#vmxhani

jongin has gotten used to loneliness. 

loneliness has a sense of familiarity; it feels comfortable, it feels homely. loneliness is friends with silence, and silence is understanding. he was taught that loneliness was not to be associated with frailty: loneliness was a strength while people were considered as weakness, as something that could be used against you. loneliness made home in his bones, and stayed. 

but somewhere between the years of solitude and bloodstained memories and smell of gunpowder, loneliness slowly starts to succumb to the growing darkness. 

the door slams shut behind him with a little more force than necessary, the sound echoing in the apartment for a briefest of moments. the keys jingle as he sets them on the counter. he heaves a sigh, agitation still burning in his veins. “i fucking hate drunken people,” he mutters, words meeting the air with venomous edge. ( in his mind, alcohol is a poison clouding judgement. in his mind, it’s a weakness. )

runs his fingers through the strands of his black hair, reaching for a pack of cigarettes lying on the coffee table—unheeded are the prohibitions as he lights one cancer stick. inhale, exhale. 

Phobia Drabble Prompts

Anthrophobia: My muse brings yours flowers.

these answers are considered as AU unless stated otherwise!

Phasmophobia: Your muse is visited by my muse's ghost.

She tried not to believe. There were no such things as ghosts, and Sera knew it. But she also knew what she saw; an ashy looking woman, passing by her in the crowded corridor leading to the theatre, a woman she knew to be dead.

She sat in her seat, watching the play, and zoning out every now and then to recollect the image of the woman’s face. She rationalized with herself. It couldn’t be the same one. She was right there when the Wolfsbane associate was pronounced dead. The dead don’t come back to life, no matter what people said.

She went backstage during the larger break between the acts, cheerful smiles painted on her lips as she applauded her friend, an actress in the play. Then a horrified scream prompted a confused silence, and she rushed to its source.

She knew this would happen. She knew it. 

There she stood above a bleeding corpse. Dead, no pulse. Her eyes darted around her and… above her till she met the dark eyes of the same face she knew to be six-feet under.

“HEY!” She yelled, as the woman started off. 

“Call the police! And get security to secure every single entrance and exit! Side doors, back doors! No one leaves or enters until the police arrives! And tell security to watch out, the culprit is likely still armed!” And she rushed out.

But nothing, there was nothing when she got there. No one in the empty hallways. No sign, no lead.

She gritted at her teeth.

The break took longer than the planned 30 minutes, and the audience began to question. The play went on, to avoid the mass hysteria that would take place had an announcement of a murderer within the theatre got leaked.

She returned to the murder site. The police was arriving.

Back she was to analyzing with keen eyes every detail, every reaction, every piece of information that could easily be discarded, when she heard the panicking exclamations, “it’s the ghost! We must’ve angered the head ghost by holding the play on a Monday! There’s no other explanation! We’ve committed a crime, broken the rules!”

She could only grimly smirk hearing such ludicrous notion.

“Yes, darling, it’s indeed a ghost. A phantom, what else?” She commented, picking up a card that was next to the body using a handkerchief. “A phantom… as real as the Phantom of the Opera.” She placed the card back down, standing up, and sternly continued, “made of flesh and bone… and every living feature… of a living, breathing, human-being.”

She scoffed. 

There were no such things as ghosts.