#chinkbihh

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You weren’t sure why you weren’t like most people.  

You didn’t know which one of you guys got it wrong, you or them.  

A case could be made that you were the mentally fucked one that desperately needed treatment to solve this ‘condition’.  After all, what kind of weirdo is so afraid of society that they instantly get panic attacks when forced outside? Surely you had a mental issue, a couple screws loose or a very fucked up past.  

But on the other hand, you were all too willing to side-eye the ‘them’ category with a few questions and judgements in hand.  

Why would anyone want to be so vulnerable in the outside world?  An outside world where people are robbed, beaten, raped and killed daily.  A world that’s so loud and cruel while being the epitome of unforgiving. A world where people only look out for themselves, ready to backstab anyone if it meant that they would get an advantage.  

What kind of sane person would choose that world over the comfort of your own home?  

Your home was your safe-place,  perfectly designed for your needs.  And you never saw any reason to leave it.  

It was heaven to you.  A cloud of maternal comfort that enveloped you like a hug just by being inside it.  Your favorite scented candles would smother your apartment in the pleasurable essence, all the books you were oh-so fond of were waiting for you to retrieve them from their loyal stations on your bookshelf, all of your cherished songs could be heard quitely playing from your record player and your go-to movies and shows were always just a click away.  You indulge yourself in this safe-haven you had created, never wanting to leave it.

Your therapist (who used to make home visits) would say that she was certain you had Agoraphobia; deathly fear of leaving one’s home.  

She went on to tell you that this phobia almost always had a triggering point, no one was just born with such mindset.  

And this is when your past came into play.  

But could anyone blame you?  

Watching one’s sister get ran over by a car when you two were supposed to meet up for lunch, was enough to traumatized anyone.   

But, you digressed.  

You didn’t like talking about your sister, or the hectic driver who couldn’t handle the complex city streets and thus ended up murdering an innocent bystander because he wasn’t paying attention.  

You’d like to think that you have always hated the outside world.  Even from the age of 7, you’d fake sickness to avoid having to go outside with the other kids to play at recess.  Your mother had always told you that you were her little homebody. While other kids wanted to go to parks or have water-gun fights, you begged your mom to just give you some hot-chocolate while you catch up on the lastest Junie B. Jones novel.  

It was your sister who was the free spirited social butterfly.  

She was only two years older, but looking at the two of you together, people always assumed that you were the wisest and mature one, incorrectly pinning you as the older.  

Your sister would make mud-pies and bike race with other kids from the neighborhood.  She would come back from an afternoon in the backyard, skin freshly sun-kissed from her adventures and shove a bug in your face, telling you to say hello to her new ‘pet’.  She would puff out her chest and order you to point out the kid who told you that you were ‘weird’ before marching up to them at the park and yelling at their face, warning them to never come close to her little sister ever again.  She would sneak into your mother’s makeup bag and half-hazardly paint your guys’ faces, telling you that she wouldn’t mind giving you tips on how to get the perfect blush.

Even as you two got older, she continued her fiery ways.  

She was the first girl to not mind boldly showing off her bra-strap during middle-school.  She was the first girl of her grade to makeout with someone, being the initiator. She was the first girl to throw a highschool party in your neighborhood when your mom left for one weekend.  

She was the one to always step out of into society and declare the world as hers.  

You admired her for that, always wondering how she found it within herself to never give a fuck what anyone thought of her.  How is it that she never crumbled even in the most unfortunate situations? Her willpower outweighed any self-doubt, meanwhile you were the direct opposite.  

You have always been a deep-thinker, drowning yourself in ‘what ifs’ and made up scenarios that would likely never happen.  You were very tender-hearted, but also very intelligent. You couldn’t solve the puzzle that was the human behavior, and this is why you sheltered yourself from the selfish and greedy enigma that was civilization, knowing it would only baffle your mind and hurt your heart.  

It wasn’t like you were always a crazy hermit, a sad recluse.  

You were just reserved and quiet, but you still managed to have a job and go out from time to time.

It wasn’t until you saw what the outside world could really do that you made the leap to go with what your gut has been telling you all along and fully disassociate with the public.

Being way out there could only get you like your sister; splattered on second avenue while cars just honk and speed by, too bothered with the afternoon rush to give the tragedy a second glance.  

Thus, you haven’t left your apartment in a grand total of six months.  

You got your groceries delivered, any new clothing or purchases were shipped directly to your door and you had someone take away any garbage for you.  

You had no reason to leave the cozy retreat of your apartment.  

Even the therapist that your mother had forced upon you had to come directly to your apartment in order to talk to you.  

