Chapter Text
Hyunjin likes when the house is empty. He can do what he likes when he's the only one there. From playing music obnoxiously loud in the living room to lazing around in his bedroom without being disturbed for meals. He loves when the house is his and only his.
But what he doesn't like is how things get too loud. He doesn't mean when music is playing full blast or when some recycled romance drama he's seen a thousand times is blaring on the tv. No. It's not any of that. It's his head. It gets too loud.
Everyone has thoughts. Of course, they do. That's just how humans work. But Hyunjin feels imprisoned by his mind, tormenting whispers pour into the shell of his ear at the most opportune times, and that's when he starts to drown in madness.
It's like falling down a rabbit hole chasing white rabbits that are merely a figment of his imagination. He falls and falls and falls, never quite hitting the ground. Oh, how he wishes he would hit the ground - have his brittle bones shatter and crimson blood paint the floor. Oh how wonderful that would be, an utterly delightful and tragic way to end it all. It's twisted romanticism at its best.
When things get like this there's only ever one way for him to block it all out. His thoughts…how he wishes they would all be quiet. And of course, it's not in any way, shape or form the most ideal solution but it works and that's all that matters to Hyunjin. That's all that matters - and who cares if he regrets it later on? Who fucking cares?
His life has been full to the brim with regrets so far anyway, what does it matter if he adds to them all? His whole life is a waiting forfeit. It's all meaningless. That's right. Life is meaningless.
Hyunjin has the most fucked up relationships with things he shouldn't, mostly the endless scars littering his body like resentful reminders of the lost person he is. It's like his brain doesn't know what normal is. He crumbles into a sobbing mess every other day, barely being able to build himself back up when his smile is needed by the rest of the world. He doesn't know what is making him hold on. He doesn't know anything.
He takes to the bathroom with his blade already in hand, the piece of dastardly metal feeling at home in his palm. It's so simple, so effortless, and so easy, to slip into these god-awful habits. Hyunjin closes his eyes as he slides down the gelid tiled wall and sits on the floor, a shuddering sigh passing over his bitten lips. It's cold, freezing actually. Oh how the world has lost all its warmth, all its colour, everything that made it worth staying alive.
He looks up into the mirror. He doesn't recognise the person he has become...and maybe that's a good thing.
Hwang Hyunjin why are you still here? the mirror whispers to him.
He doesn't know. He really doesn't know.
He stares at his skin in disdain, desperate to tear it all off and rebuild himself from nothing. And he would if he had the chance - it's not exactly like anybody cares. Nobody has ever cared.
God, Hyunjin is always trying his best, he’s always trying to give what he can. He's struggling. Why can't anyone see that he's struggling? Hasn't he given enough?
Every day, every single fucking day, Hyunjin starts to lose sight of reality. It's like his own head, his own mind, and his own thoughts are going out of their way to convince him to let go. To stop. To leave.
He wishes he was dead.
Oh, how Hwang Hyunjin wishes he was dead.
And isn't that a terribly awful thing to wish for?
But he does - he longs for his death and nobody will ever be able to change that. He fantasises about it constantly, always wandering around with his head stuck in clouds. Nobody will ever be able to change the way he is. They can't change his thoughts, his feelings, his desperation to end it all and paint pretty white tiles red.
They just can't and that's okay.
Hyunjin unfurls his skeletal fingers, staring down blankly at the blade in his hand. He takes it in between two fingers, the metal glinting under the fluorescent bathroom light.
He smiles. Hyunjin actually smiles.
He finally slides the rusted blade down his arm, a singular streak of red seeping to the surface. It's perfect, so delicate and neat. It's comforting. Really. It's actually comforting. Maybe it's the way the lines are so controlled, so easy to guide and structure.
Hyunjin thinks that's why he likes it so much - it gives him control. God how he desperately yearns for some control over his own fucking life.
It's like this every time...when Hyunjin enters the bathroom he feels only one thing: numbness.
But does that count as feeling something at all? He isn't sure.
It's so red - red like a poppy. It's like one singular little poppy has come into blossom on his arm.
He does it again. More poppies start to sprout...their petals flow. And they flow and flow, tainting the tiles a morbid crimson.
Hyunjin keeps going and going, his old garden of fading flowers being inked over in that sinister red once more. There's one more poppy. Oh! And there's another. And another and another! They grow and grow. By the time Hyunjin starts to water his flowers with salty rain his whole arm is a meadow of poppies. It stretches endlessly like the sky, so perfect to gaze upon.
The poppy is a truly melancholy flower, a symbol of war and loss. But they're beautiful enough to make joy swell in Hyunjin's heart. Oh, how wonderful his flowers are. How utterly wonderful.
Wonderful. Wonderful. Wonderful.
But...Hyunjin doesn't think he feels any joy at all. How could that be, his flowers so pretty? He grew them himself, they're his flowers. It's his very own meadow...so why is the only feeling in his gaunt chest that of a crestfallen angel. They bloom effortlessly, littering their petals over his pallid skin. Drip, drip, drip go the petals.
But petals don't drip do they Hyunjin?
Petals don't drip.
But blood does.
Now this makes more sense, doesn't it? Hyunjin didn't make an idyllic meadow of poppies, he didn't nurture any flowers and he didn't let any petals flow. He cut himself though, didn't he? He dragged that blade down his skin, allowing his scarlet blood to cascade over his etiolated skin. And that salty rain was in fact tears.
Oh.
Hyunjin is crying.
He drops the silver blade onto the tiles, then he glances down at his scarlet-splattered hands. He thinks he's shaking a little bit, eyesight blurred by those god-awful tears gathering on his eyelashes.
Hyunjin knows he was cutting himself...so why is he so desperate to cling to these romanticised delusions?
There is no beauty, no flowers, no life in this.
There's nothing - only misery.
His head's a mess but he's trying so fucking hard to keep it all together. Everything is falling apart, and his garden ripped to shreds.
Hyunjin starts to cry, no, that's wrong. He was already crying. He knuckles at his eyes in sheer frustration, tears staining his cheeks. God his chest aches in anguish and despair, heart thrashing against bones. When will it all end? When will it all fucking end?
Hyunjin can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe.
Throat-wrenching cries echo as they ricochet off the tiled walls. Why is he so hurt? Why is he like this? What could he have done so possibly wrong to be tortured with such a life?
"I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay," Hyunjin whispers to himself, voice splintered. But he knows he isn't. He isn't okay. Oh God, someone make it stop…
Why won't it all fucking stop!
Stop! Stop! Stop!
Hyunjin inhales sharply, whimpering softly, "It's all going to be okay. It's fine. Everything is fine."
Oh, but Hyunjin...it's not is it?
He keeps sobbing, the whole world fading into nothing. He’s never usually like this, not when he’s destroying his garden. Hyunjin always sits there in silence, feeling numb and dejected. But now…now…he’s too far gone. The tears fall and fall and fall, and Hyunjin can’t stop them.
He can only hear himself. It's like he's falling down the rabbit hole again, trapped in a sunless abyss of agony and dejection.
In this awful awful world, Hyunjin can't imagine things getting any worse. He spends his days suffering, living in a nightmare created by the shadowed hand of his own fucking mind. He's ensnared by his own lies, every part of him a living reminder that he'll never get better.
Eyes shut tightly, Hyunjin attempts to swallow his guttural sobs. However, within seconds he's already wailing, drowning everything and everyone else out.
But...he's alone, isn't he? So why does it matter?
Hyunjin was alone. But then this happened and he didn't hear anyone come up the stairs. He didn't hear any tentative footsteps come down the corridor. He didn't hear anything.
And most of all, he didn't hear the bathroom door open.