The Only Child

by Mi-ae Seo

  Yes, the first memory I have is that of struggling painfully under the pillow in my mom’s hands. That’s my first memory, so I’m sure you can guess the things that happened after that.

  Whenever I try to picture my mom and me, I can only recall scenes in which I’m being beaten, or running or hiding from her, huddled in a corner, frightened.

  She did smile at me once in a while. But that was only when she was trying to catch me, with a stick behind her back, or when she had an underlying motive. If I went up to her, fooled by the smile, her rough hand would grab my tender arm and twist it, or slap me.

  I would resolve in my heart not to be deceived by her again, but would fail every time. When it became possible for me to outrun her, she shouted, cursing at me. But no curse could catch me.

  But you know something?

  Words can leave a deeper, more terrible wound than a slap on the cheek. Angry that she couldn’t catch me, she would shout like crazy. Even when I covered up my ears, the words burrowed inside me. Those words wounded me, and the wounds festered inside. I became full of dirty blood, pus, and polluted words and thoughts.

  When I was little, I couldn’t even look people in the eye. I would stiffen and my heart would start beating faster if I so much as heard someone approach. If my eyes happened to meet someone else’s, I would avert my gaze and run. I thought everyone in the world hated me.

  I thought that my mom beat me every day because everyone hated me, that nobody wanted me in the world. I thought my very self was a horror. Only later did I find out that it was just my mom who hated me.

  Do I hate my mom?

  No, no. How could I? She’s my mom.

  I love my mom.

  3.

  WHEN THE LIGHTS CAME ON IN THE CLASSROOM, THE students let out a sigh of relief, as if they’d woken up from a nightmare. The students who had been sitting by the window hastily drew back the curtains that were keeping the sun out and opened the window. When sunlight and fresh air filled the room, it became lively again. The crimes that had made the students tremble in fear seemed to vanish into the sunlight.

  Seonkyeong turned off the LCD projector and turned around to face the students.

  From the way they were talking in low voices, she could sense faint traces of fear and anxiety. But just as a nightmare could no longer threaten the day once you were awake, the fear they felt would soon evaporate.

  The students’ eyes had been sparkling with curiosity and excitement when the lecture began.

  Their faces were full of anticipation, as if to say, we’re finally going to see it! It was just as someone had said: they had waited a whole semester for it. When the slides began to appear on the screen, the noise quickly died down. The excitement was replaced by a heavy atmosphere.

  As the photographs were shown one by one, moans of fear and confusion could be heard here and there in the classroom. Everyone was focused on the lecture, and it was so quiet that you could hear the sound of a pen drop. The students, listening to Seonkyeong explain, looked stiff with shock.

  There’s nothing more frightening than reality.

  The weight of an actual crime scene, like no horror movie, reveals the cold-bloodedness of humans. The student representative, who had talked big, saying it couldn’t be as bad as a slasher movie, was at a loss for words. The gap between reality and fiction was greater than they could have imagined. On top of that, seeing with their own eyes how the criminals’ twisted imaginations had damaged the victims, they seemed deeply disturbed by the brutality of an actual crime scene.

  The special lecture Seonkyeong had given a year before had led to her post at the school, and she’d given a lot of thought as to what the final lecture should deal with. Since the course was an introduction to criminal psychology, she had no choice but to teach theories by countless psychologists with unfamiliar terms, but that wasn’t the kind of class she’d wanted to teach. It wasn’t the kind of class that the students wanted, either.

  From the first day, the students showed great interest in Seonkyeong and had high expectations. The rumors of the special lecture, as well as her profile on the school website, had piqued their curiosity.

  During her first lecture, a student gave Seonkyeong the nickname “Clarice.” It was the name of the fictional FBI cadet agent who investigated a serial murder case with the help of Hannibal Lecter, a genius serial killer. The fact that Seonkyeong had been trained by the FBI, and in the Behavioral Analysis Unit at that, was of great interest to the students. Naturally, the questions poured out during the first lecture.

  Seonkyeong was flustered at first. She couldn’t understand why the students were asking such questions. Only afterward when she heard about her profile on the school website did she realize what had gone wrong.

  “Trained in the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI.”

  What she had mentioned in passing during her interview with the dean had been placed on her profile. Having seen that, the students imagined that Seonkyeong had been trained as an investigator like Clarice Starling in The Silence of the Lambs. She wanted to tell them that there had been a misunderstanding, but the students’ eyes, full of curiosity and admiration, made her hesitate.

  It was true that she had been trained by the FBI, but it was different from what the students imagined.

  What Seonkyeong had received was a two-week training program—ten days to be exact, five days each week—provided for outstanding students of criminal psychology at a university in the eastern United States. By the time Seonkyeong became familiar enough with the vast FBI Academy to find the bathroom without getting lost, the training was over. She had seen no more than the door to the Behavioral Analysis Unit, and had only a distant view of the special agent, a master at profiling, while listening to his lecture in an auditorium. It was almost something of a publicity program for the FBI, it seemed, a cursory training.

