Why We Burn

Why did I set my house on fire? I didn't know. Maybe it was because of my dead family. Maybe it was because of my long gone friends. Maybe it was just the loneliness of it all. But I made my decision the day I punched Jungkook. Hard. His body flew across the room and slammed into the wall. I could see a thin stream of blood pouring from his shoulder . Good. Of course, I didn't want him dead, but Jungkook had done something I could never forgive him for and he needed to remember it until the day he died. Until the very last day. I stood there for a while, sweating and huffing as a pool of gleaming red blood formed beneath Jungkook's limp body. He was breathing, but only barely and I knew that if his wounds weren't managed he would bleed out and die right here in the middle of my living room. I didn't want that to happen. I didn't need another corpse in this house. Especially not Jungkook's. So I did the only thing left to do: I helped him. Even though I'd caused Jungkook to be hurt, even though I punched him on purpose, the sight of him in pain almost made me cry. Almost. I half walked, half crawled towards him and tapped his good arm.

"Jungkook?" I whispered, my voice puncturing he deafening silence that had settled around us. He stirred slightly and tried to sit up. I pushed him back down. In his current state, sitting up would only make things worse. My hand lingered on his shoulder and I could see the blood had already started to stain my fingers. I instantly felt a pang of regret and guilt for punching my closest friend and started thinking up a plan of action. First, I needed to stop the blood. I searched around the musty room and grabbed a couple of my old shirts. Just as I secured the first shirt on Jungkook's arm, I saw it was already soaked through with his blood. What have you done, Yoongi? my mind asked. I pushed the thought away and tried to focus on the present. My hands reached for another shirt and it soon became a repeating pattern. Get a shirt. Hold it on the wound. Wait for the fabric to soak up the blood. Switch shirts. I'd already gone through at least half of my original shirt pile when suddenly Jungkook's face contorted in pain and a weak whimper escaped his little mouth. "It's alright, Jungkook. Hyung's here for you..." I said, hoping I sounded at least somewhat reassuring. The little sounds of agony continued so I figured I should stop touching his wound. I secured a final plaid shirt on his upper arm and started tending to the small scratches on Jungkook's arm. Where did he get these from? I wondered. It couldn't have occurred just now because there was nothing that would cause so many tiny yet deep cuts. Surely they weren't self-inflicted... Jungkook was such a cheery little bunny... right? I pulled a pack of plasters out of my pocket and carefully started to place them on the cuts. If they really were there because of self-harm, why? Why did Jungkook do this to himself? Why didn't he tell me? In my daze, I hadn't noticed what the little plasters were decorated with. A cookie and a pink bunny with matching eyebrows. My heart started to beat faster. A red, heart-shaped creature. Oh god. A blue koala and a little horse. The last two plasters inside the pack were decorated with what I'd already expected: a fluffy, white alpaca and a dog in a yellow hoodie. A single tear dropped onto my cheek. Why was it that the only plasters I had left were the ones that symbolised my friends, my members. I saw it as a sign. A sign that meant we really were never getting back together. A sign that meant I was alone in this world. Where did those playful memories from the past go? My mind wandered, almost spiralling into a never ending loop of questions. But then I remembered the half dead man that lay before me. I shook my head, surprised at the sudden push of memories and sadness. It was as if the feelings I'd spent years trying to bury were finally resurfacing. I pressed the back of my hand against Jungkook's sweaty and bloody forehead. No temperature, no fever. At least that was good. At least he wasn't going to die after I was gone. I waited next to Jungkook, hoping he'd wake up. My hand instinctively stroked his soft cheek. I needed to remember this. The one and only reason I had kept on going for this long. If it wasn't for Jungkook, I would've left a long time ago. 

I waited. The clock ticked. I waited some more. Then I decided: if Jungkook's last memory of me was going to be my fist coming for his stomach, then so be it. I stood up slowly and lifted his fragile body. So young, and already he'd gone through so much. I carried Jungkook to the hallway and laid him down next to the brown piano. In the corner of my mind, a memory emerged. It was me at six years old, playing the white, jade-like keyboard. My hands moved swiftly among the keys. Then the memory changed. Now there were two people sitting on the wooden stool in front of the piano. Jungkook and me. For a second, after visualising this memory, I contemplated whether or not I should've done was I was going to do. But then my shattered heart got the best of me and I carried on. I walked back to the living room slowly, as if I was in a trance. I remembered the screams of my sister when she found out our mother was dead. I remember screaming myself when I saw the rope on the ceiling lamp and this time, my sisters body attached to it. No one was going to scream for me. Because they weren't there for me anymore. I had no one. Not even my members who had practically been my brothers for so long. So I guess that's why I set my house on fire. And burned down with it.