Life was going perfectly fine, until one day you woke up...off.  

You laid face up on your cushiony mattress, eyes simply observing your plain white ceiling as the sound of pattering rain rang from outside.  

It was like a gaping hole was torn into your chest overnight.  

You felt yourself desperate for something...you weren’t quite sure what.  A craving that was clawing from the inside out. You scrunched up your face in confusion at the foreign and indescribable feeling.  Your attempted to find the words to decipher what your emotions were, hoping this would lead to an answer. After some investigation, you identified the feelings of emptiness, hollowness and somehow very forlorn.  

This puzzled you because when you live alone in your own home without any outside forces at play, very little could cause you discomfort.  

It wasn’t until you got up and began making a bowl of cereal while a show played in the background that a conclusion finally dawned upon your anemic and foggy brain.  

You were lonely.

Without any consent or knowledge on your part, you felt your eyes water up as they watched the pixelated screen in your living room, glassy orbs drinking in the playing scene with a look of yearning.  

It was a sitcom; two friends were simply bickering over a stupid debate, but the banter was witty and humorous, causing the outdated laugh track to ensue at the perfect times.  

You...wished you had that.  

You wished you had someone to communicate with.  

Someone to exchange thoughts, ideas or jokes with.  You weren’t the most social person, but you were still human.  And isolation only hurted you in the end.

It was tiring to have the walls as your only friends.  It was pathetic to feel the sheer excitement of reading or watching something so good and wanting to talk to someone about it, only to realize you couldn’t.  It was borderline soul crushing to conclude that you could drop dead in your own home and it would take weeks for someone to recognize your absence of life.

But….you still couldn’t bear leaving your home.  

The harshness of reality was still fresh in your mind’s eye, the corpse of your sister laying in the street while the buzz of city life continued all around you, the only witnesses being the in-sensitive assholes who held up their phones to capture the bat-shit crazy scene before bouncing.  

Part of you was very well aware of how absurd and self-pitying your lifestyle and reasoning was, but you couldn’t help but cling to the warm cocoon that was your home.  In your mind, this was a way of grieving. Many people mourn differently, and this just so happened to be your version of grasping with the death of a loved one. At least it wasn’t as self-destructing as other people’s ways, like drinking too much, spending yourself into debt or relying on drugs.  

You just wanted to be alone, safe and comfortable.

What was so wrong with that?  

However, an outlet for some form of communication was needed.  

This is when you pulled out your laptop, beyond grateful that you lived in the digital age where the internet was good ole’ reliable.  

‘Making friends Online’  you typed into the search bar and waited patiently for the results to load up.   

‘FriendMatch- an online service to help you make friends within your area!’ You cringed at this, not liking the idea of said person being very close to where you lived.  The possibility that they could push to meet you was too troublesome.

‘Why You Should Never Make Friends Online.- Scary true stories.’ Not what you were looking for.

‘Flirt.com- Make friends or possibly more ;)’ Again, not what you were looking for.  Looked like a hookup site disguised as ‘friendly meetups’ to hide the fact it was basically a one-night stand program.  

‘Omegle- Chat to strangers via webcam or chat’

With a sigh at the realization that this was probably the best you were going to get, you clicked on the omegle website.  You knew how it worked, given that in middle school many kids would use it to chat with strangers for fun at their lack-luster sleepovers.  

You waited to get set up with a random stranger, reminding yourself that this was just a temporary procedure to brush up on your rusty social skills.  

Your webcam was turned off, but the incoming stranger had his on.  

It was a middle aged man, sat in a dirty and eggshell tank top on a bed with his hand reaching down and out of camera.  You scoffed to think what this fucker was up to.

‘F or M?’ The man typed with his free hand.  You canceled out of that chat.

The next one was a girl, she was laid on her bed wearing a red lingerie set with her makeup and hair done to perfection.  

“Buy my premium snapchat.”  She purred into the camera, you scoffed and exited out of this chat as well.  

The next stranger also had their webcam off.  

You waited for them to type anything, but the chat was dead silent.  It was obvious that they were waiting for you to make the first move.  You inhaled a deep breath and prepared yourself for the first interaction you were going to have with someone who wasn’t your mom or therapist in half a year.  

‘Hi.’  You lamely began.  

You saw dots appear on the screen.  

Then disappear.  

Then the dreaded ‘the stranger has ended the chat, click here to start a new one!’

You wanted to throw your laptop against the wall.  

You almost forgot how sex-crazed and self-centered people were.  All you wanted was a nice conversation but common decency was not an etiquette for the internet.  

