THEIR MUTE BROTHER (BTS X KTH)
Scars in Silence..
Once again… (I sighed as tears silently rolled down my cheeks). I can never understand why Yoongi-hyung hates me so much. What have I done to make him despise me to the point where even my presence irritates him?
I sat up on the bed, staring blankly out of the window. My head throbbed, and my vision blurred, a mix of exhaustion and tears clouding everything. It always feels worse when I remember—I can’t even cry properly. I can’t make a sound, not even to express my pain to myself.
My gaze dropped to my lap, my hands clenched tightly as I tried to recall any moment in my life where I might’ve done something so horrible to deserve this treatment. But… my memories are faint, as if my existence itself is a blur. I can’t remember doing anything wrong—nothing that would warrant this kind of rejection.
Jin-hyung, the eldest, is 28 years old. He’s the Deputy Commissioner at Seoul Station. His job is as impressive as his aura—calm, elegant, and composed. But that composure doesn’t extend to me. To outsiders, he’s cold and intimidating, but with my other brothers, he’s warm and affectionate. At least he acknowledges me—though the attention is always harsh and biting. Still, even his scolding reminds me that I exist.
Yoongi-hyung, the second eldest at 26, is a CEO managing the family business. To the world, he’s approachable and friendly. At home, he dotes on Jungkook-hyung and Mom. But when it comes to me, it’s pure hatred. I’ve always felt his disdain, even when I was younger. I’ve wracked my brain to figure out why he’s this way, but there’s no answer. He just hates me, and I’ve resigned myself to that.
Jungkook-hyung, the youngest of the three, is 21 and a university student. He doesn’t even see me. To him, I might as well be invisible. Maybe I don’t exist in his eyes. But what haunts me most about Jungkook-hyung isn’t his indifference—it’s the unpredictability. He has the kindest heart when it comes to others, but with me? He can turn violent in an instant. One moment, I’m a shadow he doesn’t notice; the next, I’m the target of his anger. My injured foot is a reminder of that. (I sighed.) But that’s a story for another day.
And then there’s Mom. She doesn’t live with us. I’m not even sure why, but it doesn’t matter. Her absence mirrors my own insignificance. Just like my presence doesn’t matter to anyone, hers doesn’t affect me. I haven’t seen her in years; I can’t even remember her face. She still meets my brothers, though. They visit her often, sharing stories of their time together when they return. I overhear their conversations, the laughter, the joy—but I’m never part of it. They never even mention me. Sometimes, I wonder if they forget I’m deaf and can hear their voices, or maybe they talk loudly on purpose. Either way, it only deepens the ache in my chest.
I laid back down on my bed, pulling the blanket tightly around me. It’s summer—I shouldn’t need a blanket—but it’s the only thing that offers me comfort. It’s my only source of warmth, the only thing that feels like home.
And then, there’s me. Taehyung, 18 years old, a mere college student. My absence wouldn’t haunt anyone because my presence has never mattered. My brothers hate me, and I’ll never know why. No one has ever taken the time to sit with me, to talk to me, to understand me. I don’t speak, but that doesn’t make me incapable of feeling. Most people look down on me because I’m different.
I’m not living—I’m surviving. Because as much as I hate this life, the thought of death terrifies me more. I’ve spent countless nights wondering: If I die, would anyone care? Would they even notice? Would anyone visit my grave? Who would give my eulogy? Would anyone shed a single tear? The answer is always the same: no one. And that thought terrifies me more than anything else.
I turned onto my side, letting a few more tears slip out. Crying feels uglier when you’re completely alone. My stomach growled faintly, reminding me I haven’t eaten since last night. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t go downstairs to make something for myself. Jin-hyung would be furious.
I guess I’ll just sleep through the hunger—like I do every other day. Just survive. Just exist.
And so, I closed my eyes, wrapping myself tighter in the blanket, hoping for sleep to take me away from the ache in my heart. Even if just for a little while.
The next time I opened my eyes, it was the middle of the night. Did I just sleep through the whole day? Probably. I can’t really remember. I pushed the blanket aside, only to be met with the overwhelming heat radiating from my body. Was it fever? Or was it because I stayed wrapped in covers on such a hot day?
Shaking my head, I pushed myself to stand. My legs felt like jelly, trembling under my weight. Every step was a battle, but I forced myself to walk to the bathroom. Once I stood in front of the sink, I soaked a handkerchief in cold water and pressed it against my forehead, wiping my face and neck. If this was fever, it would help. If it was just the heat, it should cool me down.
Minutes passed as I stood there, leaning heavily on the sink. The cold cloth did nothing to ease the burning sensation. My body felt boneless, weak, and fragile, as if I could crumble at any moment. And I did. I sank onto the floor, too exhausted to fight gravity any longer, my back pressed against the cool tile wall.
I sat there quietly. Tears fell silently down my cheeks, but no sound escaped me. Not even a whimper. Even now, I can’t voice my pain, my discomfort. I can only let my tears speak for me.
An hour passed—or maybe more. Time had no meaning anymore as I sat there in my own helplessness. My eyes, blurred with tears, wandered to my sleeves. I hadn’t even realized when I’d pulled them up. My gaze settled on the faint scars lining my arms. Memories of my own actions rushed back to me—the scratches, the cuts, the wounds.
It started as a single scratch, then a line, and eventually became a map of pain etched across my skin.
At first, it was barely visible—a thin red mark. Then it became deeper, a stream of crimson running down my arms.
It began with my wrists. Then my chest. Then my upper arms. Now, it’s on my thighs too.
At first, it was my shirt catching on my wrists, then on my chest. Now my trousers are caught too.
I haven’t worn shorts since then. I can’t wear sleeveless shirts or fitted clothes anymore. The marks are a constant reminder of what I’ve done, of what I’ve been through.
The memories haunted me, clawing at my mind. My hand trembled as I yanked my sleeves back down, covering the scars. My inner demons clawed at the edges of my sanity, whispering to me, urging me to give in again. But I refused. Not this time.
I promised myself never to do it again. I won’t break that promise.
I wiped my face with trembling hands, my tears subsiding as I repeated a silent chant to myself: I love myself. I care for myself, even if no one else does.
It was the one mantra that brought me back to reality when the darkness threatened to consume me.
With what little strength I had left, I forced myself to stand. I glanced at my reflection in the mirror one last time before heading back to my bed.
I Slid under the covers, pulling them tightly around me once more. The still, lifeless fabric embraced me like an old friend, and I whispered softly in my heart: I’m okay. I will be okay. I love myself.
I love myself so much that I ache pain into my skin, letting the blood speak where words fail.
I love myself so much that I skip meals, calling it strength, then shatter mirrors to avoid my reflection.
I love myself so much that I embrace hurt like an old friend, scratching away the face I can’t bear to see.
I love myself so much that I mask my wounds with lies.
The night passed in restless silence. Sleep evaded me as my thoughts took hold, dragging me deeper into the pit of my own mind. I don’t understand why, in our darkest moments, our mind recalls every bad memory, every regret. It’s cruel, the way it worsens the pain instead of soothing it.
People say the opposite of love is hate. But they’re wrong. The opposite of love isn’t hate—it’s apathy.
Hate is fiery, raw, and alive. It breathes. It has energy.
But apathy? Apathy is the absence of everything. It’s a void where nothing remains—no feelings, no anger, no tears. Just emptiness. It’s silence. It’s hollow.
And my brothers? They don’t hate me. They’re apathetic toward me.
They feel nothing—not even pity.
And that’s what scares me most.
It terrifies me that I can’t even return their cruelty. I can’t hate them, no matter how much they hurt me. I can’t bring myself to be like them.
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