't even feel. I couldn't think or focus on anything and at this point, I succumb to whatever my body wishes to do. Right now, my body wishes to draw. My mind wishes to be clear. 

I stumble like a drunk across the space and step over the threshold into the bathroom. The usually-loud drawer is silent in my futile mind as it opens and my fingers pick up the silver brush. 

Don't do this. Don't do this, Autumn. 

Hoseok's face appears before me, a smile wide on his face, but his eyes hiding a pool of sadness. I close my eyes, causing diamonds to escape and fall. I wanted to feel alive again. I needed a reminder of what it felt like to feel. Instead of this overflow of emotions eating me up from inside, I needed to physically feel it, make it tangible. I push down my jeans and start to paint. 

Stop. Don't do this. 

More tears fall and for whatever reason, my fingers stop. My subconscious continues speaking until it slowly turns into Hoseok's voice. My head tilts up and I look around but no one is there. I really was going crazy. 

My eyes drop back down to the unfinished painting on my inner thighs. I should stop. The red streaks scream up at me, begging me to complete the piece. I had already started. I might as well just continue. I might as well finish. I might as well.

Next time, I tell the voice when my fingers once again move over the canvas. I'll be stronger next time. But just this once, please, will you allow me to escape? 

The voice disappears and I'm once again left in my own bubble of silence. With each stroke, I finally start to feel again and my mind clears. The paint deepens and darkens in shade and my heart starts to calm down. I'm completely sober now, but I still have no control over my movements. I don't need to draw anymore, but I can't seem to stop. 

So someone stops my movements for me. I can't tell if I'm relieved or disappointed when familiar fingers stop my own. I can't tell if I'm happy or angry when arms support me and pick me up, carrying me over to the couch. Hoseok leaves my side for a few minutes and returns with the medicine kit. I feel like I'm once again five as he takes a seat in front of me on the floor and carefully slides off my jeans and tugs them off my feet. 

Silently, keeping his eyes on mine the entire time, he places his hands on my knees to spread my legs. Every movement in any other context would without a doubt be sexual, but even when he leans forward to press light kisses on my inner thighs, I know he is doing everything to simply comfort me. The wrapper of an alcoholic wipe is torn and when the cool, wet cloth touches red, the pain starts to grow. Hoseok blows gently on the canvas to ease the pain and then looks up at me. 

"Do you want me to put on the ointment?" he whispers. 

I shake my head. They can heal on their own. I would be fine. I'm left alone again for a few moments and when he returns, a pair of sweatpants are in his hands. No words are exchanged as he helps me stand up and holds out the sweatpants for me to step into. Hoseok slides the waistline up my legs and then ties off the string. When he's finished, my hands reach out to cup either side of his face, communicating with him through my eyes.