You felt embarrassed that you worked up all this nerve for nothing.  It wasn’t a big deal, and you knew that, but it still was a form of you putting yourself on the line to communicate with the very thing you feared- humans.  Only for your fear to be proved significant once again.

You sighed and exited out of the site, back to the search page.  

You scrolled past the results, pouting at the lack of websites that could fulfil your needs.  It wasn’t until you saw one thing that made you pause your scrolling.

‘Why Getting A Pen Pal Is The Best Thing I’ve Ever Done- Quora ’  

Hesitant but curious, you clicked on it,

‘To be honest after years of being a stay at home mom, I never got used to the emptiness of the house after my sons went to college.  I really wanted someone to talk to, just on friendly basis and a good once-a-week type of deal was good enough for me. I watched a true-crime documentary and that’s when the idea of being a pen-pal really hit me.  There are tons of lonely inmates sitting in a cell block of a prison and with no one from the outside world to talk to. I signed up for the program and it’s been a godsend. Me and my pal (George) really just connected and I try to get him through his week as he tries to help me through mine.  It’s a nice bonding experience and very eye-opening. 100% would recommend to anyone feeling a little lonely. It’s a kind thing to do and everyone could use an extra friend!”

A pen pal.

You first thought that anyone who would write letters to prison must’ve been family or friends with someone who actually was in prison.  Why else would they take time out of their day to send a letter in an age where everything is done electronically?

But the more you thought about it, the more appealing the concept became.  

An inmate was someone whom was completely removed from society, someone who most likely felt as isolated as you.  Someone who knew how harsh and cruel the real world was (hell they were evidence of such statement) and someone who you wouldn’t have to face or run into, unless you gone out of your way to see them.  

It was almost a perfect answer to your problems.  

You quickly looked up a pen-pal program to join.

--

‘Dear Mr. or Miss. Prisoner

How would you feel if I told you that someone knowingly locked themselves up in their own jail cell?  

Because I have.  

I haven’t left my apartment in six months, haven’t talked to anyone in about seven.  I never step foot outside my home, petrified by what the outside world holds for me. I don’t know why I’m so afraid of society, all I know is that when I muster the courage to step out; I break out into hives and a panic attack begins to brew.  Thus, I have locked myself up in my own home. A pathetic recluse terrified by a fear that’s completely made up in my own head. Please, tell me what you think of this.

I can imagine that an inmate forcefully locked up in a cell against their own will would read the above and scoff.  Why would someone who has freedom at their fingertips so readily deny it?

I don’t know….but there is a downfall in my strategy of locking myself away from the rest of the world; I’m so lonely.  So lonely, that I decided to sign up for a pen-pal in prison who is probably wondering why such a mentally unstable person had reached out to them.  I just need some interaction, I’m starved for comradery.

What’s your name?

What’s your favorite food?

Please….anything.  

-Regards, Y/n ‘

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A week later, the familiar knock at your door signaled the incoming of mail.  

You made your way over to where the envelopes were hastily pushed through the slot on your door.  

Bills, coupons, flyers and…...a letter.

You suddenly got flashbacks to when you put your heart onto a college-ruled paper with sloppy handwriting and a self-pitying passage onto a faceless inmate who without a doubt had better shit to worry about.  

You honestly didn’t expect any response, knowing that it was more about you just writing down what you felt more than it was about getting a response.  You didn’t know what to expect when you would open the letter. Probably a ‘you ungrateful bitch, you have everything I want and you lock yourself up for no reason?!’

Or at least something along those lines.  

But, a buzz of excitement still ran faintly through your veins.  Someone was going to be conversing back with you.

With shaking hands, you carefully opened the envelope.  

‘Dear Y/n,

Well, I would feel rather….accepting.  

I think you must be a very wise person to keep yourself far from the wretched claws of society.  The world is fucked and you would have to be a fool not to know that. When I get out of prison, I’m going to keep myself as far away from the public as possible.  I don’t think you’re pathetic, I think you’re just someone who is too fragile for this crazy hell-hole.

I’m lonely too.  Perhaps we can help each other out in this arena.

To answer your questions;

My favorite food is lamb skewers.  

My favorite color is red.  

And my name is Jungkook.  

Please tell me more about yourself.  What triggered you to hide yourself away from the world?

Is it too much to ask for a picture?  I hope it doesn’t sound creepy but it would be very nice to put a face to my new friend.

~Love, JK’

Your heart leapt.

It was a very short letter, but the contents meant the world to you in that moment.  

He called you his ‘friend’.  

You hadn’t had one of those in years.  

