Dark Matter | JJK

55. Let Us Forget

Jung Hoseok had seen a lot.

If people looked closely enough, his amber eyes would reveal, aside from the permanent warmth stored in them, age-old tales of death, despair and – sometimes – hope for new beginnings.

They say that work takes you places. The chief doctor of Seoul National University Hospital, however, could proudly boast about having explored the strangest of places while being confined to the four white walls of a hospital for more than half decade. Because the work of a doctor was limited not only to curing patients of their diseases, but it also included, literally and figuratively, acquiring an in-depth knowledge of the very atoms that made up their cells.

So Hoseok had, for six long years, spent more time performing surgeries and prescribing medicines than he had at his kitchen table eating cereal. He had established strong friendships with each of his patients, roaming the deepest, darkest, and dirtiest corners of their minds. Although he knew what he was signing up for on the very first day, having to watch families being torn apart by lethal diseases and dealing with death on a daily basis could take a toll on even the strongest of people.

He was so sick of having to say "I'm so sorry, I tried my best" to parents awaiting news of their dying children, that he forced himself to step away. He forced himself to remain emotionally unattached to his patients, to see them as mere objects – machinery even – that needed to be fixed. All of that just so he could spare himself a part of the pain.

Then the apocalypse arrived, ravaging to the root every form of life that dared stand before it. And Hoseok could do nothing but watch as infected men and women stared at white stuccoed ceilings all day, bound to their beds and begging for death to knock on their doors and end their suffering. He could only watch as the infection indiscriminately ate away the hearts of unfortunate youth, children whose childhood was stolen far too soon from them.

But the aftermath of the apocalypse was not his only worry.

It was the sight of Jungkook that completely shattered what was left of his heart.

He didn't know this Jungkook. This Jungkook was not the doe-eyed, rabbit-toothed boy who mixed chemicals in his laboratory and jammed to old school BigBang songs. He was not the Jungkook who fought for the last slice of pizza and played Overwatch like a madman the night before his exams.

This Jungkook had permanently ruffled hair, chapped lips, thick circles under droopy eyes, and shoulders slumped in defeat. He started his day by entering the hospital premises with a bunch of handpicked, sweet-smelling African daisies, and ended it by unknowingly falling asleep across the rusting metal chairs in the waiting room. He only left the building when Hoseok and his other brothers successfully (and quite literally) dragged him out for at least two square meals a day. Many a times Hoseok would temporarily abandon his duties to sit by him and watch as he reluctantly swallowed each bite. Hoseok didn't mind it, though.

The hospital's cafeteria was nearly empty that morning, sunlight pouring through the tall glass windows and forcing him to squint down at his plate of scrambled eggs and salted, half-eaten cucumber slices. Patients in wheelchairs rode in and out of the doors in irregular intervals, and the lady behind the breakfast buffet greeted each one of them with a practised, kind smile. Seated in front of him, the boy idly swirled his spoon through a steaming cup of seaweed soup.

"It'll get cold," he insisted gently.

Jungkook's hand stilled, knuckles white against the spoon's steel handle. "I'm not hungry."

"You are. You just don't know it." Hoseok checked his wrist watch. He had seven more minutes to spare before his pager would buzz and he would be forced to leave. "Jungkook, look at me."