I Just Wanted To Feel

                                    

                                          
( Warning: Discussion of self-harm, childhood abuse, and depression )
Not aware that Faith and Hope had left, Yoongi slips in and heads to his studio. He grabs the bracelet from the shelf, puts it in his pocket, and then looks for you.
About to go to his room, looking for him, you see him in the living room.
You take a deep breath of courage and meet him there. As you approach him, you start pulling off your bracelets one by one and start speaking.
"My scars, you recognized what they were when you first saw them."
Before you got help, you reached a point where you couldn't feel unless it was pain. You lower your head in shame, and he gently lifts it back up.
"Talk to me," he tenderly pleads.
"Self-harm felt more like self-healing to me. Well, I didn't feel much of anything then. Pain made me feel alive because I could still feel something. I went through the motions of daily living like an automaton. I didn't want to die, I just wanted . . . I don't know." With tears in your eyes, you look up at Yoongi.
Yoongi sits with you on the couch, holding your hands, his thumb softly caressing your wrists.
"Go on, Bree. I'm listening, and I understand. Do you believe me?"
"Yes."
"Then go on, Bree, I know there is more."
"My parents didn't understand and kept me grounded or punished me by locking me in my room without dinner, 'Till you get over it,' they would tell me. They threatened to send me to a home for wayward girls if I didn't start being . . ." you say with disdain, "their little 'ray of sunshine' again. They never knew their little ray of sunshine would never shine again."
Tears slowly run down your face as you know the worst part to tell Yoongi is coming.
"Why? What happened?" his concern is evident on his face; he was sincerely worried about you.
You shift uncomfortably, "My unc . . . my  . . ." You look away. You can't face him for fear of seeing loathing in his eyes. What you're about to say will make him hate you and never want you as his girlfriend, probably no longer as a friend either.
"Yoongi, I lost my virginity when I was 12. My parents found out I was pregnant. I wanted to keep my baby because I knew the baby would love me and need me. No one else did. One night, my stepfather pushed me down the stairs. I was only four months along at the time, and I lost the baby. They tried to get me to tell them who the father was. They beat me, starved me, but I never told them it was my uncle."
He lets go of your hands. "Why the hell not?" he asks in confusion.
"He threatened he would do the same to my little girl cousins if I told. He said if I didn't let him, let him keep, keep doing that to me, he would do it to them instead." With tears choking your throat, you tell him, "They were only five and seven years old."
Yoongi, with tears in his eyes, jumps up and storms off to his room. You feel crushed, destroyed when you hear his bedroom door slam shut. 
I've lost him. He hates me now. I can't blame him.
You stand outside his door silently crying, breaking inside, but you must tell him goodbye. You are about to knock. Your raised hand is just inches away from the door when you hear muffled cursing and glass shatter. Startled, you try the knob, the door isn't locked, and you open it enough to peer inside.
You see him start to pour a tumbler of whiskey, then stop. He proceeds to drink straight from the bottle. He turns when he hears you gasp.
He puts the bottle down and advances rapidly towards you, stepping over a broken tumbler and spilled whiskey. You start to retreat in fear, but then he reaches you. He grabs you, pulls you into his embrace, and starts sobbing. He drops to the floor with you in his arms. His body is racked with sobs.
With tears flowing down your face, you kiss his cheek, begging him, "Please don't cry. I'm sorry for upsetting you. I will call a ride and go home. I just wanted to tell you goodbye."
He heaves a couple of breaths to stop sobbing as he is completely bewildered, "Why would you leave me? Why are you telling me you're sorry?"
His anger at your family and what happened to you tore his heart to shreds, and he had to leave the living room before he lost it. It brought back memories of his own abuse at the hands of so called trusted family members. After holding onto each other for an unknown amount of time, he stands, pulling you up with him.
"Bree, you have done nothing wrong, nothing. Do you hear me?"  He wipes his tears on his sleeve.
He gently lifts your face so you can see his eyes and tells you again, "You did nothing wrong."
You sniffle and tell him, "Now you know everything about me and why I can't be your girlfriend. I'm damaged goods." 
You hang your head, and the tears slowly fall to the floor. You see him step away from you, confirming your thoughts that he doesn't want you. But he comes right back, taking your hand and putting a glass in it.
"You need this as much as I do. And never let me hear you call yourself damaged goods again."
You look at him confused, hold the glass up, and watch the amber liquid glisten in the room's light.
"Whiskey?" you ask for clarification.
"Yes. It's good for the soul and the heart."
 He lifts the bottle, and since the only glass left is in your hand, he taps it with the bottle.
"Here's to numbing the pain."
You both drink, and as you talk, the bottle empties. He asks you to sit on the bed with him while he explains about his scar. With tears, you move closer and ever so softly, reverently kiss the length of his scar. You hear his sharp intake of breath.
"Your kisses always take my breath away, and right now," he tenderly caresses your cheek, "I don't want to breathe."
He pulls you under him and kisses you like a man starving for sustenance. You return the passion and kisses in kind. Your heart, soul, and mind are finally filled with what you've been living without . . . Love.
Could this really be happening to me? I never want to let go. You softly sigh as he trails kisses down your neck to your wrist and then again on the other side.