CAPTIVE | JIKOOK

Awake for Good

The loud steady siren blares in the small space, bouncing harshly off the walls and into his ears. His eyes are suddenly wide open; it takes more than a moment for his sight to adjust and longer for his brain to adjust. The long loud pitch is deafening, it rings louder in his head than it does around the room.

The siren slowly lowers in pitch as it gradually ends and finally stops. He hears movement to his right and remembers snippets of the night. The two men, the third person they left behind. Slowly he turns his head, the lesson of the last time he moved too quickly burnt in his memory.

The one they had left on the floor is stirring; their movements seem concentrated and heavy. They are where he remembers them being dropped the night before, curled on their side facing away from him. They are wearing what looks to be a prison jumpsuit in a toneless gray, the back of the top has palm-sized rips in places, the edges of which are tinged brown. He can only assume blood and he was sure this was the fate that was also waiting for him as well.

With their back to him, they rock back and forth on their side, trying to will themselves into an upright position. They somewhat succeed and wearily crawl into a position on their hands and knees. Their shaggy black mated locks drag on the floor as their head hangs languidly down, unable to pick it up.

He watches as they hold the floor to steady themselves and put one bare foot on the floor, securing the ground beneath them before placing the other beside the first, then they push up from the ground. They are unsteady on their feet. That much is more than clear.

They pull the gray top up and over their head to reveal long jagged welts and cuts. Half of them look fresh while others look older, with bright pink skin almost covering new scars. They are also covered in burses of all sizes and shapes and in a variety of colors, some so dark they were black, others a sickening shade of green or yellow. They remove their trousers next to reveal long muscular legs and... male, this person is most definitely male.

He stumbles across the room, to a curious corner. The corner of the room was partially sectioned off, cement blocks rose to knee height in a quarter circle. He steps inside of it and stands in the center with a hand on each of the walls supporting himself, his back muscles tense.

Then the purpose of the compartment reveals itself as the water fell from an unseen faucet head embedded in the ceiling. He visibly cringes and hisses as the water hits his skin, presumably from the pain of having wounds washed out. He washes his body, and from some unknown shelf pulls a small bar of soap running it quickly over his body with shaking hands. The foam which is white on his shoulders is tinged orange by the blood from his wounds when it reaches his back. He rinses the foam off of his body and tilts his face into the stream as the water subsides.

He turns and faces the other direction reaching for his discarded clothing using it as a towel he dries his body. His movements are lethargic and continue to be heavy. His face and chest are just as mangled as his back. Both are covered in bruises, welts, and gashes. The raven-haired does not see him on the bed; he is not looking for him. If he had turned his eyes up and a little more to the right he would see him lying immobile on the bed but he doesn't. Instead, he stumbles towards the door but stops halfway across the room staring at what he sees on the floor.

There are two trays of food that were pushed through the trap door one right after the other. Two bundles of toneless gray lay waded up on the floor next to the two trays. The raven-haired stands unsteadily on his feet staring. Then slowly his eyes travel around the room, searching for something that would explain the two trays. His eyes stop once they reach the bed.

He blinks from his position on the bed staring at the bruised, wounded, and naked man in front of him. They just blink at one another.

The standing man rushes forward to him, kneeling on the floor near the bed. He flinches a little as the naked man gets up too close and personal, putting his excited face only a hand with his own.

"I helpu hew," he says with a heavy American accent.

He slowly attempts to sit up. The bruised man helps pull him into a seated position and steadies him when he begins to waver with the head rush.

"I helpu hew," the raven-haired man says again.

He slowly blinks trying to clear his head of the head rush and the wave of nausea. He swallows the bile which had risen up and clears his throat. Licking his lips he tries to remember his school English. "nae yeong-eoga johji anh-a." He says, proud that he can remember anything with his brain full of rocks.

The bruised man looks horrified and slaps a hand over his companion's mouth. "No!" he says emphatically shaking his head. "No Angleash!"

Confused he nods and the hand is removed from his mouth.

"I ahm Jungkook," Jungkook says with carefully practiced Korean.

"I am Jimin," Jimin decides to copy his companion's sentence. He doesn't know how good Jungkook's Korean skills are and so decides that simple is better if not for Jungkook than for Jimin.

Jungkook pauses to think, searching for words. Jimin uses the time to study Jungkook's face. There is a deep purple bruise in his right eye socket, with a small cut on his eyebrow above the bruise. And a fading yellow bruise on his opposite cheek. His bottom lip is fat with a cut that splits the lip and there is bright pink skin peeking through the rips.

"Mye Korian ies nout so goot," Jungkook begins his practiced speech, "so dey say dhat hew calm teach I," he says as he points to the door.

"They said I came to teach you?" Jimin asks confused.

"Teach hew, yhes!" Jungkook nods triumphantly.

Jimin gapes at Jungkook, "What the fuck?" he says in a barely audible whisper. He was kidnapped to teach some American kid Korean? He was trapped in a room with someone who might have answers but couldn't communicate them to him. They couldn't even piece together a conversation using English. But why?

Jimin started breathing hard as he tried to understand. No English, only Korean and he was supposed to teach him. Why Korean? This kid, who seemed like he might be the same age as him, was most likely American-Korean with the bare minimum of the language down and looked completely beaten up. Was this what his future held? Captivity and bad Korean? His head suddenly hurt more then he realized. He wet his lips with his dry tongue.

"Woah!" Jungkook exclaims as he reaches out to steady Jimin. Jungkook pops up from beside the bed and grabs up a glass of water from one of the trays then positions it at Jimin's lips.

"Drougs, batd. Bawder..." He pauses to try and think of the correct word, hum-ing, and ha-ing clearly unable to figure out a word, and settles on, "goot."

Jimin drinks from the cup in Jungkook's hand. Jungkook waits until he looks like he's satisfied with Jimin's stability before he walks over to the bundles of gray. He pulls on the trousers and pulls the top over his head. Then comes back and settles on the bed with Jimin, letting his shoulder and thigh rest against Jimin's.

To Jimin, this feels very intimate. He doesn't know Jungkook. He doesn't have any answers except 'no English.' Jungkook is not comforting his worry. But he is warm and his new concrete home is cold.

Jimin sighs in defeat and holds up a finger. "One," he says.

Jungkook turns his head and looks at him unsure.

Jimin holds up a second finger. "Two," he says.

Jungkook looks as if he's starting to catch on. "Tdwo," he says while holding out two fingers.

"Three."

"Tree."

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nae yeong-eoga johji anh-a ~ My English is not good