in celebration of my two 100% scores in history, here's another imagine for you all

WORTHLESS

- in which jimin finds out that you live with an abusive father; trigger warning

Dread crawls up your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake as your hands begin to tremble. You clench them into tight fists by your sides, staring at the front door to your house as if it's the source of all evil.

And it very well could be for what's behind it is worse than anything that hell could possibly conjure up.

You heave in a deep breath of the icy air outside, ignoring the way it chills your insides and makes you crave the warmth of your blankets, your hands unclenching their fists to hesitantly wrap around the knob of the door.

Your mind screams at you to stop and run before you make a grave mistake, but you can't keep running from the things that keep you up at night.

Gently, you twist the knob and stick your head in from around the corner, your breath hitching in your throat as the vile scent of alcohol and sweat immediately sticks to your clothes and skin; making your nose scrunch up in distaste.

He's home.

The thought allows a bone chilling fear to rest upon your shoulders; your breathing getting heavier as you silently shut the door behind you and slip your shoes off, tucking your trembling hands into the worn out pockets of your jacket.

"Y/N, is that you?"

You flinch, your heart rate increasing as you pick up on the obvious slur in his question and the way each word holds an angry resentment to your being. Stifling a sob of fear, you don't say a word and continue to silently move throughout the house; knowing that if you get into your room, you'll be somewhat safe.

Just a few more steps.

"I asked you a question," you hear from behind you, your posture straightening as you freeze in the middle of the hallway, vision blurring with unshed tears. Soon enough, you feel a hand drop onto your shoulder, nails digging into your skin as the grip gets tighter, forcing you to turn in an attempt to rid yourself of it.

You manage to get him to release you, a small sounding whimper escaping from your throat before you even have the chance to stop it. The corners of his dry lips lift up into a smirk, the mouth of the bottle of rancid beer he holds pressing against them as he chuckles drunkenly.

"Look at you," he hums, grabbing onto a lock of your hair before you can move out of the way. "You think you're so important, huh?"

He tugs harshly on the lock, the action making you wince as the sting from him pulling at your scalp causes the hot tears building up in your eyes to cascade down onto your cheeks.

"You think you can ignore me? Your father?" He hisses, gritting his teeth together as he carelessly tosses his bottle to the floor, not even flinching when it crashes onto the hardwood floor and sends pieces of glass skidding across the hallway.

You, however, react to the sound, your eyes squeezing shut as he runs a cold hand down the side of your face with a menacing laugh.

"You'll regret what you did, princess," he warns, pinning you against the wall in one move, your breath suddenly ripped from your lungs painfully as a grunt falls from your lips at the sheer force of your back hitting the solid plaster behind you.

"Please," you beg in a breathless whisper, clawing at the arm that presses against your chest to hold you against the wall desperately. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry hasn't saved you before, so why would it now?" He jokes darkly, grabbing a fistful of your hair to throw your head back into the wall, the groan of pain that follows shortly after enough to spur him on to continue.

While you're mildly disoriented from the hard blow to the back of your head—your head lolling about as the world around you spins—he pushes a knee up into your chest, grinning when you begin to wheeze from the lack of air in your lungs, doubling over into his arms.

"We're not done yet, bitch," he mutters, pushing you back up against the wall as if you weigh nothing, only to send you back down again with a punch to your jaw. You hit the floor with a cry of unbearable pain, your mouth filling with a copper tang that you're all too familiar with. He stares down at you with no remorse, finding satisfaction in the way your body shakes with fear and the way your voice breaks with each plead for him to stop.

However, the satisfaction he gets from inflicting this pain upon you is more rewarding than any reaction he'll ever get out of you.

He crouches down to press his fingers into an old bruise on your now slightly exposed hip, your shout of pain falling upon deaf ears as he continues to dig his fingers into your skin mercilessly.

"I've made you so beautiful," he mutters, standing to his full height as he watches you squirm and press a hand to your bruise as if that alone will soothe the throbbing. "Look at the purples, blues and greens of your bruises and just how well they match your skin."

You whine out in discomfort, curling into yourself in an attempt to reduce the amount of pain you experience but the action only makes it worse, your body feeling as if it's on fire.

