He sat there, wrists limp within a set of handcuffs, head down. The only thing supporting him was his back, pressed firmly against a cold, metal chair.
This entire picture would have accurately resembled a rag doll casted away, carelessly slumped over. He didn't mean to seem informal, but really, there wasn't much energy within to prop himself up and properly survey the scene beyond him.
"What's the name, kid?" An apathetic voice delivered from across the room. Upon hearing it, it seemed so suited to this cold environment. As if part of the scenery, he almost would have ignored it if it weren't for how much it echoed around him. He wondered if these people had once been welcoming to newcomers, asking questions kindly and reassuring them that they'd be treated well in their facilities. Or maybe they'd given up and now they were simply mundane, eager to get their jobs done and quickly push these criminals into their wretched cells.
Distantly, the voice sighed, chair scraping against the smooth floor. "Son.." It began again. "You'll have to complete these forms if you don't want trouble."
True, he'd been trouble enough. Having just caused chaos minutes earlier in an open courtroom, where he faced his unruly demise. The distant reminder of sounds; gasps and cries, the voice of the final verdict. They rendered deep into his mind. But regardless, he wasn't a rude guy. Never had been.
"Yoongi. Min Yoongi."
"Age?"
"22."
"So you really are a kid."
It proceeded like that. Simple questions about himself, his date of birth, home address, relatives to contact. Proving to be a reminder that it was indeed him who had found himself in a tight spot, unable to find his way out.
"Life sentence. Murder." The voice belonged to a middle aged bloke, skin worn and grey hair sparse. Mercilessly squeezed into a dull, beige suit. Unsurprisingly, the man fit right into this bleak atmosphere that surrounded them. He proceeded to whistle, almost as a sick validation that he was impressed. In his hands held a stamped piece of paper, presumably with the details of the sentence he had been given. Finger tracing across the surface to read every single letter. It brought Yoongi great shame to witness the man gradually formulating an opinion of him as some dangerous killer, when in reality he hadn't even witnessed a dead body in his life. At least, not before then. Briefly, he flickered his vision to the boy, face perplexed.
"Seems like big crime for a small fella, doesn't it." He tutted, seeming to be more of a statement than a question. The younger man had no intentions to answer anyway. After an exchange of looks and an uncomfortable silence, the gentleman concluded the final questions and shuffled the pieces of stray paper in a hasty fashion. It seemed clear he had no desire to stick around in this small space with a potential psychopath.
"Right." He stated, brushing himself off as he stood up.
"Mr. Min. You'll be shortly attended to, so please don't move. You should be transported to the waiting space where you'll be able to make a phone call and round up unfinished business. Any questions should be directed to the staff there." He adjusted the tie that lay slanted upon his shirt. "I'm going to submit this paperwork now."
With that, he made his exit and the light of the outside spewed into the dark room for a moment, before fading once again.
Yoongi knew he had some more time to kill. Depressing as the situation was, he didn't want to let himself spiral into an uncontrollable frenzy of anxiety and anger. He hadn't really shown much emotion since the arrest, perhaps feeding into this cold, killer image the world adorned him to be.
Killer Min. He thought. 2013's most dispassionate criminal.
The past few days had been a bit of a blur if he was honest, he'd lost a great deal of comprehension from it. But that wasn't crazy at all, in fact, none of this seemed real.
It all started from the beginning, when Yoongi had taken to the street as a young delinquent, viewing the tedious routine of student life as incapable of fuelling his innate desire for a rush of danger. Teenagers like him never really worked well with the law in the first place, rather, saw the life of the party in playing with those boundaries and pushing them to their breaking points.
However, he had originally started off enacting harmless feats, done so by entering smaller, family owned stores during the late weekday nights and surveying the scenery.
In Daegu, money had always been a bit of an issue. Many of these public services lacked proper security to stop lawbreakers from getting away. So, with good timing and experience, he eventually learnt to leave each and every store with three or four objects hidden amongst his possession. It wasn't necessarily items he wanted, but instead, random tidbits. Simply part of the thrill of stealing which fed his unusual addiction.
It truly was his drug, his high.
Eventually weekly hits became every other day. He couldn't help craving the feeling of adrenaline pumping in his blood, turning him wild. Yoongi wanted it more often, feeling less himself without it. Each victory felt like a successful hunt. This hobby was what made life truly meaningful for him.
Thinking back, he scoffed at the distant feeling. It hadn't even been this impulsive past-time that had landed him in this awful place anyway, but being blackout drunk and stumbling into the wrong place.
Celebrations came often as a hearty reward for his stealing habits, since he felt that his utter genius deserved to be praised. This often involved a visit to multiple bars dotted around the city, drinking his body weight in cheap liquor and getting thrown out for harassing the other customers. He didn't care though, it made him happy.
This particular night how ever, served merciless for his liver. The odious reek of sweaty bodies and ashy cigarettes inside had filled his lungs long enough for them to grow sick of it. Yoongi urgently stumbled out of the third bar that night, keeling over in nausea and spluttering shamelessly. Earth felt as if it were spinning at an ungodly pace, his vision blurred. All he had as support was the cold wall of the building to stop him from passing out entirely.
All he knew was: he had to get away from this area before he completely emptied his bowels onto the street pavement.
It certainly wouldn't land him any karma points.
However, the feeling was inevitable, soon he would find himself lurching the contents of his stomach ungracefully into some restaurant trashcan in a hidden spot. At least nobody would be there to witness the ordeal.