He acknowledge your paranoia, giving it reason and not making you feel like a freak.  For the first time in your life, you felt understood at face value. You didn’t need to defend your lifestyle with him. Instead of trying to convince you that your fear was irrational and to try to get you to get out of your comfort zone, he embraced your reasoning and accepted it without a harsh line of questioning.  

Stunned, you took the letter over to your bed to analyze once more.  

His handwriting was very neat and careful, you wondered if that reflected back into his persona at all, or if he was just someone who naturally had very good penmanship.

He had asked for a picture, and an unfamiliar feeling of anxiety plummeted your stomach.  

What if he thought you were too ugly?  

Or what if he was just some freak who wanted some jerk-off material?

But….you couldn’t deny that you also wanted to see the face of the guy who you would exchange letters with.  You supposed it was natural to want to have a clear image of whom you were communicating with. Afterall, it was kind of intimate the things you shared.  

You smiled and got excited to write another letter.  

But first, you had to find out to make yourself presentable for a photo.  

--

Dear Jungkook,

Words cannot express how thankful I am that you answered my pathetic call for help.  Seriously, it’s been so long since I have talked to anyone so openly and some might say that a random inmate it a bad choice for such companionship but I disagree.  Call me crazy Jungkook, but I think we can understand each other very well. I nearly cried when you called me your friend. I’m afraid I’m not a very interesting person to get to know.  My favorite color is (color), my favorite food is (food), I am (age) and I’m (height) tall. Very bland, I know.

To answer your question on why I hide myself...well it’s a long story.

People tell me that I have a phobia, a disorder of the mind that I should see a shrink for.  To be honest, I think I’m the sanest person I know. I have always had a general fear of all things concerning the public.  It wasn’t until I saw my sister ran over in front of me and how the city just kept moving on as if nothing happened that I realized how little the outside setting cares for me, and how little I shall care for it.  My home is heaven on earth and I see no reason to leave it for the chaos that lies outside.

Here is that picture you asked for, I’m sorry I’m not much of a looker.  But hey, when you hole yourself up for months on end, why feel the need to be prettied up for someone?  I don’t know if this is allowed, but is there a way I can see what you look like? I think it’s only fair.  

Much love, Y/n’

--

‘Dear Y/n,

I thought you were a very smart person but obviously not.

‘Not much of a looker’ ….what a fucking joke.  

You’re by far one of the most breathtaking things I have laid eyes on in a long time (in or out of prison).  It’s a good thing you chose to stay indoors, men are pigs and they wouldn’t hesitate to eat you up the moment they got the chance.  

On a more somber note, I’m very sorry to hear about your sister, Y/n.  The world is a very sinister place and you shouldn’t have to witness such a tragedy in the midst of some city bastards who have their heads too far up their asses to notice anything else.  

Your home sounds lovely, I’m sure it’s a very homey and comfortable place.  I bet you’re the type of person to make any guest feel right at home. I also don’t see why you’d want to leave it.

I understand your pain, Y/n.  It’s almost as if we’re kindred spirits.  When my mom passed away, no one gave a shit.  They all just were just focused on throwing me in jail, labeling me a criminal without knowing my story.  

I do not think your first letter was a ‘pathetic cry for help’.  

I think we were meant to find each other.  

I think that we have a lot in common.  When two people find each other under unconventional circumstances and have such mindsets and tragedies in common...well, that’s has to mean something. Right?  I await your letters now with great anticipation. It’s the highlight of my days.

Here is a picture of me.  

Quite the ladies man, am I right? :)’

--

Dear Jungkook,

…..I guess you’re not the worst face I’ve seen.

Just kidding, you are very handsome.  Surprisingly young looking too. How old are you?  I was half expecting a 40 year old man to be on the receiving end of my letters haha.

Thank you for the compliments, although I’m afraid I’m average looking at best.  My sister was the better looking one between us two.

If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your mother?  

I understand if you don’t wish to talk about it in greater detail.  When my sister first died I was very annoyed at the people who would pry.  Isn’t it funny how when someone dies everyone suddenly becomes interested? Humans are fucked I swear to god.  My mom had to hold me back at her funeral, some people really came in and had the audacity to make it about themselves.  

As for your stance on us being connected in some way, I have to say the evidence sure is stacked.  When I attempt to explain my fear to people, they all look at me like I’m crazy or try to convince me it’s all in my head.  I think my fear is very rational. I think you were the first person I’ve ever encountered to just accept it and even agree with it to a certain extent.  I’m very happy that you enjoy my letters. I enjoy yours too. You’re the only person I communicate with and you seem like marvelous company. How do you spend your days in prison?  Walk me through a day in our life.