"No-one else but me would find them beautiful," he chortles, kicking a leg into your side as you choke on the air that was just beginning to fill your system with little sparks of energy. "Because you're worthless to everyone out there. You're just a waste of space and time."

He sends his other leg into your chest, kicking you so hard that your back smacks against the wall with an almost deafening thud. You limply roll onto your chest, sobbing despite each part of your body protesting against every movement. You flinch when you feel a hand press against the top of your head, hot breath fanning your ear unpleasantly,

"I'm going out for drinks now and I won't be back until later. Fuck anything up and you'll regret it," he threatens, purposely pushing against your back to steady himself as he stands. "I love you."

"Love you too," you whisper in return, those three empty words like poison as they monotonously fall from your lips, your eyes burning with the amount of tears that continue to roll down your cheeks.

Choosing to avoid the risk of injuring yourself more, you decide to keep yourself on the floor until he leaves, your head throbbing endlessly as the rest of your body slips into an almost relieving state of numbness.

Never has it felt so good not to feel.

Soon enough, you hear the front door slam shut, a comforting silence settling over the house, replacing the dark cloud of fear that often hovers over what is supposed to be your family home.

Cursing under your breath, you use the wall as your support and attempt to push yourself up to stand, involuntarily letting out a strangled scream as you twist your middle to help you gain balance. Pausing, you close your eyes to block out the sight of the world in front of you spinning, taking shallow breaths as the dizziness makes your headache worse.

Eventually, you stand with your back against the wall, your lips stretched out into a grimace as you wait out the sudden influx of pain. Once it subdues enough for you to be able to move, you stumble into your bedroom, weakly locking the door behind you and taking an exhausted seat at your dresser.

It hurts you to look at yourself, your bottom lip quivering as you assess the damage done to your face; your jaw several shades of a sickening purple and your cheeks stained red from the hot tears that fell endlessly during the attack.

Looking away before you loathe yourself more than you already do, you allow your hand to drift to the hem of your shirt, carefully lifting the thin material so that it hovers over your skin as if it may just kill you if it touches the obvious injuries you possess.

Although you expected your chest to look like an abstract art piece painted in the colours of your torturous suffering, you can't help the gasp of shock that echoes in your embarrassingly empty room as you expose enough of your skin to see what your father has done.

Old bruises mix with new and you realise just how horrifying it is to admit that it was your father, a man who you're supposed to look up to, that did this to you.

For five years, you've kept your head down and taken the abuse silently, swearing on everything that you deserve every bit of the inhumane treatment you receive.

After all, it's your fault that your mum left in the middle of the night and never came back. It's your fault that your dad then resorted to drinking in an attempt to rid himself of the horrible feeling that the heartbreak gave him. It's your fault that you remind your father of your mother and let yourself be the punching bag that he can use to take his anger out on.

It's all my fault.

I just wish there was someone to tell me otherwise.

Weakly, your gaze drifts back up to meet the broken one of your reflection, the corners of your lips flicking up into a humourless smile at the thought—one that's so gentle and innocent—that prettily flits into your mind and then disappears as quickly as it came.

How much sweeter would your life be if you had that constant reminder that you aren't at fault for anything or even that you mean more than what your dark thoughts tell you that you do.

How much safer would you feel if you had someone, anyone, that you could go to whenever the hell that is your life gets too much so that they can help you pick up all the broken pieces that you pointlessly drag behind you.

Just imagine; if I had someone who loved me, I wouldn't be sitting here, wishing that I were dead.

But who would want to do that?

I am worthless, after all.

*

You allow your thick hair to fall over your face, hoping that it covers the poorly hidden bruise on your cheek and the ugly cut on your bottom lip that's painted over with a soft shade of pink. You plaster a fake smile to your face, regretting every step you take for each one creates a new tendril of pain that wraps around your lungs and squeezes the air mercilessly out of you.

You find yourself craving the comfort that your soft and cushioning bed provides you, your trembling limbs aching for the warmth and gentle security you get from being in your room.

However, there's a flaw to your desires; a reason why you can only dream about spending the rest of your day back at home.

Your father.

