Entry tags:
𝕖𝕩𝕡𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕤𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕚𝕤𝕞
When the sun starts to filter in through his curtains, soft and with a warm, rosy glow, Jungkook finds himself immediately burying his face back in his pillows, chasing after the dark. Dramatic is not a word that he typically enjoys applying to himself, but he's not sure anything else quite fits the mood he's in, eyes still puffy from lack of sleep. He's afraid to look in the mirror. Afraid to let his limbs slip out from under his covers, out of the soft white, exposing bruises that should be varying shades of purple and pink by now.
His cheek still prickles a little against the soft cotton of his pillowcase.
The pain doesn't bother him. He's not sure that it has in years — doesn't even think that it was his primary concern the first time his father's hand slipped, too quick and direct to pass as an accident. Instead, shame is the emotion that lingers in Jungkook's bones. Not brave enough to stand up. Not strong enough to leave.
Not good enough to be loved.
A gentle knock on the door is what rouses Jungkook fully from his slumber, blinking sleep out of his eyes as he jolts up, instinctively reaching for the robe he keeps by his bed on nights like these. He's sure that he's slipped before, once or twice, in front of his mother. But enough covered tracks have always made it such that she doesn't question it when Jungkook claims that he's just clumsy, bumped into a boy at school he shouldn't have.
He's securing the robe around his waist when the door starts to creak open when he realizes — shit, his face. He doesn't know if the rash has subsided yet.
Doesn't know how he'll explain it, this time.
His cheek still prickles a little against the soft cotton of his pillowcase.
The pain doesn't bother him. He's not sure that it has in years — doesn't even think that it was his primary concern the first time his father's hand slipped, too quick and direct to pass as an accident. Instead, shame is the emotion that lingers in Jungkook's bones. Not brave enough to stand up. Not strong enough to leave.
Not good enough to be loved.
A gentle knock on the door is what rouses Jungkook fully from his slumber, blinking sleep out of his eyes as he jolts up, instinctively reaching for the robe he keeps by his bed on nights like these. He's sure that he's slipped before, once or twice, in front of his mother. But enough covered tracks have always made it such that she doesn't question it when Jungkook claims that he's just clumsy, bumped into a boy at school he shouldn't have.
He's securing the robe around his waist when the door starts to creak open when he realizes — shit, his face. He doesn't know if the rash has subsided yet.
Doesn't know how he'll explain it, this time.