As we approached the crossing, she broke into a run. She kept looking back, almost twisting her ankle in her heels. She was a wuss. But even for a wuss she had some nerve. When she got to the crossing, she whipped around and screamed, ‘Who are you?’
I didn’t answer. How dare she speak to me that way? What the hell had I done? I hadn’t spoken to her, I hadn’t bothered her; I hadn’t even appeared in her sights. All I was doing was going where I had to go.
Right then, her phone began ringing. She screamed and flapped about. The phone flew into the middle of the road as she dashed across and screamed again. A car that had rounded the corner in front of the primary school had to screech to a stop. All the sounds mixed in the fog: the tyres skidding, the screaming that echoed and grew fainter, the sound of the phone ringing in the middle of the street.
Quiet returned. The car and the woman were both gone. I strode towards the crossing. I stood under the light for a moment, my arms limp. The joy was gone. I was so hungry. I was drained and my head felt muffled. What had I done? What was I yearning for that made me so famished? I picked up her phone. The name of the caller was on the smashed screen. Mimi. I walked over to the water and tossed it in.
And that was the last time I’d seen the woman. Maybe she’d made sure not to be out alone in the dark again. As for me, I developed a habit of going out in the middle of the night to see if the electric feeling the woman had given me had been real. After several test runs, I confirmed that I liked following women more than men. Their sense of what was behind them was better attuned, and they were much more afraid. There was nothing more thrilling, honestly. When I reached the crossing by the sea wall after rounding the observatory, it was fifty-fifty whether someone would get off the last bus. And the possibility that it would be a woman was half of that. The road by Dongjin River was my playground. But the baseline for getting that jolt went up each time. Each time I went out, I’d need to take a new object with me, something to set the mood and get my imagination going. Like heavy metal in my headphones, a disposable mask, or latex gloves.
I didn’t go out every night. I went out when I was off my meds, and only if I had the urge. If I encountered a woman and got my fix, I could start taking my pills again, and I wouldn’t feel like going out for a while, as though I were in remission. But if I didn’t see a woman, the urge continued unabated. Since that August day, I’d felt it a total of six times. Two of those times, I’d seen a woman. The first was on 15 November, and the second was last night, the only time I’d run away when I was following someone.
I thought she’d got off the bus alone, but now a question popped into my head: had she really been alone? I remembered waking up this morning with the vision of the crimson umbrella rolling along the road. I’d remembered something else when I left Yongi’s – a woman opening the crimson umbrella as she got off the bus, and the drunken man who followed her, his singing reverberating through the streets.
Another question occurred to me. Had I really been standing in front of the crossing last night? A chill began creeping up my legs. No. I had been behind Yongi’s. I hadn’t even been standing; I was sitting on the railing, looking down at the ocean, waiting for the last bus to arrive. That made the most sense. Mr Yongi usually closed his shack at 11.20 and was on the bus ten minutes later. I arrived at Yongi’s after rounding the observatory around 11.50. The last bus got in around midnight. That had been the schedule every night I’ve been out via the roof; last night would have been the same.
Had I really run away from her? Or maybe the question was: had I really been feeling the symptoms of a seizure all day today? It wasn’t like I’d had an episode every time I stopped taking the pills. Did I think I was about to have one just because that was the easy explanation for why I couldn’t remember anything? Perhaps the confusion and memory loss I’d been experiencing today was actually due to something else entirely.
A bright light blinded me. A screech behind the curtain of light; the sound of a car braking suddenly, skidding on the wet road. The sound of a car door opening, and Mother screaming, ‘Yu-jin!’
The man’s singing had stopped a while ago. It was deadly quiet. Only the wind was screaming past.
I know I saw him. I’m cold and scared and terrified.
