Summary: Easy is the descent to Lake Avernus; night and day the gate of gloomy Dis is open; but to retrace one’s steps, and escape to the upper air, this indeed is a task; this indeed is a toil. - Virgil
Jungkook’s bed in room 206 was lumpy. The duvet scratched
against his pants leg, making sure to leave every spot of exposed skin chafed
the following morning as he slept. Not that he was getting much sleep here. He
rolled over on to his opposite side, watching as the flame flickered diligently
atop the candle placed beside his bed.
He wasn’t supposed to have brought the candle into the hotel; he was sure there
was a policy against open flames in the room. But he’d snuck it in anyway, only
so he could fall asleep as the flame twitched beside him. He couldn’t smell it,
even though the scent was supposed to remind him of rolling waves and the sun.
Jungkook rolled back over, this time away from the candle. He
curled into himself, feeling tiny in the large queen sized bed as he curled
smaller and smaller. He stared at the drawn curtains in his line of sight,
trying to imagine the world passing by outside; he couldn’t. He could barely
feel himself, laying in this bed. It was almost as if he didn’t exist at all.
Somewhere above his head, the soft sound of a piano was
Yoongi swung his sledgehammer, bringing the heavy end down
into the awaiting window of an unsuspecting Mercedes. The glass exploding into
a multitude of glittering shards, raining all over the plush leather seats. A
small portion of the shards twinkled down onto Yoongi’s shoes, covering the
black boots in pieces of a rainbow.
The car’s alarm started blaring half a second later,
piercing the otherwise quiet suburban air with shrill, mechanic chirps. Yoongi
glared at the contraption as if it was an annoying pest that had just dampened
a few moments of his lazy Sunday afternoon. Turning, he broke into a light jog
and flew away from the car before it could bring unwarranted attention to his
Yoongi was angry, if the sledge hammer vs. car windows
showed any sign of that. Once he’d jogged far enough away from the piercing
screams of the Mercedes, he ready his sledgehammer for another swing. The red
car bellowed loud moans as Yoongi’s weapon crashed into its front windshield,
causing the whole pane to cave in, a large impression of the hammer’s face sent
a web of blistering cracks out from the middle.
Yoongi smirked to himself, and began jogging again. He hit
car after car, each time aiming for a different window than the last until the
whole block was erupting in a cacophony of blaring, shrieking, moaning alarms.
In sounded to Yoongi like a sea of the souls of the damned.
He walked away from his realm in the suburb amongst the
tormented cars, letting their screams follow him as his feet covered long
strides of the cement. The sledgehammer, which had suddenly become quite heavy
in his hands, was dragging behind him lifeless, a dog on a stiff leash. His pet
scraped the cement, sending up a never-ending loop of scraping like nails on a
chalkboard. The noise made Yoongi’s hair stand on end; blood pumped through his
veins in an attempt to shrink away from the noise. He made no motion to stop it.
The sidewalk passed him on and on, the groveling of his
sledgehammer the only thing keeping him company until he found himself standing
in front of a dilapidated building. It was an ugly shaped stack of bricks and
mortar; the neon sign’s flashing lights were out except for a few mismatched
letters. The pink and yellow V, O, L whined, a dull buzzing like an insect.
Yoongi walked under it and continued to the door. The glass was frosted as he
pushed forward, making sure to dump his sledgehammer with great force into the
empty umbrella holder by the rotting newspaper dispensers.
The front desk was empty, leaving no frowning face to watch
Yoongi has he made his way up three flights of stairs and into his room. The
door squealed like a mouse trapped in the jaws of a snake, in pain and on the
verge of death.
Room 306, Yoongi was sure, was decorated like all the other
rooms in the motel: complete with an uncomfortable piece of cardboard for a
mattress and an uneven side table. Yoongi didn’t mind the un-comfort of the
place; he really didn’t even mind the faint smell of mold that tinged the air
and became trapped in his lungs. He was used to it within minutes of breathing.
He threw himself on the bed, the duvet rumpled around the
left side of the bed, exposing the sheets like innards. He’d discarded various
objects in the bed, and now he laid amongst them, closing his eyes and
pretending he wasn’t breathing; he was an inanimate object like all the rest.
He unplugged his headphones from an old disc player,
deciding that listening to music outloud would be more beneficial to his
unbeing-ness that listening to it in his head; if it was all in his head
instead of surround him, he’d be forced to dwell in the knowledge that he was,
in fact, here. He didn’t want to be here.
In fact, Yoongi didn’t want to be anywhere. He never wanted
to be anywhere ever again. Not after he’d been left hallow. Yoongi saw her
brown eyes glittering at him now, and threw his arm over his eyes with a groan.
Spring may have been a happy time to all, but Yoongi felt
cold as ice. She’d left him, and now he was wallowing in a sea of piss stained
sheets and little orange pills. He pushed play on the disc player, feeling the
classical music envelop him.
She’d loved listening to it, and she’d been the one that
made him this disc, only days before they’d parted. During long afternoons when
they were younger, Yoongi would play for her, not because he particularly
wanted to play the piano for hours on end, but instead to see the magic that
glittered in her eyes as the notes flitted around her.
Yoongi would play every afternoon away, and she would sit
atop his piano, with her legs crossed, listening. He remembered his favorite
afternoon, when her brown hair curled in a perfect, messy way around her face.
A look of confusion furrowed her brows while she listened to him.
He didn’t say anything to her, instead just simply continued
to play. It wasn’t a song he’d played for her before; in fact, he’d only just
written the song the previous night. It was the story of how they met, of how
they fell in love. Somewhere deep inside her eyes, Yoongi knew she was drawing
the puzzle pieces together; she knew what the piano’s notes meant.
A look of bliss washed over her face, pulling her eyelids
down heavy. She kept listening, her fingers stained red from the pomegranate
she’d been eating. The afternoon sun had settled, and even though the window’s
curtains were blown open, the setting was dark around her.
In that moment, Yoongi knew what love was.
In this moment, Yoongi knew how love was lost.
He’d met her swiftly, and falling for her was like falling
inside a field of flowers: plush and dynamic. He’d smiled more than he could
ever remember, and while the brown piano stayed faithfully in the corner of his
room, she’d stayed faithfully in his heart. She was his first true love; he’d
written that for her in a strung of notes played gallantly.
Now, though, she was gone. The flowers were blooming outside
as winter went, but Yoongi had never felt more dead. He felt as though ice was
eating through him, covering him layer by layer. Everything was coming alive
outside his open window: everything except Yoongi.
She’d taken every bit of him when she left, and now he was
forced to walk around alone, nothing to console him but the screams of car
The music in his disc player was building into a crescendo,
and falling just as quickly. This was metaphoric, Yoongi was sure. A banana
peel rotted beside him; a glass of stale liquor sat on his dresser. Yoongi
stuck another capsule of orange into his mouth, swallowing it dry. It burned as
it struggled on the path to his stomach.
Yoongi felt the end coming nearer for him, though try as he
might it would never fully reach its destination. He’d wake up in the morning, cotton
in his mouth and a pounding sadness in his head. He’d pushed and pushed and
pushed, and she broke her promise. She didn’t stay with him until the end.
This spring would be the hardest of Yoongi’s life. You’re a bastard, he cursed himself. The
whelps he mentally gave himself barely stung. He lifted his arm away from his
face and glanced over at the window; he never closed the curtains. His face
turned upwards, and the sun sank.