Work Text:
Again.
He is doing it again.
Yoongi is searching under his bed for one very special box.
A box that holds the passageway into his nightmares.
He finds the box, labeled "essentials" and glances at the clock.
2:13 AM.
The rest of the members are asleep, he is sure of it. He quickly makes his way into the bathroom and begins to set up.
He unloads his essentials from their box. A pack of replacement razors for his razor he uses to shave, a box of bandages and gauze, and all sorts of disinfectant creams. He lays them all out neatly on the side of the bathtub, and then he begins to strip.
His body is like a magnificent abstract painting. Covered in scars, all of different shapes and sizes. New and old cuts, all spread across his body in such a horrifying yet beautiful array of lines.
Nobody knows of his little secret. Quite surprising, if you ask him. All these years of living in the dorm and nobody has ever seen him like this. Always being the one to shower alone during their trainee days, always the one to find somewhere to change out of the sight of everyone.
Yoongi wouldn't say he is ashamed of his scars, but it really depends on the day. Some days he hates his body so much all he can do is stare at himself in disgust in the mirror, others he finds his body as a map of all his inner struggles.
Yoongi sits in the bathtub, all of his supplies ready for him to indulge in his madness, his sickest habit. He wipes off his thighs quickly with a disinfectant wipe and begins his work. Searching for clear patches of skin, and sometimes just reopening scars, the bathtub soon fills with red. The entire tub get painted red, and Yoongi can't find himself to care.
Some people smoke, others do drugs. Some people aren't even self destructive and can find healthy ways to cope.
Not Yoongi.
He has to slice himself open, he has to find the most blunt object and fill his body with bruises. He has to burn himself with his lighter he always keeps on him. He has been doing this since he was twelve years old. It's all he knew to do.
He didn't really have a reason the first time he ever decided to slice his skin open. He was just... fascinated. The first time he ever cut himself was barley a cut at all, just a few layers of skin that he would pull up to look at the pink layers below. Over time, they just got bigger and deeper.
If you ask him why he still does it, he won't have an answer. "It's just an addiction," he would say. He wouldn't be entirely lying, but it is the only reasoning he has. His life has always been good, besides the occasional highs and lows. His life as a child was pretty wonderful. He has a loving and caring family who supported his interests. But mental illness really can't be controlled.
It isn't his fault he has depression, right? That he has such severe anxiety, right? He doesn't know why this is the only solution for him, all he knows is how good it feels.
He is done for the night and has taken a shower to clean his body and the tub, and has taken care of all disinfecting. Both his arms are wrapped in bandages and his thighs are covered in all sorts of different bandaids and wraps to stop any bleeding. He may have gone a bit too far tonight. It didn't matter to him, though.
He got dressed and went back to his room. He fell asleep fairly quickly, exhausted. He was satisfied with the destructive session.