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Night Highs

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The house rattled with the steady bass thump of a trap beat and the energy of the pulsating crowd seemed to bend and burst the seams of reality.

Yoongi was slumped on the couch, faded, but not quite enough to shake a lingering feeling of existential dread. Not yet anyway.

Hoseok clung onto a bottle of liquor, plopping down between Yoongi and a guy who was scraping at a line of coke on the coffee table. Yoongi couldn’t tell what kind, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. No matter how shitty, he’d drink it anyway.

Hoseok chugged a few pulls before slamming the handle into the center of Yoongi’s chest, handing it off to him, “The fuck is your problem? You’re bringing down the mood of the whole place.”

“Shut the fuck up Hobi,” He growled, taking a swig himself.

A girl danced next to the couch, drunk and lost in the song, oblivious to the way her drink sloshed dangerously in her red plastic cup. Predictably, it splashed down the entirety of Yoongi’s already seething form.

He shot up, slamming the handle on the table, “Yah bitch what the fuck,”

She visibly recoiled, eyes widening, “Oh my god, I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,”

Yoongi huffed and Hoseok grabbed his arm, hauling him away and shooting the girl an apologetic look.

“You need to calm down,” He spoke quietly, leaning toward Yoongi’s ear so he could be heard over the thumping music.

He jerked his arm out of Hoseok’s grasp, “No one has ever calmed down after being told to Hobi,

“Well damn, take a walk or something if you have to.”

That wasn’t a bad idea. The smoky air and heat from all the oscillating bodies was starting to choke the air from his lungs, each breath harder to pull in. He wasn’t sure if the air was really that smoky or if it was just anxiety pulling down on his lungs.

“Where’d Namjoon go?” He hadn’t seen him since they’d passed a bong back and forth between them on the couch sometime earlier.

“He’s over there,” Hoseok pointed to the pulsing mob in the center of the overfilled room that spilled out to the edges of the room where people attempted to talk or dry hump each other.

A girl was grinding up on Namjoon, his head thrown back, eyes closed and mouthing the lyrics in time with the rap.

He rolled his eyes. Groupies were nothing new.

They’d achieved a moderate amount of success, and desperate but determined girls just seemed to crawl out of the woodwork from every direction.

Namjoon was anything but annoyed, he seemed to be having the time of his life. Yoongi didn’t recognize the girl, but she was wildin’ tonight, grabbing up on the front of Namjoon’s pants in front of god and everyone. Namjoon smiled with his eyes and bit down on his lower lip.

Yoongi didn’t need this.

“Man I gotta get outta here or I’m gonna lose it. I’ll catch you guys later,” He spat at Hoseok, retreating abruptly.

He waded through the din of the house party and the whole scene played out in shades of grey seemingly slowing down to a crawl before speeding up to double speed. It was probably just the drugs messing with his head.

He wrestled with the doorknob to the front door, unable to open it until a confused partygoer opened it from the other side and he realized he’d been pushing on it the wrong way.

He stumbled out onto the front stoop and a T.V. smashed through an upper floor window, crashing to the ground and showering shards of glass and plastic down the street. 

He ambled aimlessly around the city without any idea where he was or where he’d end up, vision blurring at the edges. By the time his addled mind cleared up enough to notice, it left him with the perception that he’d suddenly appeared on the Mapo Bridge.

His vision warped again, causing him to stumble over his own feet. He felt numb, as though someone else was moving his body.

He held onto the railing on his right to support his body as he staggered past a statue, the street lights playing on it. There was writing on the railing, and with a sardonic laugh he remembered the purpose of the markings.

Have you eaten yet?

Doesn’t it feel good to be outside walking on a bridge?

The one that really got him, though?

Worries are nothing.

He snorted as cynically as he could manage. Who thought that one was a good idea?

He looked over the edge, decided it was as good a place as any.

He hauled himself onto the ledge of the railing and flung his legs over the side to dangle over the precipice. The river passed beneath him, unconcerned and unaffected by whether he chose to live or die and something about that was comforting, strangely enough.

The numbness resonated through his body until it seemed like the only feeling he’d ever be able to feel again. He was spiraling, the sensation swallowing him like a vortex.

He was messed up. Physically. Emotionally. Hell, spiritually too.

He wished he had some explanation for why he felt the way he did—some traumatic experience to explain how his depression had manifested.

He didn’t, though.

 Maybe it was just chemical. Maybe his serotonin was just really shit at doing its job.

He took in the last fading traces of the night sky. At night people finally got to see the world the way he always did. In greyscale.

To his annoyance, he could see the shape of the sun beginning to peek over the edge of the Han River.

He’d heard so many people talk about the beauty of a sunrise, but all he saw was a gradient of greys. Not metaphorically speaking, he was entirely colorblind. Had been for his whole life. Bitterly, he thought that it sure hadn’t helped his depression.

He didn’t like mornings.

He didn’t want the morning sun to be the last thing he saw.

He’d wait until the next time the night high brought him to the edge.

He swung his legs down.

Came face to face with an alarmed mother clutching the hand of her young daughter, clearly terrified he was about to jump right in front of them.

What were they even doing here this time of morning? Dropping her off at school? He didn’t even know what day of the week it was.

He shot her a flat expression he hoped could be interpreted as apologetic, and stumbled off into the first rays of the morning sun.