He wastes his life away in the house, drinking and smoking until the whole place reeks of his desperation and lack of a will to live. Naturally, your only choice is to savour the hours you have at school, for each and every one is one hour less that you have to spend in fear.

You stand in the locker room, your P.E shirt hanging off your bones pathetically while your shorts barely even hug your waist. A chuckle of pity bubbles out of your throat, your eyes glossing over with tears as you pull down the sleeves of your under shirt and drop your gaze down to the leggings that stick to your legs.

It's times like these—moments when you realise that things could not get any worse—that really make you despise the life you're fated for.

You're clearly not in any state to be doing anything physical but with the teachers and students oblivious to your life story, you have to put up a confident facade and try not to let it slip every time someone so much as brushes past you.

But you can do it. It's only for a few more hours.

Lowering your head, you slip out of the locker room and into the gym, making yourself unknown as you stand at the back of the crowd, avoiding eye contact with anyone that so much as dares to allow their gaze to drift towards you.

"As we promised last week, today's session is focusing on the classic game of dodgeball," the teacher explains with a hint of excitement in her tone, your stomach dropping to your feet at the realisation that, in a few minutes, you'll be pummeled by balls.

Luck is definitely on my side.

The events that follow this reveal are a blur to you; your head finally shaking itself out of its daze to find yourself standing against the wall with your team, each one of them awaiting the signal to begin.

You gulp just as the whistle blows and a stampede of adrenaline filled teenagers race towards the middle to grab a ball.

Somehow, you manage to stay in the game long enough for the people on the other team to stop taking notice of you and start aiming for those that recklessly attack their side. You still keep yourself on high alert, just in case there is an off chance that someone might want to aim for you.

Only, with your attention devoted to the opposition, you don't see a boy come barrelling towards you with an impish grin until it's too late.

He knocks into your side carelessly, your eyes involuntarily watering as you stumble away from him silently. Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, he chucks the ball towards the other end of the gym and shuffles backwards until he's by your side; his guilt flying high when he notices the way you clutch onto your arm and blink back tears.

"Hey," he whispers, casting you a look of concern that makes your heart leap in your chest. "Are you alright?"

Are you?

It's a question that you don't get asked often, your mind simply blanking on how you are supposed to answer a question like that. He furrows his brows together at the obvious and unnecessary amount of time you take to answer, his gaze flicking between you and the boy that menacingly tosses the ball in between his hands, his competitive gaze locked in on the two of you.

"I'm fine," you finally mutter, gasping when he throws himself in front of you and starts laughing, a quick glance from behind his rather broad frame revealing the ball he holds victoriously in his hand.

Did he do that so it wouldn't hit me?

"What were you saying?" He asks politely as the whistle blows to signal the end of the game, his smile caring in a way that has your stomach foolishly tickling with butterflies.

"I just said that I'm fine," you lie once again, finally allowing yourself to meet his gaze, your smile small as you realise who stands in front of you. His golden hair glows underneath the soft rays of the sun while his brown eyes darken enticingly with worry, his plump lips pursing together as his eyebrows begin to furrow with concern.

Concern for you?

You brush that aside and instead focus on the fact that Park Jimin is making sure that you're okay. This concept is new for you, no-one having ever taken the time to check up on you so of course, you're a little flustered; the pink to your cheeks a sure signal of that.

"Thank you, Jimin," you mutter timidly, turning clumsily on your heels to head towards your pile of belongings resting against the wall. Shaking his head in disbelief, he allows himself to follow after you, standing a good distance away as you bend to pick up your jacket and water bottle; seemingly unaware of his presence.

It's only when you go to stand do you realise that he had been leaning against the wall and watching you the whole time. Suddenly aware that he possibly could've seen one of the bruises, you pull down your sleeves with wide eyes, gulping as you nod in his direction and begin to make your way into the locker room.

However, you don't make it far, his warm hand latching onto your wrist gently.

You whimper under your breath when he slowly pulls you back towards him, turning you so that you face him again. His eyes never stray from yours despite yours drifting down to where his thumb rubs circles almost mindlessly on the skin of your bony wrist.

