chapter 1

Jungkook sits still, watching the falling snow dance outside the small glazed window of his room. There is no way to open this small window, and the "glass" is practically unbreakable, believe that. The glass is tinted a muddy brown color, partially due to prolonged use, but mostly because the hell-hole he's trapped in doesn't bother equipping their patients with somewhat decent living environments. In fact, each room appears the exact same. Same grey colored walls which you can seemingly stare at for hours. And the white floors stained with unknown marks or littered with scratches that come daily from no cause. They designed this place to lose yourself in. To completely and utterly disorient yourself from comfort and familiarity, instead being replaced by taunting walls. Painfully bland. Why do they wish to remind me of every aspect in my life? he thinks.

Can they see into my mind?

Don't be silly Jungkook, he tells himself. Get a grip. These people wouldn't be able to read him if they tried. They won't be able to pry anything from him.

It's been well over two years since Jungkook was admitted into Gatefields Mental Institution. Keeping track of his attendance, he decided, was pointless nowadays. It's not like he intends to stay there forever, but he just can't envision himself leaving. This place, as bad as it is, feels like home. Probably because it is, of course. When you think of home, you think of a safe place, and one where you've lived your best life. This is it, I guess.

Jungkook flinches when he hears a knock at his door.

"Jeon Jungkook-ssi, breakfast. You're ten minutes late already. Come before we have to write you up for your behavior, again." 

He sighs, and first ponders on whether or not he actually cares if he is written up or not. Supposedly, earning Good Behavior Points! can limit the amount of time you have to stay at the hospital or not. He's seen it, too. Plenty of people come, smile, and leave months later. But is it really worth the effort to act your best self, just to leave and face your misfortunes yet again?

"Jungkook, I won't be asking again." 

Jungkook wasn't hungry, but it doesn't really matter. He supposes it would be better idea to leave his room anyways. There's nothing especially exciting about it, after all. So he lifts himself up from his practically cardboard-feeling mattress and walks towards the door. They aren't allowed to have mirrors in their public bathrooms in hopes to avoid "destructive thoughts", so he guesses that his appearance doesn't really matter. Everyone here looks like a mess anyways, he thinks.

Jungkook opens the door and slips past the frustrated nurse, not saying a word while making quick eye contact before looking away. Best not to deal with that.

He walks away from the woman at a moderately slow pace, looking down at his grey hospital socks, and noting how the sole of his feet stick to the floor with every step because of the special protection added at the bottom, to avoid slipping. It truly is comical how even socks seem to make a better effort to take care of their patients, Jungkook criticizes.

God, these people make me sick.

A two minute walk past endless rows of hallways eventually leads him to the institution's cafeteria, where he scans over the faces of tens of patients. Most of them have found a common group, or at least made a friend or two. Self organization truly is fascinating, he thinks. Even in this God-forbidden area, people manage to make friends. Ridiculous.

Jungkook scowls to himself while walking to the bar to collect his platter for breakfast. He scans his eyes over the trays and quickly picks out the cleanest one he can see. It's a nightmare to attempt to use sanitary precautions in a place like this, but he deals.

The food options for the morning include various fruits and cereals, all of which are probably borderline rotten or stale. Jungkook scoffs and picks up an apple with the least amount of marks, sets it on his tray, and makes his way to find a seat. Always the fun part of his day when he has no actual friends to sit with, he says in his mind.

He makes his way through the tables while keeping his eyes diverted solely on the ground in front of him, being careful to not trip. He sees an open table in his peripherals and increases his pace to make his way to the table as soon as he can, already sick and embarrassed to be having to walk alone. It's a constant question to why he feels this embarrassment when he is the one who refuses to converse with anyone. But then he reminds himself, this is the way he likes it. Why would he even want to be friends with the crazy people here anyways? He is one of the few people who is actually sane here, and he wouldn't want to compromise that.

He eats in isolation, feet directly parallel with each other on the floor, gaze directed on the empty seat across from him, and then to his left and right. He lifts one side of his mouth into a barely noticeable smirk without even realizing it. He likes the idea of being alone today. Some days less than others, but today, feeling lonely is empowering. He'd like to think that people don't make an effort to talk to him because he is intimidating, which is nice, he guesses. He wouldn't want to talk to anyone, anyways.

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