#don't mind this stream of consciousness i'm just trying to get back in my taehyun groove

[taekangs]

the bottom is a rock.

when: 2019, post building burning where: an unknown police station

cause your life go by and your life go fast, if you’re gonna wanna fly, you’re gonna have to crash.

it’s almost peaceful, in a way. hitting rock bottom.

the cell door bars are cool under taehyun’s sweating palms. he can feel his pulse thrumming against them, a constant bahdum going at a speed that’s probably too fast. he’s had a lot of liquor, a lot of nicotine, a lot of adrenaline and a lot of uppers coursing through his veins tonight and the near painful cold of the metal is soothing. his hands were (are) burning as were (are) his eyes and lungs and nose and brain and-

he smells the smoke laced in his clothes like it’s a new cologne, heady and deep. it’s in his hair, the scent and the ash, and when he runs his fingers through the strands, they come back slightly more grey than they were before. on the one hand, it reminds him of being young and going on summer vacations. the bright blaze searing it’s way into his mind. the crackling sound mixed with waves and laughter and stories from different generations. the smoke lingering on a marshmallow that’s a little too cooked. the warmth slowly leaking away after the fire has been properly put out and everyone heads to bed. it was the same way tonight, too. 

taehyun’s mind has gone blank. vaguely, in the distance, he can hear other people around him over the roaring in his ears. over the blood drumming a steady beat, rhythmic and grounding. his eyes find a spot on the tile floor beneath him, cheap and white and specked with either dirt or blood, and his eyes never leave the spot. he’s not blinking. his mind is racing and coming to a screeching halt and then starting the process over again but he’s still not blinking. 

his jaw hurts. why does his jaw hurt? he runs a hand over the joint and pushes down too hard, feeling pain singe through his teeth up to his temple before pulling his fingers away. he does the same on the other side. he blinks this time, though. it forces him to take his gaze from the floor and to fixate on something else. how about the clock this time? 

the clock is no good. the clock makes his skin crawl, feel too tight on his bones, too hot too hot too hot. the ticking picks up and he can hear it over the ringing in his ears, over his pulse that’s speeding up, over every single fucking sound that he can hear in the station. the clock is going too slow, taehyun knows it is, because there’s no way that he’s only been here for twenty-three minutes and nineteen (twenty, now) seconds. 

he needs water. he should probably drink some water but that would mean leaving the cool bars under his palms even if they are warm now anyway. he tries to open his mouth to speak but his throat feels raw, scratched and torn to shreds from too much intentional and non-intentional smoke that he breathed in. he minds wanders for a second to think about how much damage they actually did, how much money it would take to sweep this under the rug like parents have been doing for their children for ages. he thinks he probably has enough. it’s not like any one died. 

except now, in the present day, someone did die. it’s too dramatic but when has taehyun ever not had a flair for dramatics? the kang taehyun from before was long gone and had probably been dead for longer than they really knew. gone was the taehyun that thought his parents would always be proud of him, that he was a good kid who looked out for others and made sure things got done right. now all taehyun does is wonder if he really is good or if it’s just a front to try and become who he used to be. imposter syndrome and all that. now taehyun just wants to coast by, still feeling a little bit broken and a lot bit angry. 

but when you hit the bottom, there’s only two ways to go: you can pull yourself up or dig yourself even further down to a place where you don’t recognize yourself. fingers crossed he doesn’t get out a shovel.