Please stop! I wanted to scream. The voices and images flashing in front of me were jumbled; I couldn’t thread them together into chronological order. I lay down on the journal, my cheek resting on the page. The things on my desk rotated across my visual field as though they were on a conveyer belt. The razor, the pearl earring, the key to the roof. I raised my head. I stared at the iPod and earphones, feeling unsettled. I thought back to the very beginning, right before I left my room last night. I picked the iPod up and pressed the power button; my playlist was stopped at Vangelis’s ‘Conquest of Paradise’. If I listened to this playlist from the beginning, this was the song that came on exactly one hour and fifty-two minutes later. So I was right. I’d left the house at 10.10 p.m., rounded the observatory, and turned off the music when I arrived at the crossing by the sea wall around midnight.
I slid the earphones into my ears. I closed my eyes and thought back to last night, when the clock in the living room had chimed ten times. I tapped the first song on the playlist and hit play. The song, ‘Mass’, began. Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom boom, boom, boom boom, boom…
The clock in the living room chimed ten times.
Mother had gone into her room thirty minutes ago and closed the door. Hae-jin wasn’t home yet. For the last half-hour I’d been lying on my bed with my head in my hands, not because of a headache but because of my insane urge. It had been four days since I stopped taking the pills. I’d been roaming the neighbourhood like a wild dog for the last three nights. A part of my mind was coaxing me, trying to convince me to go out and play just once more. The faint buzz I was still feeling from last night fervently supported that. Don’t be such a wimp. You’re not hurting anyone, you’re just enjoying yourself. How is it different from masturbating? And you didn’t land anything the last two days. Just do it, unless you plan to stop altogether. You’re not one to do things halfway.
I flipped onto my back. I laced my fingers under my neck and calculated the date. I’d stopped taking my pills in August, before the exam, then two months later before the oral exams in November, and now, not even a month later, for no particular reason. Maybe I’d stop taking them completely. Then either I’d have another seizure, or Mother would figure it out before it got to that point.
So the only solution was to go out tonight. If I didn’t, it was likely that I wouldn’t take the pill tomorrow either. The danger would grow. Today was the last day. Tomorrow, or maybe the day after that, I’d become the best person I could be.
I got up. I opened my wardrobe and took out some clothes and put them on quickly. A black turtleneck sweater, sweatpants, socks, the padded vest and the Private Lesson jacket. I stuffed a pair of latex gloves, the roof key and the building entry card in my left jacket pocket. I put on a disposable mask, slid my iPod into my right pocket and secured the earphones with a clip under my ears. I pulled the hood onto my head and cinched it with the cord. I took my shoes from the panel in the bathroom ceiling and picked up the razor. I’d never gone out with the razor. I’d saved it for the end. Since tonight was probably – definitely – the last time, I put it in my pocket. My heart was already pounding from that simple act.
I locked my bedroom door from the inside, listening for any noise downstairs. It was quiet. Mother was probably already asleep. Please sleep through, I thought. I checked my clock: 10.10. I put on my shoes and left the sliding door slightly ajar, putting an earphone in one ear. ‘Mass’ started. Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom boom, boom, boom boom, boom…
It was raining hard. It was dark and the fog was thicker than usual. I moved like a blind man, feeling the ground with the tips of my toes. I inched over to the pergola and turned on the light.
I ran down the stairs, the music
booming in one ear and Hello’s barking ringing in the other. When I reached the ground floor, I could see someone opening the main door to leave the building. This late at night? Whoever it was, I didn’t want to see them. I ducked my head down and darted out so that the CCTV camera by the front entrance would catch only the back of my head. Outside, I began sprinting.
When I got to Yongi’s, the fourth song on my playlist, ‘Cry for the Moon’, began. The waves were crashing loudly beyond the sea wall. The roads were quiet, almost eerie. Other than infrequent headlights, nothing moved. Yongi’s was already dark. He must have closed early. I crouched in front of the shack to tighten my shoelaces, and then I flew like Usain Bolt until I stopped in front of the observatory, my engine overheated. I was panting, my head was hot, my ribs were sore. I had a stitch in my side and my thighs felt stiff. I hobbled down below the observatory and sat on the safety fence along the cliff, one of my favourite spots. If it was a clear night, I would be able to see the lights of District Two straight ahead. On those nights, I’d look back in the direction of Yongi’s shack, as though searching for constellations. Right now, though, I couldn’t see a thing other than the glaring searchlight.