"I've got to puke, now." was all his mind could muster. His feet took him stumbling, one hand on the stained wall, the other clutched against the fabric of his shirt. This unattractive trudging continued. Eventually, upon grabbing onto solid surfaces, through his cloudy sight, he spotted a quiet space between buildings, an opening which seemed shadowed. He didn't have time to choose any other area, so he found himself fumbling.
He didn't remember much after that. In fact, there wasn't one grounded thing Yoongi could recall after passing out. Faint flashes of dim lights and the strange feeling of water running across his face and hands was all he could've made out.
The thief had truly out-pissed himself this time.
His consciousness was only returned to him when his peaceful position upon the dirty, alley ground had been forcefully disrupted to a kneeling stance by a pull of his jacket and a loud series of noises.
Sirens? Yelling? Wouldn't they just fucking shut up. He had a massive headache.
"Sir. You're under arrest. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law." Was what changed it all.
That didn't make sense at all. Murder. Of who? Who was the murderer? It wasn't until he allowed his bloodshot eyes to open, that in front of him, three feet away: lay the distinct body of a collapsed woman. That wet substance he felt against his skin earlier had not been water but blood seeping from her deep gashes, warm in its nature.
She lay stiff, a look of abhorrence etched onto her pale features as she stared back at him, butchered, lifeless.
What.
What the fuck?
"N-No." was all that left his mouth in a quiet slur, he felt the cold metal of handcuffs encase his wrists. "I didn't do this. I wouldn't do this."
Panic rapidly rose inside his chest as the reality of the situation hit him, he felt himself beginning to shake. Someone innocent had died. Somebody had lost their life right in front of where he'd collapsed.
He was going to get the blame for it.
With great brunt, he had been lifted entirely into an unstable standing position, his eyes still bore into the dead woman's face. He didn't recognize her in the slightest, she was a complete stranger. The ill feeling lurched once again within him. An actual, dead body. Real, sickening blood stained upon him in horrifying streaks, he knew there was no way they'd believe any objection he had to offer.
Right then, his overwhelmed body gave out, convulsed and nausea turned into sick, adorning the pavement with even more disgusting fluid.
"Yoongi. Min Yoongi?"
The scratched holding room door opened once again to reveal a couple of silhouettes, time had escaped him and Yoongi found he was ready to be taken through. This newfound energy from the short reminiscence left his features flushed, anticipation of what was to come engulfed him.
"That's me." He spoke.
"Yes, I know. Follow me please."
Of course, the shapes in the doorway remained planted as he allowed himself to regain his composure, blood running back to his legs as he rose. Cool air settled around him, it felt uneasy in here. He wanted to leave this compact space, he wanted to make that phone call the man from earlier had mentioned.
Outside the room seemed a lot darker than he had remembered, the walls of the halls smooth with old wood. He found himself being pushed down a stretched passageway by some policemen towards a larger opening. He wondered exactly how many evil people had walked down this very space.
Upon entering this bigger room, the darkness prevailed, stretching onwards. There sat a few odd individuals. Staff workers, absorbed in their own conversations. To the right of the space lay a smaller expanse, containing series of metal chairs. One of the officers gestured for him to sit.
"You can make a phone call if you want. It'll be the last one you make for a long time."
It was unbearably overwhelming to hear, he didn't want to lose it all right then and cry in front of these strangers. If he was going to jail, he didn't want to be seen as weak.
They wouldn't let him live if he was weak.
With that, he breathed in and hastily regained his voice.
"Yes. I do."
He bowed to them respectfully before politely declining the seat and ambling his way to the row of phones hung against the opposite wall. Idly, he rubbed at the handcuffs that dug into his skin, wincing at the friction. Min Yoongi knew he wasn't a murderer, so he had to tell somebody. Trembling slightly, he took the phone from its holder and pressed the receiver to his mouth. Each press of a button dinged into his ear as he slowly entered the number.
The only person who needed to know was-
"The person you are calling cannot come to the phone right now." A robotic voice chimed almost immediately back at him, shrill and unwelcoming. "Please leave a message after the beep." Somber. The air around him felt thick, harder to breathe as he parted his lips.
"Mom." He began, inhaling deeply. "It's me."
Yoongi never really talked to his parents after he'd left home. He'd convinced himself over time that there was this mutual understanding between them that they never wanted to see each other again. It wasn't their fault that he'd turned into this. But they weren't always the most loving of parents. Home wasn't home when he was there. It wasn't difficult to see the disappointment in their eyes every time they saw their son falter. Yoongi had once been a normal child, an avid participant in society. Happy to get on with his studies as a kid with a fruitful future and plenty of dreams. However, as he had grown older, despite his best efforts, his parents deemed him nothing but a failure.
Abuse had become second nature and eventually they grew tiresome of him.
We still love you, but you're not the smart Min Yoongi we wanted. Min Yoongi is a good, good boy who does the best in his school. You're not a winner. You're a loser.
"I don't know what they've told you. Maybe it's why you won't pick up. But you have to know it wasn't me. I wouldn't do something like this. Please believe me." This drawl persisted into the receiver, his voice abruptly reducing into nothingness.
There wasn't enough time to tell her everything. It would be miraculous if she'd listen at all. He had to tell her what he needed her to know.
"I'm still your Yoongi. I'm sorry."
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