FOOL Ch 3

What am I supposed to do with a steamed bun that’s frozen solid like a rock?

Just the fact that he didn’t think of such a scenario beforehand, even though we were in the middle of the winter, told me that he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. He seemed to be under the impression that I left the house every day because, after the persimmon incident, the things he left for me kept increasing, ranging from carp-shaped bread to even rice cake sticks. With each new item, a strange sense of guilt began to accumulate alongside it.

At some point, I found myself leaving my front gate every day. I could tell from the fact that all the [Thank you, Doctor] notes were written in different handwriting that he was illiterate as well.

There were too many possible explanations as to why he had no identification card and didn’t know his real name despite having lived with his mom until age nine, so I gave up trying to figure that out. The indolent me was already busy enough being depressed, only ever leaving energy aside for writing.

Apart from the times my maternal uncle and aunt came to visit the house—or the occasions when I was forcefully dragged to theirs for dinner—I lived detached from the rest of the world. Initially, I viewed such a secluded life as torture. It was a punishment I naturally deserved for being the sole survivor. As the years went by, that punishment became my life itself, as if I had fully atoned for the sin of surviving alone. Now, stepping outside or engaging with others felt like torture and punishment to me.

The feeling of sadness had long ceased to be purely sadness in itself. In the end, I’m nothing more than a human being who uses my depression as an excuse to stay addicted to this state of mine and indulge in my own hysteria. Funnily enough, the novels penned by this version of myself became bestsellers.

One day, I posted my twisted writing, a mockery of myself as I projected my image onto the protagonist, and ended up being offered a contract. Out of pure curiosity, I signed it. Soon, I was hailed as a writer. In actuality, however, I was nothing more than an escapist from reality, someone who feigned absence when the next-door neighbour, who had been on close terms with my mom, rang the doorbell, and someone who hid behind the pen name Yoo Jaehee, the name of my little sister.

There was no room for self-pity or love between the characters in my writing. I mostly wrote stories that were straightforward simply because of how bleak the future looked—stories where the wretched and verbally abusive characters get murdered, with the narrative then shifting to uncovering the culprit behind the crime—those kinds of detective novels.

Eventually, I grew tired of that, so I began jotting down words and phrases that created the illusion of astounding and profound consciousness, rambling on about human society and the world as if I were shitting out a list. Then, people started hailing it as a masterpiece. Are you kidding me? Many people read my works, as if all the remaining luck in my unfortunate life had funnelled into my novels. I was so embarrassed, I never pretended to act that way again.

No matter how I wrote, my stories were always filled to the brim with hysteria and hatred, so I just don’t get why they keep selling. Anyone who reads even just a little bit can easily discern how shallow I am. My phrases lacked refinement, and it wasn’t like the themes of my novels reflected any sort of profound consciousness either. I wasn’t actually as knowledgeable as someone at the hospital had once admired me for. Actual influential people with a true talent for writing existed all across the globe. Still, writing itself was enjoyable. I wonder how I found the energy to write for so long. Well, I haven’t written any stories that I’ve actually put much thought into, so maybe that’s why.

Winter passed, and spring set in. I didn’t see any more black bags after the steamed bun incident. Still, I found myself habitually checking the front gate every day. I wasn’t waiting. I just wanted to feel less guilty for dumping the bags in the garbage can. The guilt I felt back then came with a side of unfairness. That pure and ignorant kindness of his felt like a sudden punch to the face for me.

Like any other day, I opened the front gate. Then, I locked eyes with the man, who was straightening his waist after placing down a bag.

“Oh… Hello, Doctor.”

In character for a social misfit, or simply due to my horrible temper, I immediately raised sharp thorns towards him, as if I had been waiting.

“Why do you keep leaving weird stuff in front of the gate? All it does is add to the trash.”

His light brown eyes, flecked with specks of gold, trembled. It reminded me of a bird who had gotten pricked by a thorn. I wasn’t the type to indulge in such sentimental thoughts, but his life, sad in a way that was indescribable in words, seemed to drizzle its sorrow at its own initiative. The fact that I had taken out my annoyance on him and, in turn, hurt him didn’t thrill me in the slightest.

I watched as he bent down slowly and picked up the bag he had just placed. Inside the bag was a branch with blooming cherry blossoms jutting out. It was obvious he had broken it off and placed it inside the bag to give to me, but sadly, feeling moved was one of the many feelings I lacked. At that time, the only feelings I had left were longing for my family, silent and twisted anger, the barest hint of morality, and a bit of compassion.

“I was wondering if you’d see it that way, but I guess I was right. I’m sorry.”

He smiled again. Even though my words stabbed and wounded him. It’s because he keeps smiling like an idiot and apologizes as naturally as breathing that he keeps getting beat, I thought. At the same time, I couldn’t help but wonder what happened to the clothes I bought him, seeing the dirty state he was in. He still looked thin, with sunken cheeks, leading me to suspect he might have a gambling addiction or was perhaps even a junkie.

“Are you in debt?”

“No.”

“Do you have some kind of addiction?”

“Addiction? I don’t drink or smoke.”

“Give me your number.”

