Because his self-induced workload is immense, Jiyong locks himself within the recording studio. Unless he can latch onto a tinge of inspiration or some idea he can work with, he’ll willingly spend all night in there. Sleep is irrelevant; he regularly turns the nights into days and vice versa. It all depends on his schedule.

Teddy watches his co-producer scrutinize over the staff sheets one minute, scan over his work disdainfully, trash it, and end up gazing blankly at the wall ahead. When he offers his assistance, Jiyong merely turns to him, smiling weakly and shaking his head, no. “This is strictly a collaboration between Choice 37 and I,” he informs. His eyes are bloodshot from the smoke and the stress, with dark circles serving to rival the maknae’s. 

“I don’t know, man. You should probably consider a vacation—Mr. Yang would allow it,” Teddy suggests in English. Normally, he would not think to do this but today Jiyong has insisted, fearing he’s fallen behind in his fluency.

Now Jiyong says nothing, but not because he’s not quick to comprehend him. There is nothing he can think of to respond with be it English or otherwise, so Teddy sighs and rises from his chair.

“Imma get some food. You should come, get outside for once.”

“No thanks.” Jiyong swivels around in the desk chair and leans forth so he’s face-to-face with the opposite wall.

“Don’t,” his senior warns. Inquisitively, he raises an eyebrow, about to inquire as to what in the world he means. But Jiyong knows. Wordlessly, he pulls his gaze away from the blueish contours of the veins within his wrists.

“Empty your pockets,” Teddy demands.

Jiyong opens his mouth to protest, but Teddy maintains his previous statement. “Just do it.”

Reluctantly, he complies, turning the pockets of his Adidas singlet inside-out. From the left plummets a lighter and a half-empty box of cigarettes, while the other contains a pocketknife and a full container of Tylenol.

Speechless, Teddy stares back. Explain yourself, screams the expression he’s wearing.

“Headache,” Jiyong offers lamely. “Uh, you know. And the pocketknife? It comes in handy.”

Looking unconvinced, Teddy catches Jiyong’s gaze. “You know, I may have to send someone over just to make sure you don’t commit suicide while I’m gone.”

“That’s funny,” Jiyong retorts. “Remember when you told me that I’m capable of anything so long as a tried?”

“But this is different. This is about something I need you to refrain from doing. Understand now?”

He nods, listlessly bringing together the heels of his starch white Vans.  Back and forth and back and forth.  Teddy departs and informs no one of their discussion.  He doesn’t need to; he knows that Jiyong won’t.

When Teddy’s footsteps cease to echo distantly from behind the closed door, Jiyong snatches up the container of Tylenol and pours its contents into the palm of his hand. It’s a foolish act of sheer rebelliousness, yet he feels it’s something he has to do. All he wants is to be put out of his misery. Is that so wrong?

Wistfully, he gazes at his precious songwriting book, at the unfinished composition he’s been working on for ages now. As much as he hates to leave it, he doubts that it could ever be perfect anyway. Maybe then, it’s better off this way, better let it go…

He can scarcely think coherently, anyway, when he drops the handful into his mouth and chokes it down with a swig from his water bottle. Falling back in his chair, he waits for a painless slumber to envelop him. Perhaps it was a reckless move, he thinks, albeit he’s too exhausted to fear anything now. When at last his eyes flutter shut, he unleashes every worldly bond and idly wonders if Hell’s his next destination.

(Jiyong hadn’t really considered that his means of escape is considered cowardly and sinful in regards to his former faith.)

Later, he awakens and vomits it all up onto the floor since he can’t make it to the toilet in time. Bile is present in his mouth, it trickles down his chin, ruining his shirt, and it’s all horrid and revolting. Jiyong hugs his knees in the corner like a child and cries, sincerely wanting nothing else but to leave it all behind.

He very nearly prays, not for forgiveness, but rather for a means of curing his loneliness, his utter confusion and his suffering. He thinks of the way Youngbae and Daesung and Seungri do it, getting down on their knees—and he nearly imitates their example.

Yet there’s the pocketknife that gleams like gold in the yellow light, lying oh-so-conveniently on the floor by his swivel chair. In desperation, Jiyong grabs it, holds his breath, and shakily grazes the blade upon the delicate flesh under his hands. When he produces the first wound, he misses the thick vessel and fails to draw blood. Unable to bring himself to do more, he flings the instrument across the floor. Teddy was right about him after all, he finds out later on. From that previous conversation, he’d already begun to doubt his decision like a coward.

