The Box
Warning: mentions of triggering/ m rated things!

It's 1pm as Jongin stumbles to the door, head ringing from the sound of the doorbell that awoke him from his short lived and much needed sleep. Wearing 3 day old boxers and a white t-shirt, stained with food, blood and vomit, he tugs the door open, using more effort than he thought he had in him.

On his door step is a box. A cardboard box with tattered corners and neat writing in permanent marker on its lid. The inscription only reads his name, and Jongin's blurred vision and pulsing headache means he can't recognise the handwriting. He can barely read it at all.

Unable to find the energy to take the box inside, he simply slumps down beside the box, and begins to open it. The excessive amount of brown tape hinders him slightly, until he utilises the pocket knife that was folded and tucked into his underwear. Perhaps not the safest place to keep a blade, but what did Jongin care for his safety? That blade had been used on his own skin far more than any package.

Tearing the box almost to shreds, he allows the many items that were contained to fall to the floor around him, and gasps when he recognises the contents.

A pair of 2 year old movie tickets, to some stupid rom com that he'd loved at the time.

A small piece of yellow note paper, that he'd delicately folded into the shape of a crane.

A receipt for some cafe, listing a cappuccino, an iced americano, and two chocolate and hazelnut brownies.

A pair of dance shoes, 3 sizes too small for Jongin's feet, which now no longer had the required balance and coordination for dancing.

A silver bracelet with a broken clasp, inscribed with his name, followed by a heart.

A painting of the nearby ocean, painstakingly detailed by Jongin's careful hand, over a year ago.

A pack of playing cards.

A stuffed toy: a minion, from that awful animated movie, that had been dragged away from its equally irritating friends in an amusement park claw machine.

A wooden ring.

A stack of photographs, now scattered around the area and far beyond Jongin's current sight abilities.

These were just the things that had fallen from the box, and already tears were steadily pouring down Jongin's face, as well as mucus that he didn't care to wipe away.

As he delved deeper into the contents of the box, he cried harder.

He found more movie tickets, that had long expired and had never been used.

A vodka bottle, in pieces, that sliced into his already scarred hands. He didn't notice.

A poster for a play that had been performed locally, depicting an actor that Jongin recognised all too well, causing a cry of anguish to escape from his burning throat.

More photographs, showing the same actor, in a state no human should ever be in. Bruised. Bleeding. Broken. But that wasn't the thing that broke Jongin's heart. It was the cold, dead look in the eyes of the actor, who could no longer act like he was okay, nor act like he was hurting. He could only be resigned to his fate, and accept that his life was filled with pain. This was not the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.

A blue envelope, to soon be torn open by a panicked Jongin.

To Mr Kim Jongin,

I heard you were leaving soon. I'm not sure where to, and I really don't care, as long as it is out of my life. I want you to look at everything in this box, and remember. 
Remember everything. Whether it helps you go back to your old self, helps you to feel some form of remorse, or at least helps you to get a grip, then I'll be glad you have it. For now I'm just glad it's gone.
Whilst you need to remember, I must forget. Forget the old you, forget the new you, forget the existence of Kim Jongin. Why? Because if I don't, I will never walk with my head up. I will never be able to proudly say my name. I will never be able to get out of bed in the morning. I will be nothing but ashamed that I let myself near you, let myself love you, and let myself lose myself to you.
See the dance shoes. We were going to dance together. I wanted to dance with you, and feel the same freedom you did when you always danced, with such grace and beauty. But you forgot the moves, and you forgot what beauty was. You lost yours, along with your sanity.
And I lost you.
To alcohol, to drugs, to Oh Sehun, and whichever other men you lost your mind with. But you never lost me, and I thought you never wanted to. Even when you hit me that first time, the second time, the third, I thought that was you trying to cling on. I still struggle to admit how wrong I was.
Now, you have lost me. Because you gave me to them. I realised then that I was simply a tool to you. You used me to get whatever you could, and I'm sure you're still getting your fixes from that. Of course, you get a very large amount of drugs when you give the gang a . 
This whole thing may seem very calm and reserved, but I would describe it as such. It's more emotionless, lost. That's all everything is right now: lost. I've lost you, you've lost me, and we've all lost our minds.
Anyway, I'm done now. Done with you, done with this place. I'm moving, as I've heard you are. I'm not sure what you want, but I don't care. Don't ever come find me. I will not open the door to you again.

Do Kyungsoo

Needle. Blade. Pill. Smoke. Fire. The next few minutes are a blur to a now unconscious Jongin, who remains slumped on his doorstep, his mind conjuring up new ecstasies and new horrors, as his past turns to ashes beside him.

A/N: I'm sorry if this was a little short, or not to your tastes, but I hope you enjoyed it! And Merry Christmas!