For a moment, I scolded myself internally, asking if I was crazy. Even now, I still can’t figure out just why I asked for his number. Maybe it would make more sense if it was something like fate—my fate of giving him my name as well as giving him my heart. Fate, for someone like me who still doesn’t believe in such things.

The answer I got in return was still as ludicrous and novel as what he had said when he tried to return the envelope minus two hundred thousand won.

“I don’t have a phone.”

“Who doesn’t have a phone these days? What are you, a time traveller?”

A time traveller. In an attempt to be mean to him, I ended up using such a childish expression. Bullying had always been an immature thing, naturally bringing forth an image that showed a regressed version of one’s true self. Even after that, I frequently said narrow-minded and mean things to him, like an adolescent boy.

“There are very few people I need to contact, and it’s hard to get one.”

“This is why you can’t find a decent job. Why are you so skinny and timid?”

Thanks to my parents, I had always had an abundance of money, and being lucky in what I do, I was able to earn easy cash by tapping away at my keyboard and writing words I thought were bullshit in the comfort of my home. I was also good at running my mouth, telling the young man in front of me he couldn’t get himself any decent jobs.

I still can’t forget the image of his hands, which I had finally got a proper look at back then. He showed me his outstretched hands, the bag straps hanging from his wrist, and slowly turned them over. As if inviting me to peer into his life. There was a collision in my thoughts, as if I were in denial, wondering what kind of life he had to have lived for his hands to be reduced to such a state at the age of twenty-four.

“I don’t know what or how I need to improve, but… I’m working hard enough for my hands to blister. I’m really doing my best.”

“So why don’t you have any money or a place to go? Did you get scammed?”

“I didn’t get scammed. It was stolen.”

“Why? Who? Your money?”

He smiled again. A smile that didn’t befit the words he was about to say at all.

“…I trusted them because I wanted to. I wanted to trust that they were a good person.”

“You should report it to the police.”

“Stateless people can’t report things.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck!

I barely managed to restrain the curses—words I hadn’t even used even back in middle school—from escaping between my teeth. Gripping his wrist, thin enough to stoke my anger, I pulled him through the garden. The rustling of the plastic bag dangling from the wrist I was grabbing grated on my nerves. Clenching my teeth, I endured the sound. Then, I sat him down on the toenmaru¹, as if I were tossing him onto it.

As soon as I saw his face, staring up at me with puppy dog eyes, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for myself for pitying the rascal. Who should be pitying whom right now? I had to be the most unfortunate fellow in the world, but a fellow even more hopeless than me appeared right before my eyes. Like a weed that suddenly appeared in my life, a life that hated the unannounced, he penetrated through the soil and tenaciously grew, refusing to wither.

“How did they steal your money?”

“They… borrowed my bankbook. But all the money disappeared.”

“What are you doing now?”

“I work in the market at dawn, transporting fruits and vegetables, and from morning to evening, I work at Auntie’s restaurant, and during the evening I—”

“You said you didn’t have any family, so what’s with this Auntie?”

“I got to know her back in January. She gave me food and a job. Everyone calls her Auntie Ok.”

How can you be this skinny when there’s someone feeding you? What do you eat? Have you always had a skinny build? Or do you have some kind of illness? It was evident that, were I to ask all of those questions, I would become a branch that continuously extends with no end in sight. Just the simple act of showing enough proactivity to grab his wrist back there, dragging him to my house, and seating him on my maru² to bombard him with questions felt like splitting the sea in two for me.

Anger. It transcended pity and transformed into anger. My anger at the injustice of it all spurred me into action.

“Where are you staying right now?”

“Sometimes I sleep in the attic of Auntie’s restaurant, and sometimes I sleep in other places.”

“Where are these other places?”

“Saunas, PC rooms, and at Taewook hyung’s place when he calls me.”

“How can this Taewook person call you if you have no phone?”

“It’s pretty obvious where I stay, so either hyung or his friends will come find me. If there’s a need to call, I use the payphone.”

“Why can’t you keep sleeping in Auntie’s attic?”

“Auntie also sleeps in a room attached to the restaurant, so whenever Auntie’s boyfriend comes over, I have to sleep elsewhere.”

Asking him questions after questions, none of which would do any good for my life, I felt as though I had plunged into the mire of wanting to do something for him—a feeling from which I couldn’t escape. It was something that should never happen.

“Is Taewook hyung the one who gave you the job of carpenter’s assistant?”

“Yes.”

Questions, one after another. I slowly grew tired of my own thoughts, wanting to ask him when he got to know that hyung and where he met him. Blatantly staring at me after I stopped talking, he pulled out the cherry blossom branch from the plastic bag hanging from his wrist and extended it towards me. With that very hand of his, a mess of calluses and scars—a hand that would’ve been nice to look at in its original state. Nonetheless, his fingers still appeared straight and pretty, causing my chest to ache. If my younger sister were still alive, she would have been close in age to him, both in their twenties. Because of that, I carved out a space in my heart, as though crumpling a reason and forcing it into a small room.

Eyes that had nothing to hide from the word looked towards me. A guy who didn’t even know he made me cry with the persimmon he had given me.

He descended like rain and drenched me, who was left in a defenseless state. As if it were always meant to be that way. Maybe that was why. I allowed myself to be drenched, helpless. And afterward, the little rascal dried me, only to drench me again, sending me into a frenzy.