"I know we don't talk much," he says in seriousness, there being no more amusement or playfulness in his expression or tone. "But seriously, Y/N, are you okay?"

You nod, hoping that the action alone is enough to convince him. He looks sceptical as he nods back, dropping your wrist so that it falls back by your side. Taking that as the end of the conversation, you rush to get away from him, the skin on your wrist burning in an addictive way.

Jimin watches you jog away with his eyebrows furrowed, his mind running wild with all the reasons why his simple bump could bring you to tears. He bends down to pick up his own stuff, mind clouded with those thoughts until he spots a phone laying right where he was once standing.

Confused, he palms it and switches it on, smiling at the photo of the family that's set as the wallpaper. Upon closer inspection, he realises that the young girl in the picture is you. Grinning, he unlocks it with a simple swipe and clicks your contacts.

"Y/N, wait!"

Groaning under your breath, you turn to see Jimin jogging up to you with a soft smile. Expecting another question about your wellbeing, you conjure up several variations of positive explanations that you could use.

Only, you're a little disappointed when he holds out a phone.

"You left this down there," he chuckles, humming happily when you take it out of his hand with a small sound of gratitude. He then waves kindly towards you and runs back to his belongings; your heart silently begging him to stay.

But he wouldn't want to.

Either way, your heart flutters when you look down at your phone with a soft smile, continuing your walk towards the locker room.

*

Your thoughts are preoccupied by something other than the nightmare that awaits you at home as you walk through the gentle breeze. You find yourself relishing in the pleasant feel of there being a lightness to your step and a soft smile to your face instead of questioning it.

Although, you find it more enjoyable to realise that the source of your gentle happiness comes in the form of a smiling boy with soft hair and eyes that display his emotions in different shades of a splendid brown. You almost feel normal as you skip up the steps to your house, your heart fluttering madly at the way your mind replays your interactions with Park Jimin.

Only, when your hand reaches out for the doorknob, fingers just ghosting over the cool metal, your stomach churns with dread, smile falling immediately as you flinch away from the door completely; your hand flying to your chest where you hold it there, flattening your palm against your racing heart.

He's in there. He'll hurt me. He'll break me.

But I deserve it. I have to face it. I have to take it.

I have to let him break me.

This time, you close your eyes as you open the door, holding your breath in an attempt to savour the taste of freedom. That doesn't last very long either, your breath being ripped from your lungs in the form of a blood curdling scream when a bottle hits the wall a few centimetres away from your head.

"You're fucking late," you hear your father bellow from the end of the hallway, his voice betraying his desire to cover up just how drunk he is. Terrified of what might happen next, you allow yourself to slide down the door as he approaches, wasting no time in curling into yourself to limit the amount of places he has left to injure you.

However, his pitiful laugh tells you that your efforts will remain futile.

He shoves a hand into your hair, grabbing a fistful before throwing your head back into the door, a mere whimper falling from your lips in response. He repeats this until your head lolls in his grip, his smile sadistic as he crouches down to caress your cheeks lovingly.

"You dare make me wait for you," he sneers, shaking his head in disbelief as he disappears into the kitchen in search of something else that he can torture you with.

I'm going to die today.

It's the only logical thought that runs in your mind as you feel the throb in your head dulling into something that begs you to just close your eyes for a few minutes. Trembling violently, you shove your numb hand into your pocket and pull out your phone, hastily swiping at the screen until it unlocks and opens up the contacts page.

You find your head spinning as the names on the endless list seem to blur together into one slab of grey. Groaning, you look up in time to see your father returning what appears to be a wooden spoon; your immediate instinct being to just tap the screen, toss the phone behind your back and just hope that whoever you called will find you in time.

"You worthless slut! Were you with a man? Is that why you're so late?" He spits, sending the spoon swinging into your leg with a deafening crack. You scream as the sting spreads throughout your whole leg, your back arching as you unfold from the ball of protection you had put yourself in.

Grinning victoriously, he snatches your wrists into his grip and pins them to the door with one hand, wasting no time in slapping the spoon against the exposed skin of your hip, his eyes fluttering shut at the sound of your scream.

The pain is so unbearable that you almost forget about the phone that rests beside you, the faint ringing coming from it making your heart swell with hope.

