jeon jΟ
ngΔΈooΔΈ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lovestrippedbare) wrote2021-06-02 10:09 am
lovestrippedbare) wrote2021-06-02 10:09 am
Entry tags:
ππ ππ₯π¦π£ππ
The pain starts to weave the waking and dreaming hours together. There are times when he can hear his mother's voice, thin and reedy, pleading for them to raise the medication back up. Jungkook's never sure if they do. Sometimes, he hears whispers, cutting through the room no matter how well the doctors and nurses try to keep discussions hushed. Murmurs about how he needs to wean off the medication, how he needs to be awake. How much longer the recovery will be, if they don't start to reduce the dependencies now.
His mother's voice is always loudest, demanding and firm. No, she will not let them torture her son.
For all the strength in her tone, all Jungkook hears is fear.
But it's fine. The more cover she offers, the more shelter he takes. The pain recedes most during the dreams where he walks the edges of the high-rise rooftops, twilight painting the sky in blues and indigo. What he remembers most well is the way the wind brushed against his sleeves, that he could close his eyes and hear the flapping of a sailboat drifting off to sea. Sometimes, he jumps — no, jump is too inelegant of a word. It's little more than an extra step beyond the edge, the start to a rush of air around his body. He always thought it'd be louder than this, that his heart would rush, but he finds it calm and soothing instead.
Until the pain hits, and he's awake again. Pale room, pale light. Small hands clasped around his own. Sometimes she's awake, and other times her head rests against the blankets. Sometimes, he wakes up with her fingers carding through his hair. Once, she smiles and brushes her hand against his chin, saying that he should never let his beard grow so long again — but he sees the shine in her eyes, and they look sad.
One night, he goes to sleep with a sharp pain in his side, and it isn't long before the fire behind his eyes shifts into the splatter of blood, heat and cold warring in his abdomen, and the face he sees—
—doesn't surprise him.
He wakes up crying that time, because he's starting to remember the faces he wants to see by the bedside, because every sleep feels like a sleep too long without them. Crying is the only way that he can communicate. It brings the nurses over to his bedside, adjusting his meds, checking vitals and sometimes they ask him questions that he tries to answer with a series of blinks, but even that's hard to keep straight when the nurses change their shifts.
As the physical pain continues to subside, it's replaced with the awareness of all that's missing.
Somehow, that's worse.
His mother's voice is always loudest, demanding and firm. No, she will not let them torture her son.
For all the strength in her tone, all Jungkook hears is fear.
But it's fine. The more cover she offers, the more shelter he takes. The pain recedes most during the dreams where he walks the edges of the high-rise rooftops, twilight painting the sky in blues and indigo. What he remembers most well is the way the wind brushed against his sleeves, that he could close his eyes and hear the flapping of a sailboat drifting off to sea. Sometimes, he jumps — no, jump is too inelegant of a word. It's little more than an extra step beyond the edge, the start to a rush of air around his body. He always thought it'd be louder than this, that his heart would rush, but he finds it calm and soothing instead.
Until the pain hits, and he's awake again. Pale room, pale light. Small hands clasped around his own. Sometimes she's awake, and other times her head rests against the blankets. Sometimes, he wakes up with her fingers carding through his hair. Once, she smiles and brushes her hand against his chin, saying that he should never let his beard grow so long again — but he sees the shine in her eyes, and they look sad.
One night, he goes to sleep with a sharp pain in his side, and it isn't long before the fire behind his eyes shifts into the splatter of blood, heat and cold warring in his abdomen, and the face he sees—
—doesn't surprise him.
He wakes up crying that time, because he's starting to remember the faces he wants to see by the bedside, because every sleep feels like a sleep too long without them. Crying is the only way that he can communicate. It brings the nurses over to his bedside, adjusting his meds, checking vitals and sometimes they ask him questions that he tries to answer with a series of blinks, but even that's hard to keep straight when the nurses change their shifts.
As the physical pain continues to subside, it's replaced with the awareness of all that's missing.
Somehow, that's worse.