Yoongi grunted as he turned to his left. He looked at the wall, tracing the uneven paint that covered the wall. His body was tired, but his mind refuses to let him sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, the sight of the past came back, haunting him until he opened his eyes again. He haven't had nightmares like this since he was in the middle school. To him, it was childish to have this kind of nightmare again. He thought he was free, but a certain someone came in his life, triggering all the fears and the nightmare he had sealed away.
Yoongi clenched his fists, and started to punch the air. He was frustrated, angry, and mostly disappointed. But no matter how hard he tries, he couldn't get rid of the big question. 'To whom' he was scared of? Disappointed of? Himself? For years he had tried to find the answer, but he failed. Then he gave up finding, and he pushed the question away so that he was freed from it. Or so he thought.
"Jimin." Yoongi muttered, trying to shake the images of the boy in his head. 'Well, he said that Jimin could not get up by himself without collapsing. So I guess he's pretty sick to me.' Taehyung's words echoed through his mind, adding even more frustration in his chest. Jimin is sick? He knew pretty well why Jimin is sick. But he wasn't supposed to feel bad about Jimin. He was supposed to feel satisfied, that finally he'd hurt Jimin as much as Jimin hurt him. But why does the guilt arose in his chest, choking him until he felt like vomiting and disgusted with himself? Who the hell is this Jimin boy until he had the power to made Yoongi shivered and trembled in fear like this?
Yoongi sat up on his bed, feeling a little depressed. It's fricking 3 A.M. and he was still wide awake. The ticking of clock was loud, alternating with the sound of his breath, as if mocking him. With a heavy sigh, he got up, and went downstairs to the kitchen. Grabbing the glass and opening the fridge, he took a bottle of mineral water out. Pouring the water into the glass, he then took a big gulp from the cold water, feeling the water went down to his tummy, making him felt a little cooler inside. He poured himself another glass of water and drank it oneshot, before putting the glass on the table, and plopped down on the chair. He then looked at the palm of his left hand, and then to the wrist of the same hand. An ugly scar that stretched from one end of his wrist to another end made him cringed inward. He clenched his fist, making the palm of his hand turned white, and the hideous line on his wrist seemed to be more vivid.