Recap:
My brothers exchanged intense glances, their expressions shifting from concern to anger at the derogatory term used to describe their sister. The air in the cafeteria felt charged with tension as they processed the insult hurled at me.
Jungkook's jaw clenched, Taehyung's eyes narrowed, and Jimin's usually warm demeanor turned cold. It was evident they were ready to confront the situation head-on.
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( ⚠️ The included pics may be sensitive to some readers.)
Y/N POV:
In a low voice, I muttered, "I thought I was a maid, but guess what, I'm a slut as well," as I tried to stop the nosebleed with tissue, which eventually ceased.
Jungkook chuckled and teased, "Just shut up, Y/N. You may be a maid, but who knows, maybe you could be a slut." He smirked, and Taehyung added, "Nah, Jungkook, she's not enough to be a slut. But being a maid suits her."
He smiled, feigning innocence. Jimin intervened, sighing, "Babygirl, don't take them seriously; they're just messing around. We'll take care of those girls. If they bother you again, make sure to tell us, okay?"
I nodded, and they stood up, heading back to their university for a group presentation, while I returned to class and managed to get through the remaining lessons.
As the day came to an end, I headed home with my brothers. The atmosphere in the car was tense, but no one spoke about the incident. It was as if we were collectively avoiding the topic to maintain a semblance of normalcy.
I remained lost in my thoughts, wondering how long I could endure the judgments and whispers that seemed to follow me wherever I went.
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Upon returning to the mansion from school, I entered to find my mother standing near the kitchen counter. She approached me, tightly grabbing my arm, and silently led me to my room.
I refrained from saying anything, aware that my brothers were present and I wanted to avoid any unnecessary drama. My mother wore a fake smile, concealing any hint of concern or distress. Once inside my room, I freed my arm from her grip.
She then grabbed my chin harshly and followed it with a sharp slap, her frustration evident. "Y/N, just stop messing up everything. Can't you call my husband 'dad'? Huh?! He's your dad!" she exclaimed angrily, appearing like a woman unhinged. A woman who always disgusted me.
Internally, I rolled my eyes and retorted, "That's never gonna happen." She mocked me, saying, "Oh, come on, just because of your dad, huh? Just stop being a bitch and get over it. It's been at least four years since he died from cancer!"
Her words pierced through me, reopening wounds that never truly healed. The memories flooded back – my dad, weakened by illness but still assuring me of his eternal love.
As I closed my eyes, the vivid images of his struggle on the ventilator played like a haunting film. His warm smile, once vibrant, was replaced by a frailty that shook me to the core. I felt the weight of my loss, the emptiness he left behind.
My head spun, and the room felt suffocating. The air grew heavy as if my lungs couldn't take in enough oxygen. The pain of losing him surged through me, manifesting as a searing ache in my chest.
It was a pain that words couldn't describe, a void that couldn't be filled. I wanted to scream, to unleash the anguish bottled up inside me, but the reality of his absence pressed down on me like an unbearable weight.
In that moment, I stood on the precipice of breaking, the emotional storm raging within. I wanted it to end – the pain, the memories, the relentless struggle to move forward.
But as much as I desired an escape, I knew deep down that my dad's love, though lost physically, lived on in the enduring echo of his words, 'I will always love you, no matter what.'
As I looked at my mother, a torrent of emotions overwhelmed me, and I could no longer contain myself. I yelled, "Just shut up, will you? Go and fuck your husband, and leave me alone. And don't you dare utter a word against my dad."
Her response was swift – a harsh slap across my face. "Stay in your fucking limits or it'll be worse than that," she warned, the sting of her words lingering.
A call interrupted the tense atmosphere, and she answered it, sparing a final glance at me, still sitting on the floor, nursing the pain on my face.
She delivered her parting shot, "You're lucky because right now, I'm going on a business trip with your dad for a month. We'll continue this when I'm back, and it won't only be slaps, sweetheart." Mocking me, she left, leaving behind a lingering sense of dread and uncertainty.
In the midst of my turmoil, my breathing became heavy, a scream echoing within me. My brain felt like a chaotic storm, and I was on the verge of losing control. My anger and madness intensified, pushing me to the brink.
Without a second thought, I stood up, directing my gaze toward the mirror in the corner of my room. In a fit of rage, I punched it, and it shattered, the loud sound likely reaching the ears of my brothers. I didn't care about them at that moment.
My attention then shifted to the wall, and I started punching it harder and harder. The memories of moments with my dad flashed before my eyes, intensifying my fury. I could feel warm blood dripping down my hands, but in that moment of rage, I simply didn't care.
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Taehyung POV:
In the company of my brothers, we returned to the mansion after a exhausting day at university. Once indoors, I noticed Mom leading Y/N towards her room, probably for a discussion of sorts.
I nonchalantly settled onto the couch, engaging in conversation with my older brothers about a recent business deal they had secured. Jungkook chimed in, sharing details about the altercation Y/N had with those three girls – trouble awaited them.
Shortly after, Mom bid her farewell, stating, "I'll be leaving now. Seokjin, ensure you take care of everyone. Your dad mentioned we'll be away for a month." Hyung then responded, "Yes, Dad informed us. Have a safe trip." With that, she left.
In that moment, the sound of shattering glass echoed through the house, emanating from Y/N's room. Panic surged through me, and I hastily made my way to her room with my brothers trailing behind.
Upon entering, a scene of chaos unfolded – the mirror lay in pieces on the floor, blood droplets staining the shards. Y/N was furiously pounding the wall, her hands soaked in blood, leaving streaks on the wall.
Reacting swiftly, I reached for her waist, pulling her away to put an end to the self-inflicted turmoil.
I held onto her tightly, feeling the struggle in her attempts to break free from my grip. The turmoil in her eyes spoke volumes – a chaotic mix of madness and sadness, yet no tears betrayed the emotions she kept hidden or perhaps had lost altogether. Her desperate plea, "LEAVE ME!" echoed through the room, but I refused to let go.
"SHUT UP, Y/N! WHAT WERE YOU TRYING TO DO, HUH? YOU WERE PUNCHING LIKE A PSYCHO!" I shouted, frustration evident in my voice.
"YOU SHUT UP, IDIOT! AND YES, I'M A PSYCHO, SO WHAT? I'M A MAID, A SLUT, A BITCH, A BURDEN, A PSYCHO! JUST LET ME DIE!" Her final words resonated loudly, and she ceased her struggle, seemingly defeated in my arms.
In that moment, I felt her body give way, and she fell limp in my arms. The haunting words, "I can't breathe," escaped her lips in a hushed tone, and then she succumbed to unconsciousness.