All Alone

When Jungkook was young, he used to look down at the small outline of a square on his wrist, imagining the inside filled with color rather than just the empty space of skin. He would look at his parent’s wrist, at the pure white that filled his father’s square, and think of all the people he could save as a doctor. He would see the orange on his mother’s wrist and imagine being intelligent enough to calculate all the numbers his mother ran through as an accountant.

Jungkook would dream of his wrist covered in yellow, his body clad in a firefighter’s uniform, as he rushed into a burning home. Sometimes his wrist would be purple, wire frame glasses on his face as he stood in front of a group of university students at their desks, explaining the process of mitosis.

Jungkook always believed he would make his parents proud regardless of what color painted his skin when he turned eighteen. He stayed up until midnight the night of his eighteenth birthday, sitting with his hand laying on his lap facing up towards him. He stared so intently at the square that everything started to blur.

When the clock hit 12:00, Jungkook grabbed his cellphone, clicking on the flashlight and pointing it at his wrist. Saying he was confused would be an understatement. The square on his wrist gained no color, the skin underneath being the only thing to color the inside of the square. Confusion changed to crippling fear as Jungkook rushed off of his bed, stumbling out of his room and down the hall to the bathroom.

He locked the door behind him, switching on the light. He grasped his right wrist, bringing it up towards his face as he angled the appendage towards the light.

After seeing that there was still no color, Jungkook began to wonder if maybe his birthday was wrong. That could explain the lack of color. Right?

Jungkook’s breath became labored, tears stinging his eyes. He began to rifle through the different drawers, pulling out a pack of his mother’s makeup wipes. He began to scrub at his skin, maybe the color was hidden under makeup he didn’t remember putting on. He scrubbed and scrubbed until his skin was bright red and raw, but still no color.

Jungkook dropped the wipe, sinking to the floor as the tears fell, bringing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He took in shaky breaths, his fingernails digging in the soft skin of his arms. He sat on the cold floor for hours, unconsciously scrubbing at his wrist as the tears dried uncomfortably on his face.

The sound of the coffee machine turning on downstairs pulled Jungkook out of the cold, depressing spell he was put under. He slowly removed himself from the tile floor, heaving himself upwards with his hand gripping the sink’s ledge.

He shoved all the discarded items, including the makeup wipes, back into their corresponding drawers. He spotted one of his father’s wrist sweatbands (which he rarely used due to his busy schedule keeping him from actually exercising) and quickly slid it over his wrist. He splashed some cold water onto his face, hoping to lessen the redness of his eyes enough so he could pass it off as not enough sleep.

It took Jungkook another five minutes to summon the courage to open the bathroom door, slipping into his bedroom to change out of his pajamas before heading downstairs to face his parents. He had withered it down to the last second, only minutes before he usually left the house for school, avoiding his parents as best as he could. He searched through the pantry for a granola bar, settling on the next best option when he couldn’t find one: a Pop-Tart.

He shoved the package into his backpack, snagging a water bottle from the fridge before hurrying to put on his shoes. He had just slipped the sneakers onto his feet, stumbling down the hall towards the front door as he grabbed his coat and keys, when the door opened.