— Fingertips splay effortlessly over ivory sheets as heavy eyelids fall to cover dark brown irises. Eyelashes tickle his skin and for a moment, Dongrim thinks he can allow himself to drift off into dreams. But anxiousness brings him back in less than three seconds and he sits straight without much effort. There’s a sting of sharp pain in his shoulder, his lower back too but he’s telling himself that it’s nothing serious. Why would it be?  At the bridge of his nose, rests the frame of broken spectacles, the crack decorating solid glass not seeming to bother him. His hair is sticking to his forehead, damp still after the caress of morning rains and his skin is still as chilled as it had been an hour prior. He hadn’t moved from his bed since five am, not made the slightest effort aside from keeping himself awake — letting red-rimmed eyes stare emptily up at a white ceiling. 

                                                                                                            Do I or Don’t I?

He is contemplating as curling slim digits into the softness of his duvet. Would he or would he not dare to call for the only person he knows, who could possibly soothe the ache rooted so deeply within his soul? Would he, the one who kept half his life a secret, dare to invite someone over? He questions himself, the decision could easily turn dangerous for the both of them, making it more difficult than he wants it to be. Because no matter the secrets, no matter how much he is indeed hiding, Dongrim wants to relieve the weight that his shoulders carry and he wants to do it quickly. But is he willing to put everything he has built up in a dangerous position? Is he willing to put Ian in danger for his own ridiculous needs?  

Questions, questions. 

                                                                                                      They drive me crazy.

He sits, cards a hand through dark, mussed strands of hair and he shuts his eyes so tightly it almost hurts. Bruises stand in great contrast to the alabaster of his pallor, to the white of the knitter shirt he’s wearing. Luckily the dark green jacket he had worn when outdoors had protected the rest of his clothing from the rainwater. At its own best, of course. He hadn’t changed a thing, he didn’t have the energy or the correct state of mind to bother with petty details. When eyelids part again he’s met with a hazy blur, rays of light he cannot identify properly and he almost falls back down against the mattress, if not having stopped himself a millisecond before it happened. Self control. He sighed, shook his head and made himself rise. His legs felt weak, the shooting pain in his back growing worse and he spent a mere moment staring at his own two feet. He should probably get himself checked up, but not until he had a legit excuse for his battered state. He couldn’t take any risks.

Traces of blood linger upon his knuckles, small stray droplets having stained the collar of his shirt, lip busted and obviously so. His chest hurts, breathing hurts but as strangely as it might sound, it makes him feel alive. Dongrim knows he’s alive and it’s all he needs to go on, ( aside from the comforting touch of someone he knows ) it is enough to keep his mind from reeling entirely. And as far as he can recall, it was the reason to why he drove his car into that tree in the first place.  Last night had been bad, fingertips itching for blood, eyes seeking victims — senses hungry for a murder he didn’t want to commit. Denying himself the only thing he found comfort in, his only way of vengeance, it was like trying to contain a spreading fire. So he smothered it, in the only way he knew. By making himself hurt too much, by breaking himself down and making his mind unreachable. He had spent almost two hours, laying around on wet asphalt, feeling the chill seep into his bones, before he had stood up and left.  

Never would he ever,

admit to this being one of his many

                                  attempts of suicide.  

Dongrim leaves his bedroom a few minutes later, walks slowly through the open spaces of his apartment, passing that door. It makes him stop, hand pressing flat against, what seems to be, dull wood. “ My… Secret. ” He breathes between his teeth, fist slamming against the door as anger racks through his frame. Then he’s stepping back, pulling away from the monster within and moving on.

            Behind that door, his life lingers. The hearts he has stolen from opened chests;

                                         His greatest treasure and his greatest sin.

He walks into his kitchen, he reaches for his cellphone. The screen had cracked back there and he curses. Because it makes it difficult to see. But he knows Ian’s number by heart and it doesn’t take much effort to type it. So he does, almost on instinct, but he hangs up only ten seconds after pressing the green button. Agony sparks, spreads like wildfire and captures everything that he is. Because can he really make this call..? He’s a danger to himself, a danger to society and inviting Ian over makes him a danger to one of the few people he finds himself caring for. It makes his chest tighten with unfamiliar pressure, makes his breathing pick up and he has to crouch down not to fall, head hanging low. His fingers curl around his own knee, phone clutched tightly in the other hand. He focuses on breathing, on calming down without much luck. Pale skin peeks from the tear in his jeans and he stars at it, focuses on the crack in his spectacles, anything that doesn’t concern the immediate danger he’s about to put himself in.  

“ Fucking hell Dongrim. " 

He hisses at himself, pushing off the floor and standing again, fingertips tapping against the polished surface of his kitchen counter. He leaves the phone there, as he heads into the bathroom. Because he has an idea that might just make him feel a little bit better, if not knowingly so. It’s easy to find the bright orange can, the lid almost glowing in its own white glory. He doesn’t bother to read the label, he knows what it is. It’s the only can he keeps hidden away.

                                                           Tranquilizers 

Not one pill, not two but three. He keeps them in his hand as he walks back into the kitchen, putting them down as he pours himself a glass of water. He had spent at least ten minutes staring at himself in the mirror back there, staring at the weary features of a man he doesn’t recognize. Why had he become like this? Why? He knows very well. His reflection in the water startles him for a moment, makes his shoulders shake and he releases a breath he doesn’t know he’s been holding. He groans, takes the glass with him and puts it down by his chosen dose. As always he hesitates, because he knows it isn’t a healthy behavior. But he needs it, he needs it so badly.

The taste is bitter, makes him grimace as he swallows as obediently as he can. He wants to throw up only seconds later. He feels like he’s choking on air and he coughs. His stomach twists and turns but he holds it back, forehead pressing against chilled marble. Tears brim at the edges of his eyes because of the strain and when he finally stands straight again he almost feels feeble, clumsy as he reaches for his phone again. This time he lets the dial tone sound properly, lets the rings go through and he waits, waits ever so patiently for Ian to pick up.