Chapter Text
A clock is ticking somewhere in the distance. The sound is steady, indifferent. It’s the only thing anchoring him to time, the only proof that the world outside still exists. His stomach stopped rumbling hours ago—maybe days. Now, it feels like it has caved in entirely, as if it was never there to begin with. His skin burns, slipping away from his bones, which feel like they’re turning to dust. His lungs have long since collapsed, leaving him limp on the cold floor.
He wonders, in the haze of his fading thoughts, if his own body and soul have begun to hate him too.
Darkness. That’s all there is. It fills the room, the air, his mind. It presses in from every side, seeping into his thoughts, unraveling them like loose threads. Somewhere in the house, a clock still ticks. He knows it's the grand clock. Any minute now, the alarm will ring, a sharp, jarring sound that will mean another day has passed.
That’s how he keeps track of time. But the hunger, the pain, and the suffocating nothingness are making it harder to care. Whether it’s been a week or longer, he can’t tell.
And maybe, he thinks, it doesn’t matter anymore.
It doesn’t matter, because he deserves it. The hunger, the pain, the darkness. Every second of it. His own thoughts have always been his worst enemy, whispering the same cruel words he’s heard over and over. Worthless. Useless. Empty. They echo in his mind, relentless, each syllable cutting deeper than the last.
No one needs him. No one wants him. He’s a burden, nothing more. His parents can barely stand to look at him, their shame palpable, their disgust unwavering. They’re forced to associate with him, forced to acknowledge his existence when all they really want is to pretend he isn’t there.
Because he’s vile. Disgusting. A monster. Beomgyu himself wished he could just end it. He should have done it long ago. The thought clings to him, a whisper at first, then a scream, growing louder with every passing moment. He's imagined it in every way possible—how the blade would glide across his skin, how the cold water would fill his lungs, how the rope would tighten around his throat. He wonders which would hurt the most. Which would be the quickest. Which would leave the least mess behind.
He thinks about how it would feel—loosing his breath, his vision going blurry, the world finally fading away. Maybe he'd smile in those last moments. Maybe he'll feel at peace then, knowing there is a small chance he made his parents happy.
Because isn't that what they want? Isn't that what he deserves for being so pathetic and unwanted.
The clock stops ticking.
For a moment, everything is still. Then, a shrill alarm pierces the silence, dragging the house into another day. Beomgyu exhales a shuddering breath, his chest barely rising. His dry tongue moves to wet his lips, but it’s useless. He’s starving. Thirsty. Broken.
Forgotten. Unwanted.
No one will come to check on him today. They never do. Or maybe they will—if they remember he exists. If they decide he’s worth sparing one more time.