And just like that, the ringing stops, the shuffling from the other end indicating that someone has picked up.

"Help," You screech, just as your father sends another blow down onto a fresh bruise, your breathing restricting as you choke on your sobs, muttering pleads as you become numb to the hits.

"Y/N? What the fuck is happening? Are you okay?"

You can't place the voice, your thoughts foggy as you heave in mouthfuls of hot air, the action doing nothing but intensifying the burning feeling in your lungs. Your father cackles as he tosses the spoon to the side clumsily, standing to his full height with a goofy grin.

"I need another drink," is all he mumbles before he walks away again, missing the way you painfully outstretch your hand to answer the phone.

"Y/N? I need to know what the fuck is happening? Are you there?"

"I'm here," you whisper, eyes fluttering shut as you wonder if it's loud enough for this person to hear. Thankfully, it is, their reply instant.

"What's going on?" They sound panicked, you realise with a soft smile, your eyes blinking your vision back into focus as you stare at the name on your screen.

Jimin.

Your eyes widen pathetically as you realise that he must've put his number in your phone before he had given it to you. Under other circumstances, you would've been mad, maybe even confused but now, you're more than grateful that he did.

"Dad. Drunk. H-hurt m-me. H-help. P-p-please," you choke out, listening carefully as you hear what sounds like a door being slammed shut on his side of the line.

"Address, now," he orders gently, patiently waiting as you stutter through your address slowly, needing a minute to catch your breath once you're done.

"I'll be there soon, okay? Stay on the line with me and I'll be there to get you in no time," he reassures, his words seeming like eternal promises to you as you hum in approval of his requests.

You foolishly expect things to go smoothly from there; Jimin rushes over here while your dad is busy drinking and sneaks you out, promising to take care of this whole situation for you.

But your fantasy shatters the minute your father walks back to you with glazed over eyes and a broken bottle.

"You are too much like her," he slurs, staring at you with bloodshot eyes, the jagged bottle a little too close to your skin for your liking. Obviously, he doesn't seem to mind, the tip of the glass breaking through skin as he simply stares at you emotionlessly.

"I never loved her nor you," he murmurs, twisting the bottle as you squirm and cry out, Jimin's worried screams falling upon deaf ears. "You were both worthless burdens to me. You don't understand how blissful my life would've been if your mother had just taken you with her."

"I-I-I s-sorry," you whimper, feeling the life slowly begin to drain out of you from exhaustion.

"Sorry won't fix this."

Your father grips onto the bottle as if he's going press it deeper into your skin, your eyes closing as you brace yourself for the pain and ultimate relief that is undoubtedly coming your way.

Only, it never does.

The door swings open, your limp body being pushed away from your father as a heavily breathing Jimin stands in the doorway with his hands clenched into tight fists. His terrifyingly furious gaze flicks from your father to you, his features softening into one of concern before hardening back up again.

"The cops are on their way, so I suggest you leave before I make you," he seethes, daring your father to disagree. The man in question immediately stands with his eyebrows raised in alarm, his movements uncoordinated as he bounds past Jimin and onto the yard, the distant sound of sirens telling you that he isn't going to be getting very far.

I'm okay. I'm okay.

You curl into yourself with a gut wrenching sob, hating the way that it racks through your body violently but loving the indescribable relief that it leaves behind.

Jimin approaches you with tears of his own in his eyes, his hands trembling as he carefully lifts your body off the floor and brings it into his arms, leaning the both of you against the wall. Despite the pain, you melt into his embrace, clutching onto his shirt as tightly as you can while he hesitantly holds you to his warm chest, his thumbs soft as they wipe your tears slowly.

"Thank you," you whisper into his peach scented skin, yet another sob bubbling out from your sore throat. "Thank you so much."

He mutters something in return but you don't pick up on it, all your built up energy draining from you instantly with the sudden wave of relief, your head feeling light as the world around you begins to fade into an inviting black.

Jimin notices this and gently strokes your head, keeping his lips close to your ear as he lulls you to sleep with his touch.

"You're not worthless, Y/N. You never were and never will be."

And it's those words alone that proved to you that you were finally safe.