It’s 3am and Taemin is sprawled across his bed, blank eyes staring at the endless white ceiling. He should be tired; he’s had a long day. His bones are aching from the countless hours of labour and non-existent hours of rest. His skin is a beautiful scattered plane of greens, blues, purples and reds in different hues blooming like wildflowers during spring. Colours that scream agony upon pressure and colours which he carefully hides under layers of clothing.

His head hurts from the explosion of insults he’s forced to inhale the moment he steps out of the safety of his bedroom and he’s certain he’s coming down with a fever as he body shivers involuntarily and droplets of sweat trickle down his temple.

He fingers the smooth glossy glass bottle in his hand and marvels at the how cool it feels underneath his heated skin. The glass is pressed against his cheek and he sighs in content because he knows that the end is near and with the end comes peace and in peace his body will be at rest and pain will no longer be part of his dictionary.

With trembling fingers he uncaps the bottle and watches as the innocent white cap falls out of his thin hands and lands on the ground, leaving a trail of authorised poison on the floor as it rolls across the wooden panels.

And now, now Taemin allows himself to smile because he doesn’t have to worry about the mess. Come morning nothing would matter and they could scream and beat and burn his body but his mind, soul and feelings would have been long gone into a place not even they could reach.

He idly brings the rim of the bottle against his lip and tentatively dips his tongue inside, familiarizing his tastebuds with the bitter taste. 

He likes it, he decides as he swirls his tongue, enjoying the sensation the liquid creates inside his mouth. This must be the taste of satisfaction, the taste of power, Taemin thinks as his fingers lightly tilt the bottle, allowing more of the liquid to ooze into his mouth.

Fifteen millilitres, that’s how much he was meant to have. Fifteen millilitres and his fever will die down. Fifteen millilitres and he would be fine again. But fine for what? Fine for another day of unshed tears and another day of numbing pain, that’s what, hethinks bitterly as the liquid burns down his throat.

So he continues pouring, fifty millilitres to be strong enough to endure the beatings.

A hundred millilitres to be strong enough to take on the biting words.

The liquids spreading through his bloodstream and it’s ridiculous but he feels almost excited because God, finally.

Finally.

Two hundred and fifty millilitres and he’s dead and gone.