Hyungwon stared at the ceiling. He was lying on a thin cot, almost certainly one of identical dozens, part of a bulk order for the institution. His arms were lying flat at his sides, and he'd pushed the thin, scratchy blanket to the foot of the bed so it didn't cover him. He didn't want to feel trapped on his first night in his new prison.
His eyes were wide open, staring unflinchingly at the ceiling. Even breaths from the opposite side of the room created a rhythm for the night, the only sound to assure Hyungwon that time was indeed passing, albeit slowly. He'd ended up sharing the room with Wonho and Kihyun. He wasn't sure if it was supposed to be a permanent or temporary solution, but what difference did it make? Every boy was a stranger to him. They were all the same in that they were all unfamiliar.
It was just a bit unnerving, not that he wanted to admit it to himself, particularly because he'd always had his own room. Space, privacy, personal belongings -- but those were all gone now. Part of a world he'd been forced out of.
He wondered if his parents had kept his room the same, like the mourning parents on TV shows who haven't touched the room since the death of their child. Everything exactly the same as the child had left it; bed unmade, clothes strewn about. Dust, mounting day by day.
Hyungwon wondered if that's how his parents felt, as though their beloved son had died in some tragic and unfortunate accident, some horrifying event that had ripped him from their hands.
Only he hadn't been ripped away; they'd handed him over.
Hyungwon supposed it was for the best. He could be himself here, if he wanted. He could say as much or as little as he wanted to, and if it sounded crazy, then it was just as sane as every other utterance or conversation.
Hyungwon swallowed before lifting both of his hands up. He hesitated, the fingers curved into claws, hovering in front of his face. He couldn't see them in the dark, but he knew they were there.
After a pause measured only by three exhalations from the other side of the room, he put both hands on his neck, jolting slightly from the sudden contact of flesh on flesh.
Then he squeezed, not hard enough to fully cut off his air supply, but enough to feel the pressure on his carotids.
After several more of his roommates' exhalations, he let go, gasping suddenly as his stemmed air flow was no longer restricted.
He set his shaking hands back down by his sides and waited for the morning to come.
