The Siren's Song

Chapter 1- moving away

(Y/N) POV:

I stare lifelessly at the newspaper article in front of me, lying flat on the table, headlines glaring accusingly at me.

MOURNING FOR THE LOST LIVES OF THOSE WHO EMBARKED ON HOLIDAY CRUISE.

Each word attacks me with all the force of physically inflicted blows, words acidic- bubbling and corrosive, wearing away even more at my already shattered and shredded heart. I flinch at the happy smiles and looks of excitement that cover the front page. Of lives lost, of embarking on what they'd thought would've been the adventure of a lifetime. And yet still my fingers brush gently across their names, those photos- committing them to memory, adding another list of those who've died at my hands to my broken soul- remembering the lives I've taken, ruined and families I've torn apart.

My throat closes up with the familiar feeling of grief and unending sorrow, that familiar panicky feeling of my lungs constricting, closing up on themselves, struggling to get air rushing through me. I did that. I ended those lives. I'm a murderer. And yet I hold those photos and names close to me as if I have the right to. I cry and mourn as if I share in that grief when I was the one who'd inflicted it.

The sight of their faces blur in front of me, tears welling up- thick and hot as they course down my cheeks, hands trembling as they try to latch onto anything solid, anything that stops me from being washed away with the crashing waves of my regret and guilt.

A broken sob tears through my throat, the sound so loud- shattering through the otherwise silence.

And I feel those emotions and poisonous thoughts bubbling up, rising, submerging me in them, compelling me to drown in the realisation that I am a murderer who has no right to live when a pair of arms wind their way around me- constricting but also comforting. A familiar weight that becomes something not pulling me down further but helping me to rise up.

I shake in those arms even if their voice comes out sweet and soft. Familiar to me like the back of my hand.

"Shh...baby you're okay. I've got you." the voice says, brushing against my ear, deep and reassuring even as another person rushes forward, voice pitched with worry.

"Ha...Habaek oppa..." I whisper, voice hoarse as if I've been screaming, maybe I have been.

"You're okay. You're okay. You're safe. You're loved." He mutters into my hair even as he continues to rock me, the familiar weight of his body against mine being a presence I become soothed by, and I can feel a softer pair of hands rub my back comfortingly.

"Let it out sweetheart." A sympathetic voice says, voice soft and gentle. Her hand comes to intertwine with mine as she sinks to the floor, eyes looking understandingly at me when Habaek oppa parts just slightly from me, so he can shift me onto his lap, never letting go of me.

Slowly the tears peter down, the shuddering gasps even but I feel so drained, as if I've been wringed of every last bit of energy- a husk, a shell.

The two of them remain with me, even long after I've calmed down, even as the last bits of hysterical guilt drain away, leaving me feeling blank.

"I love you cherub, but you need to stop this habit of yours. It's not doing any wonders to your health- immortal or not, you can still suffer." Habaek oppa says, drawing my weary body against his, so he can hook his head over mine, curling his arms protectively around me.

I sigh, picking listlessly at the ripped frayed design on my jeans, fingers fiddling with the threads that bare a slither of skin at my thigh, silent and unresponsive.

"I know you feel guilt, we all do- but the way you're choosing to deal with it is unhealthy. How many times have we had this conversation for how many decades?" Mi-sun unnie says, voice both soft and firm.