At night when he’s alone in his apartment, Jiyong relieves himself with a box of Marlboro cigarettes and by making use of the same pocketknife on the insides of his forearms. Other celebrities his age go out in secret with their girlfriends, but it feels like ages since he dumped Kiko. In a way, he regrets it—but their paths are different and he figures she’s better off with a guy who can always stand by her. And he knows that he can’t.

“What’s this?” Youngbae asks during a practice session, in which his best friend seems unusually distracted. Jiyong reddens, yet he tries laughing it off and lying about it. Though he explains that it’s the result of a run-in with an angry cat, Youngbae only looks upon his scarred arms with suspicion and concern.

Thus, the process cycles when Jiyong drags himself home and collapses onto his bed. Once a while ago, his friends would call him up to ask if he’d wanted to hang out. Nowadays, they’re so used to being rejected that they don’t even bother—simply assume that he’s too full of himself to care, and never try to help.

Along with an unopened can of beer, a box of Melatonin lies on his bedside table (he’s been denied otherwise by his peers). Since he hadn’t successfully slept the night before, Jiyong cracks it open and chugs down three.  After that he lights a cigarette and lies still again, brooding and drowning in trains of thought. 

Nicotine and tobacco aren’t ideal panaceas for sleep.  Furthermore, he never feels the effects of the Melatonin kicking in.  Jiyong clings tightly to his pillow, lonesome and fatigued and ironically sick from insomnia.  Vainly, he wonders if there’s any way to subdue the pain of his sorrows; though he seriously doubts it.

Having truthfully nothing else to do, Jiyong goes to the bottom drawer of his chest to fish out an outfit he’s prepared that for once isn’t flagrant or gaudy: loose jeans and a plain gray t-shirt under an old, thrift store hoodie.  When he leaves home, he departs with default white iPod earphones instead of Beats or Soul.  The only hint to his identity are his trusty DCs and a comfortable blue beanie—items that are wearable, items that just about anybody can get by with.  

Somehow, it’s relieving to be able to walk outside stripped bare of the Louis Vuitton, the Chrome Hearts, the Dior.  Gone is the pressure for G-Dragon to be a standout, and it’s like being able to breathe again.

Dazedly, he walks among  the crowds of Seoul within the lightened streets.  So long as he has on his darkened aviators, no one appears to recognize him.  If someone double-takes in his direction, that’s when he makes a run for it.

A thread of an idea fleets through his mind when he arrives at the subway station, and it’s something he’s seen in a movie.  It’s quite famous: the scene of a drunk girl leaning over the tracks too far as the train is about to come.  Jiyong purchases a cheap, one-way ticket east from his location.  Maybe he’ll pay his parents a surprise visit. Or maybe he’ll remain here, leaping as soon as the train pulls in, and then no one will be there to stop him, and he won’t have to deal with anything anymore.

But what will they think?  he wonders, as he’s staring at the tracks and contemplating.  How will they react when they learn the truth about the seemingly confident G-Dragon; when they learn that he’s actually a loner who’s so insecure, he can barely stand to look at himself in the mirror?

It’s almost a dead end, but not quite.  Being in such a terrible mood, he figures the least he can do is drink away his troubles and dull the pain they bring him.  So he yanks his hood well over his ears, carefully adjusts his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, and stumbles into the nearest bar.

Though it closes at midnight (which is within the next hour), Jiyong doesn’t plan to stay very long.  After all, the place isn’t particularly crowded—just a few near college age friends at a table in the back, and most of the seats up front taken by a miscellany of kinda of folks.  Squinting to see the menu overhead as he takes a seat, he gives up due to the dark atmosphere.  ”Just give me anything,” he tells the bartender quietly, “the harder the better.”

A number of shots down and it occurs to him that he only has his credit card, which is a dead giveaway regarding his identity; yet at this point he’s not in his right mind and can scarcely consider the consequences of his actions.  When he’s almost filled to the brim and it’s time to pay the bill, he lets the bartender in on a secret: he’s currently penniless.

The next thing he knows is that his lip’s busted and bloody, and there’s a door that’s been slammed in his face, and he feels even more crappy than he had before.  Jiyong sits on the curb with his head hanging low, curious as to why God (if he’s even up there) can’t simply let him get struck by some car since he can’t thing of a damn thing in the world that’s worth feeling like this.

Then suddenly there’s a hand on his shoulder.  Jiyong flinches at the contact, but doesn’t budge or even bother lifting his head.

“Are you all right?” someone says next to him, so Jiyong slowly raises his chin and gazes at the person out of the corner of his eye.  Of all people to find here, it’s Daesung.  

Jiyong opens his mouth to answer, but it’s sore so he merely nods.  It’s so blatantly a lie that Daesung ignores him (after all, there’s blood running down his throat and he’s in need of some swathe to cease the flow).  Instead, he chooses to tell him why he’s here in the first place.