  The students, however, who had no such information, were full of admiration. Seonkyeong tried to avoid talking about it, saying it wasn’t a big deal, but they wouldn’t let her leave it at that. She was freed from the topic only after relating some personal anecdotes, including those belonging to someone with whom she had shared a room during the training.

  She had said in passing that she would tell them about the serial killers she’d learned about at the FBI if she had a chance. The students remembered what she’d said, and waited all semester. Naturally, in the end, that became the topic of the final lecture. Seonkyeong put a lot into the preparation, thinking it was a good topic with which to wrap up the course.

  She searched diligently on Google and wrote an e-mail to a friend in the States so as not to disappoint the students, who were full of anticipation. Luckily, she was able to find the images she wanted through Google searches alone, and Jessi helped her out with what little she lacked.

  She figured it would be easy for Jessi, her roommate in the dorm and who was now working as a researcher at a private crime lab, to get her hands on some materials. At Seonkyeong’s request, Jessi willingly got her what she needed. Jessi was able to gather a lot more material than Seonkyeong had expected, thanks to the information system of U.S. public institutions. When Seonkyeong sent an e-mail saying thank you, and mentioned that the students had nicknamed her “Clarice,” Jessi replied, “Say hello for me if you ever meet the Korean Hannibal.”

  Seonkyeong had been packing her bag, thinking she should let Jessi know that the lecture was a success thanks to her, when someone called out, “Professor!” She turned around and saw a student sitting by the window with an arm raised.

  Seonkyeong nodded her head, and the student stood up and asked a question.

  “We’ve been hearing about the childhoods of serial killers. Does that mean that serial killers can be detected from when they’re little?”

  She could understand why the student was asking such a question. The material must have been overwhelming. Why had those serial killers become what they were? Dozens of questions would now beg
in to pour out.

  “That’s something psychologists were greatly concerned with all through the twentieth century. Criminal psychologists sought to find out where the root of the criminal character lay. Scholars studying genes and biological evidence thought it lay in birth, and those who observed social environment thought that the environment caused it. And those who studied photographs of criminals’ brains claimed that crime was a result of brain damage.”

  Seonkyeong paused for a moment and looked at the students one by one.

  “What do you think?”

  Everyone looked at her, captivated, waiting for her next words.

  It seemed that they didn’t want the lecture to end yet. Feeling a sense of satisfaction, Seonkyeong thought about what to say next, and asked, “Have you heard of the McDonald’s Triangle?”

  “Big Mac, McMorning, and apple pie!” a student in the back quipped. The students, who had been listening in earnest, broke out in smiles. Seonkyeong smiled as well.

  “That’s a different McDonald you’re talking about. The one I’m talking about is an American psychologist. He maintained that the three childhood characteristics of bed-wetting, arson, and cruel behavior to animals indicate whether someone will turn out to be mentally ill or normal. You’ve heard of these characteristics before, right?”

  “They’re the childhood characteristics of serial killers,” a girl sitting in the front row answered.

  “That’s right. Serial killers have those characteristics in common. There are exceptions, of course, but most serial killers showed such behavior in their childhood. Did any of you wet your bed when you were little?”

  Seonkyeong looked at the students and raised her hand.

  The students looked at each other to see who raised their hands. When the student who had asked the first question raised his hand, several others did as well, laughing.

  “Some of you haven’t raised your hands, but it shows on your face,” Seonkyeong joked, and more laughter followed.

  “Now, who’s ever played with fire?”

  More students raised their hands this time, no longer hesitant.

  “And finally, who has ever done something cruel to an animal?”

  This time, no one raised their hands. Seonkyeong looked around at the students, and said, “When I was in elementary school, there was a popular game the kids played. A man came in front of the school to sell little chicks, and the boys put their money together and bought all the chicks and went up to the roof of an apartment building. And . . . you can guess what happened next, can’t you?”

  The girls covered their mouths, grimacing. But the guys were different. Remembering at last, they looked around at each other and nodded. Their eyes showed a secret bond of sympathy.

  “Yes, just as you’ve guessed, the boys dropped the chicks, one by one, out of a sort of curiosity. They didn’t think what they were doing was cruel—it was more like an experiment. They wanted to find out if the chicks would survive the fall. Let’s say it was an experiment to measure the flying capacity of the chicks.”

  The look of hesitation disappeared from the guys’ faces. Seonkyeong smiled and asked another question.

  “Have you ever conducted an experiment on an animal to satisfy your curiosity?”

  “Does dissecting a frog count?”

  “Yes, I suppose, if it wasn’t because you were told to, but because you wanted to see for yourself.”

  This time, a number of students raised their hands, including girls.

  “Now, how many of you raised your hands to all three questions?”

  Four students raised their hands. One of them began to raise his hand, then hastily lowered it after looking around, making everyone laugh again.

  “So there are four of you here in this classroom. Are any of you a serial killer?” Seonkyeong challenged.

  One of the students pointed to himself, trying to get attention, then stopped when the others told him off.

  “Now you see what’s wrong, don’t you? Yes, an error occurs when you generalize a special circumstance. Even if these are the childhood characteristics of serial killers, not everyone who has them is a serial killer. In fact, the numbers would be extremely few,” Seonkyeong said.