Love, Y/n

P.s Jungkook, you never told me why you’re in prison’

--

My Dearest Y/n,

You can’t deny this face, Y/n.  Many women have tried and failed.  

I’m 21 years old, sorry if a middle aged man was what you wanted.  

And I doubt that your sister was better looking than you.  Darling, you’re kind of my dream girl if I’m being real with you.  Your face is so cute and round, your eyes are very wide and innocent, your nose is so tiny and cute, your hair looks very soft and forgive me but your lips are too pink and soft to be allowed.  I would hang your picture on my wall, but I don’t like thinking that m cell mate could get his rocks off on your image, so I keep it folded neatly under my pillow. I apologise if this is too forward but it’s your right to know just the effect you have on me.  I am a man in prison, afterall. I’m very lucky you stumbled upon the pen-pal program.

As for my mother, well she got very sick with terminal cancer.  She died about a year ago. Around the same time your sister died if my calculations are correct.  Odd how intertwined our tragedies are...

I don’t do much in this barren wasteland.  Get up, get breakfast, shower, outdoors time, then I usually draw or catch up on letters to you, lunch, recreational time, workout then dinner and lights out.  Very boring. How about you? Walk me through your day-to-day.

-love, Jk

P.s. You’re really adorable, you know that right?  It’s nothing too bad, don’t worry. Just robbed some places because I was desperate to get the treatment for my mom.

--

Dear JK,

My day to day is also lifeless, I’m afraid.  

I basically read books all day or watch old movies.  Throw in a couple meals, naps and showers in there and you got a day in the life of Y/n.  

Today, something scary happened though.  My mom showed up to my apartment all drunk and belligerent, hollering that I’m a fuck up that needs to live in the real world and get out.  She even said that she sometimes wished it was me instead of my sister who got ran over.

...I don’t think I’ve ever felt such shame than in the moment.  

I really wanted someone to protect me from her...from what she represented.  She was a symbol for the unstable and wild whirlwind that is what lies outside my door.  I felt violated, my cozy home no longer safe. But, I suppose she was right. I am a disappointed.  Drunk words are sober thoughts.

Jungkook, why am I like this?  

Perhaps you can show me your drawings sometime, I’m sure they’re excellent  I get the sense that you’re an artistic soul.

And I’m very angry on your behalf that the justice system failed you.  I’m sorry that you were just trying to save your mom.

With love, Y/n.

--

My Dearest Y/n,

Your mother is an idiotic drunk who wouldn’t know common sense if it slapped her in the face.  With all disrespect, what does that woman know? How dare she come to your residence and berate you for being the ‘fucked up’ one?  She’s the one who attempted to find a solution to her problems at the bottom of a bottle...how hypocritical.

What are your favorite books and movies?  

I didn’t read or watch much when I was free, I was too busy with my mom.  I still drew a lot though, even as a free man.

Here is a few pieces of my art.  I hope you don’t mind that I used you as the muse.  I think I got your face down pretty well though, didn’t I?  I practiced it so much, I may know it better than the back of my own hand.  

You know….we may want to upgrade our letters into actual phone calls.  Tell me what you think of this idea. Call it weird, but I can picture your voice so delicately in my head when I read your letters.  I bet it’s very sweet sounding, a gently sculpted face has to have an equally dulcet voice.

Love, Jk.

--

My Dearest Y/n,

I’m sure you must’ve gotten busy, why else haven’t you written in a week?  

Or maybe your doing your best to start calling instead of writing.  

Please send back a letter though, as soon as you can,  In this cell, the only thing I have to look forward to is your letters.  

Love, JK.

--

My Dearest Y/n,

Where have you gone?  You haven’t forgotten about me have you?  

I thought you said you were like me, afraid of the world and unwilling to be bare to it.  I thought we were the only ones who understood each other….

Please, stop this silence.  

Love, JK.

--

Y/n,

This isn’t funny anymore.  

I need to know that you’re okay.  

Please, even if it’s a letter cussing me out...I just need to know you’re fine.  I’m locked away and couldn’t do a wellness check if I wanted to.

What happened to my friend?

Love, JK.

--

Dear Jungkook (or should I say Easter Bunny?)

I know what you did.

I know that you lied to me.

I know you’re a murder.

Friends don’t lie to each other, Jungkook.  

I think it’s best if we find different Pen Pals.  

All my best wishes, Y/n.

--

My Dearest Y/n,

I see you found out about the nickname the hideous press gave me.

Well….I think this type of revelation is best talked over in person.  

I’ll see you soon.  

--