“Youngbae was really worried, so he told the rest of us to look out for you,” Daesung explains. Gesturing toward the elder’s scars, he continues: “He says it’s because of those.”

Self-consciously, Jiyong crosses his arms in order to keep his attempts at self-mutilation hidden.  ”Sheeeeesh, that Youngbae.  Why, I already told him I got scratched by a cat!” he drawls intoxicatedly.

“Is that really so?”  Those wary eyes regard him, and he knows he just can’t lie to him anymore.  Jiyong grits his teeth and stares overhead, willing the tears not to fall.

“No…” Jiyong admits finally, and it dawns on him, just how ashamed he really is.  ”It was me. I did it to myself.”

Daesung doesn’t respond, but Jiyong rants on and on in all his drunken misery.  ”Dunno why… it felt good, you know?  I mean it hurt but it made me feel better, lessened what I had to endure internally.  Somehow.  ’Cause you know, lately, I’ve been falling apart, I’m so sorry.  I’m a crap leader.  These things get to me, you know?  After everything last year, my reputation… stressing about us, and my solo album, and writing and overseeing everything, ‘cause that’s what they expect of me, and it all has to be perfect.  And I miss my girlfriend, I miss my family, and my passion for my work, it’s eluding me.  That’s all I’ve got, that’s everything, my love for what I do.  My dreams, my pride, all I’ve ever cared for.  Now I’ve lost it somehow, my drive, and I just don’t know what to do.  I’m just begging, just praying, ‘cause I need help but I don’t know how, and it’s really killing me.”

Jiyong goes on for a while like this, while Daesung listens.  By the end of it all, he’s dangerously close to tears; he’s speaking of not only his unhappiness but of how it’d be better if he could just end it, so he wouldn’t have to suffer anymore.

After Jiyong has worn himself out, Daesung remains silent.  It’s not that he wants his hyung to continue in this way of thinking.  In fact, he clearly recalls thinking the same kinds of things, even considering suicide… and how his faith saved him from committing something horrible.  But he also realizes that if he tells his story and offers advice now, Jiyong won’t even remember tomorrow morning.  

“It’ll be all right.  We’ll get past this,” Daesung pipes up, smiling as brightly as he possibly can.  ”We made it last year to our comeback, after all that happened.  You can’t just give up now, you know?”

“Y—yeah,” Jiyong responds shakily, a sob rising in his throat.  He doesn’t really believe it, though.  Reassuringly, Daesung pats the older member on the back, watching tears stream down his face.  It’s weird because while Jiyong is sort of sensitive, he’s not one to cry; especially with the added responsibility of being the leader.  Then again, he’s drunk.

Sighing, he stands up at last and brushes off his jacket.  ”Can you walk at all?”

Jiyong wobbles on his feet and staggers.  Daesung chuckles kindly and interprets that as a ‘no’.

“Here, I’ll help you.  Lean on my right shoulder,” Daesung suggests.  If worst comes to worst, he figures he can carry him home, especially considering how he’s been lifting weights lately.  Nowadays, Jiyong is emaciated to the point of weighing little more than a teenage girl.  

Wordlessly, they trod on home.  Daesung avoids inhaling the smoke that emanates from Jiyong’s cigarette, which proves difficult when he’s walking (or rather, stumbling) right next to him.  It’s a twenty minute trip to the apartment, where Daesung proceeds to drop Jiyong onto the bed, then head to his kitchen to begin cooking the rice and something else.

Jiyong catches a whiff of the aroma, and miserably tries to block it out. 

Daesung pops his head in, grinning cheerfully.  ”Since you’ll probably throw this up anyway, I’ll save this for breakfast or lunch tomorrow.  Whenever you’re feeling better.”

“Fine,” Jiyong gives in, too exhausted to protest.  Though it’s been ages since he’s had a real meal, and he’s become so accustomed to skipping them.  He wonders if he’d even be able to take it.

But Daesung returns to his bedroom, explaining about how he’s invited himself over for the week, and how he’s going to make sure Jiyong eats three meals a day as well as snacks.  Then he goes on to say how he’s hidden and destroyed the stash of Marlboro in the back of the closet, and the stash of beer in the fridge, and Jiyong quite seriously considers killing him but backtracks ‘cause his smile’s too pretty for him to stay annoyed.

And when Daesung brings a cup of water and one small tablet, Jiyong manages to crack a smile for him.  Perhaps the people who care about him are right.  Perhaps life is worth enduring, and he can savor its most fulfilling instances.  Although it’s a theory, just maybe, it’s a theory worth sticking around to toy with.