The rain pounded down on me. The wind threw jabs. I stayed there despite that, listening to the six-minute song, because a police car, which appeared at infrequent intervals in the area, had started circling. I sat there, hunched, waiting for it to go; there would be nothing good about being spotted by the police. As soon as the patrol car left, another pair of headlights appeared. The vehicle drove all around the park with its full beams on, as though it were looking for a runaway wife. I took out my iPod and checked the time: 11.21 p.m.
When the car’s lights finally disappeared over the other side of the bridge, I stood up. I tightened the cord of my hood and took the path back. I ran lightly this time, as though I were a boxer doing road work, to the beat of the music. By the time I got to the sea wall, the fifteenth song, ‘Conquest of Paradise’, had begun. It was already two minutes past midnight, but the last bus wasn’t here yet. At least I hadn’t seen it as I was running up.
I went behind Yongi’s. Between the wood-framed shack covered in plastic and the sea wall, there was a narrow space where one person could sit. It was similar to the area behind the street lamps along the side of the river – it was dark back there and the fog provided another layer of concealment. Behind the lamps was a good place to play in, and back here was a good place to wait for a playmate.
I sat on the railing with the ocean behind me, the wind slapping me on the back. The rain was coming down at a slant. I heard squeaks below the railing: the shrieks of the boats moored at the dock as they rode the waves up and down. The searchlight danced through the fog with its beam of light. The music soared towards its climax and I tapped my foot along with the beat. I felt more excited than usual for some reason. Maybe it was the leftover dopamine from running or the primitive pounding of the music or because I was looking forward to meeting my final playmate.
The bus appeared as ‘Conquest of Paradise’ came to an end. It was nearly five minutes later than usual. I turned off the music and stuffed the earphones in my pocket. The bus halted and blood began to course through the vessels in my ears. Someone must be getting off, otherwise it wouldn’t have stopped. I felt a chill when I saw a figure standing by the door in the bright bus. Attraction and nervousness collided. Was it a woman or a man?
It was actually both, a woman and a man. I couldn’t really see, but I was able to tell that much. I felt deflated. It was the perfect night – rainy and foggy – to play with someone for the two kilometres home along the empty streets; even after running fourteen kilometres, I was bursting with energy.
The bus disappeared into the darkness. The woman, holding a crimson umbrella, had long straight hair and was wearing a purple coat, short skirt, and high-heeled boots. She kept glancing back at the man as she walked quickly down the footpath. They didn’t seem to know each other and she didn’t look too happy about her companion.
Even from far away, I could tell that something was wrong with him. He was huge, his stomach the size of an oil tanker. Each time he took a step, his body, clad in a thin disposable plastic rain poncho, wobbled about. His knees gave way every other step. He weaved from left to right. He was wrestling with a hanky-sized plastic umbrella, trying to open it with his giant hands. The umbrella would open halfway before folding; the one moment it seemed the man would succeed, it flipped inside out from the wind. Rain was pouring down on his bald head. The giant ranted, ‘Fucking umbrella!’ and ‘Fuck this fucking rain!’ He wiped the water off his head and pulled down the hood of his poncho. As soon as he’d solved the problem, he seemed to become content and began singing at the top of his lungs, some song about an unforgettable girl in the rain.
By that time, the girl had crossed the street. The crimson umbrella stood stiffly above her shoulders, like a warning. There was no way the giant man understood that warning. He followed her. They disappeared into the fog.
I came out from behind Yongi’s. The light was red but I crossed the street anyway. Time was ticking. I was worn out and disappointed. My stomach roiled. The giant had taken what was rightfully mine. It wouldn’t be my fault if I didn’t take my pill today and had to run out again in the middle of the night tomorrow. It was all his fault.