  “Which argument do you side with? Nature or nurture?” one of the students asked.

  “That’s what psychology deals with. There’s no one right answer. As Einstein said, the last human frontier is not the universe, but the human mind,” Seonkyeong answered.

  To students who were used to always getting clear answers to their questions, psychology could be an ambiguous and frustrating field. Everyone looked deep in thought, reflecting on what Seonkyeong had said. She looked at the clock on the wall. The time was up.

  “Any other questions?” Seonkyeong said to wrap up.

  The students packed their bags, sensing that the lecture was coming to an end, but a student wearing black horn-rimmed glasses raised her hand. Everyone stopped packing, and looked at her.

  “Why did only they become serial killers, when others had the same experiences in their childhoods?”

  Seonkyeong had expected the question. She always asked herself the same thing.

  Why? Why did they become criminals?

  There was no question, however, as difficult to answer as “Why?” Human beings were much too complex to be summed up in a word. Seonkyeong herself had much to learn. Being fairly new in the field of criminal psychology, she could not yet answer the question. When would she know?

  “I can talk about how serial killers committed murders, cut up the victims, or ate them, but to be honest, I don’t know why they became serial killers. Their behaviors are something that can be observed, but the question as to why can’t be fully answered even by the killers themselves.”

  The student didn’t seem satisfied by the reply. Looking at the student, Seonkyeong added, “I have asked myself, however, what kind of impact your childhood experiences—pulling wings off butterflies or dragonflies, kicking puppies, dropping chicks from a roof—leave on your mind. Once you lose interest, you stop doing those things out of curiosity. Or you are able to stop, realizing how awful and loathsome those acts are. As I said before, it’s something you experience as a rite of passage in your childhood.”

  Seonkyeong paused to collect her thoughts.

  “Some people, though, have an evolving curiosity, meaning that they move on from little insects to little animals, such as birds or mice, and then on to bigger animals. The experiences are no longer awful and loathsome, but fascinating and absorbing. Then they move on to human beings. The incomprehensible damages and marks on the victims’ bodies show how their minds work.”

  “Do you think it’s something you’re born with, then?” asked the same student.

  “In part, yes. But not entirely. I read a book that said that serial killers and surgeons have two things in common—a cool head and boldness. But even if they both started out from childhood curiosity, they can end up worlds apart, depending on the environment given to them or chosen by them.”

  The student who had asked the question nodded her head. Seonkyeong looked at the other students, who were paying close attention to her words. She felt both sad and pleased that the semester was thus coming to an end.

  To wrap up what she was saying, she returned to the lectern.

  “Many factors make up serial killers, just as many puzzle pieces form a picture. The factors include genetic disposition, personality traits, growth environment, current state, psychological conditions, and so on. Just as paper starts burning through a lens you hold under sunlight, focusing on one point, I believe serial killers are born when various factors are put together, creating a point of ignition.”

  Several students nodded.

  “Paul Britton, a British psychologist, referred to himself as someone who puts puzzles together. He was right. The task of criminal psychologists is to piece together scattered materials to draw up the psychology of the criminal, like puttin
g a puzzle together. Each of those pieces is collected during the process in which someone becomes a serial killer. If even one of the pieces is missing, we wouldn’t be able to fully understand why the person evolved into a serial killer.”

  “Can’t we just ask?” a naive-looking girl in the front row asked. Her friend sitting next to her nudged her with her elbow, as if to chide her for what she was saying.

  “I mean, can’t profilers and criminal psychologists ask the serial killers when they interview them?”

  “Do you think they’d tell the truth?” Seonkyeong asked in reply.

  The girl hesitated, then tilted her head to the side with a blank look on her face.

  It didn’t seem to have occurred to her that criminals would lie. How nice it would be if criminals gave honest answers to all questions, as the girl innocently thought. But Seonkyeong had never heard of such a criminal.

  “They don’t agree to an interview in order to tell the truth. They want to flaunt themselves and confirm their power. To that end, they tell lies, exaggerate, and talk big,” she explained.

  “How can you tell? Whether they’re lying or talking big . . . ,” the girl asked timidly.

  “What’s more accurate than their lies is the scene of the crime. Unfortunately, the crime scene is made up of countless codes, and deciphering them isn’t an easy task. The many crime scenes we just took a look at give us clues as to where all the puzzle pieces are, and we must complete the picture by putting them together.”

  The girl nodded, understanding at last. Seonkyeong looked around at the students to see if they had any further questions, but most of them were closing their books or packing their bags. It seemed now that they were just waiting for the class to be over.

  “Well, that’s it for this semester. Good job, everyone. Good luck on the test, and have a great vacation.”

  As soon as Seonkyeong finished speaking, the students rose from their seats and left the classroom. When she turned around after packing up the projector, the seats were deserted.

  Looking at the empty classroom, Seonkyeong heaved a sigh, relieved that the first semester had gone well. She felt a little sad and tired, in a good way. She realized how much she enjoyed teaching. Feeling a sense of satisfaction, she began to walk out of the classroom, when her bag started to shake. Her phone was vibrating.