At the start of the road along the river, I crossed to the other side, adjacent to the park. I could hear the giant still singing. His voice was louder than before. I spotted him weaving in and out of the fog. The girl was walking in the street, only stepping up onto the kerb when a car appeared. She was clearly afraid of being near the man, but I sensed she was even more afraid of being completely alone.
I stopped paying attention to them. I took the razor out of my pocket and fiddled with it. Should I come out tomorrow? One last time? Or should I take a pill as soon as I got home?
I was close enough to make out First Dongjin Bridge when the girl let out a shriek. She spun around and started running towards my side of the street. The giant was standing in the middle of the lane she’d been walking along, pissing with his pants pulled all the way down, brandishing his dick like a fire hose, continuing his slurred singing. Swinging her umbrella, she leapt onto the footpath about five metres from me. I was already hidden behind the street lamps. She stood there, panting. She was so afraid that any small movement would make her freak out and run away screaming.
This changed everything. Blood surged under my jaw. A car began honking in the opposite lane; it was flashing its lights, trying to turn left onto the seashore road. The giant hoisted his pants up and slowly withdrew into the fog. But after the car had passed by, he appeared in the middle of the lane again. This time he began swinging his umbrella, zigzagging between the two lanes of the road. He was singing even more loudly, as if he were a dying elephant.
The girl started walking again, her eyes glued to the giant. Her breathing was shallow and uneven, her heels skittered sharply and nervously. I put on the latex gloves and began to move like her shadow, running and stopping when she did. The giant got out of the road at last, trying to avoid a car that had come out of a side street next to the park.
The car pulled over to the kerb, inching forward as though looking for a parking spot. I couldn’t see the make or the licence plate; all I could tell was that it was a white saloon. The giant stumbled towards the other side of the road in his search for the girl in the rain. She stopped, then unexpectedly ran behind the street lamp. The giant continued to follow her. We were about ten metres before the bridge, and the river flowed right next to the footpath on which I stood.
Blood rushed to my face. She was right in front of me. She was so close that if I reached out I could touch her. I heard her breathing. I could even hear her ribs move. I smelled adrenalin, as sour as sweat and as clear as perfume. It was the first time I’d smelled something so provocative so close up. My chest tightened. My stomach hardened. All of my fantasies spun in a loo
p in my head – following someone, her noticing, catching up with her, her running away, pursuing, hiding, finding, coming face to face…
The razor was open in my right hand.
The car on the other side was headed towards the junction. The giant man arrived at the entrance to the bridge and stopped still. He turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees, perhaps looking for the girl. He gave up and walked onto the bridge. I could hear him singing as he crossed the river. If that was his route home, that meant he wasn’t even a resident of District Two. He’d come up this road only to follow the girl. What a piece of shit.
When he’d gone more than halfway across the bridge, the girl let out a deep sigh. She didn’t detect the piece of shit behind her, maybe because she was exhausted at being followed by the drunk man. She hoisted her bag up on her shoulder. She was still close enough for me to reach out and touch her.
She stood still in the light of the lamp, suddenly stiff. The umbrella held slightly to the side, she hesitantly looked back at me. Her eyes met mine. My eyes were drawn to the pearl earring in her outer cartilage. Everything in this world vanished, one by one – the man singing, the rain, the wind, the river rushing by. It was the kind of quiet that made my fingertips tingle, a silence that made my heart leap.
She turned abruptly, her long ponytail slapping my face, and lurched towards the road with a sharp, ripping scream.
I took a big step out and reached out. My hand grabbed her hair, twisted it roughly, pulled her into the shadows and angled her head to expose her neck. The razor dug into her flesh. The screaming stopped after a short time.
Her eyes were wide open but unseeing. The communication with her brain had been severed. I watched, still holding onto her hair, as blood gushed with force. In her eyes was the desperate look of life trying to cling on.
The Good Son Page 13