Dooyoung corrected Yoo Jaemin’s mistaken recollection, then let his gaze drift out the window, feeling an odd hollowness for no particular reason. The truth was, because Heo Samhyeok had filed his birth registration a year late, Dooyoung was technically already an adult by the count of years. He hadn’t exactly lied — and yet, for some reason, he felt a prick of conscience, as if he’d deceived Yoo Jaemin.
“Rain coming down, not a soul in sight. Perfect.”
Yoo Jaemin mumbled around the chestnut-flavored ice cream bar he’d just pulled out and stuck in his mouth.
The small café tucked along the alley was always quiet, and the menu was stripped down to almost nothing. When Dooyoung had first started working here, he’d spent many days walking on eggshells after one mistake after another. Every time that happened, Yoo Jaemin would tell him to stop looking so beaten down like he was doing penance — and somehow end up comforting Dooyoung instead.
Dooyoung stole a sidelong glance at Yoo Jaemin’s profile, soft in the mood of the rain.
“Do you enjoy working, boss?”
“What kind of question is that — do I enjoy working when I’m the owner?”
“No, I just… you don’t really seem to worry about sales.”
Yoo Jaemin’s neat features settled into a gentle line.
“That’s how it looks?”
“…I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. But well, it’s not wrong either. I really don’t think about sales. This place is more like my hideout, somewhere I come to do what I like. Put another way — burning money.”
Yoo Jaemin was rich in real estate. That was why the café never went under despite the lack of customers. He seemed like someone who had nothing to want for in the world, and yet there were moments when he’d murmur something self-deprecating and gaze off into the distance, like he was longing for somewhere impossibly far away.
Dooyoung scratched the back of his head and carefully pulled an expensive cup ice cream from the fridge, sliding it over to Yoo Jaemin.
“What’s this, you’re giving me the pricey one? But I like chestnut flavor. First love is best, now and always.”
At Yoo Jaemin’s cheerful rambling, Dooyoung said nothing and just bobbed his small head. First love. Maybe what Yoo Jaemin was longing for was a first love that smelled of rain.
Dooyoung clocked out earlier than his usual closing time. Yoo Jaemin had given him a paid early leave as a gift. He didn’t particularly like being at home, but Yoo Jaemin seemed to be in a low mood, so Dooyoung said nothing, grabbed a cup ice cream, and headed out of the café.
The rain drummed against his umbrella like popcorn popping. The sound of it hammering down in bursts was something that could hold its own against a concert. The orange streetlamps reflected in the black wet asphalt looked like round full moons.
The hillside steps running with rainwater didn’t look easy to climb. If he went a little further to the side there was a flat, paved path, but Dooyoung was used to this route — the one he’d walked his whole life. He didn’t like change. As much as he disliked being forced to eat food he hated. No matter how hard it was on the body, the familiar was easier — the kind of thing you could do with your eyes closed.
Dooyoung pushed open the door — too shabby a thing to really call a front door — and went inside. The rusted hinges screamed every time it opened and closed. Like the shriek of a vengeful ghost splitting the air.
Every time, he thought he ought to oil it, and every time he put it off until tomorrow. Five years must have gone by like that. Turning thoughts into action felt overwhelmingly burdensome. A deep, suffocating inertia left him unable to move even a fingertip.
He flicked on the fluorescent light switch, but the room didn’t come on. Remembering then that the bulb had blown, Dooyoung sank listlessly onto the edge of the step into the room. He’d reminded himself so many times — and still his useless memory hadn’t done its job.
Self-blame, irritation, rage, revulsion. A torrent of condemnation aimed at himself rioted through his head. Dooyoung swallowed down the surge of anguish threatening to spill over and pulled the ice cream from his bag. Fortunately, the cold weather had kept it from melting much.
As he peeled the lid open, he licked the ice cream that got on his hand. A rich sweetness spread from the back of his tongue through his whole body. A flavor so vivid he could recall it with his eyes shut. Like Hong Seungpyo’s face — once seen, impossible to forget.
Just then, an uneasy feeling grazed Dooyoung’s spine. The dread he’d been bracing for hit immediately. The sliding door rattled open violently, and there was Heo Samhyeok, in bad shape. The stench of alcohol came slithering into the room.
Heo Samhyeok strode inside and slapped Dooyoung across the face without a word of preamble. The sharp ringing in his ears meant Dooyoung couldn’t dodge the kicks that followed in quick succession.
Heo Samhyeok asked Dooyoung in a restless, agitated voice:
“Where’s the old woman?”
Dooyoung’s mouth wouldn’t open, as if glued shut. Heo Samhyeok clicked his tongue, shoved Dooyoung aside with his foot, and crossed into the room. His worn-down heels roamed around the room like a dog let loose.
Heo Samhyeok rummaged through the wardrobe and knocked over the pile of folded blankets as if searching for something. Having found what he came for, he emerged from the room. In his hand was Kim Chunnyeo’s bankbook.
Dooyoung grabbed the hem of Heo Samhyeok’s trousers.
“Th— that’s not okay.”
“Let go, you little shit — you not letting go?”
“We’re behind on rent, we’ll get thrown out!”
“Fuck! I said let go!”
Heo Samhyeok grabbed Dooyoung by the scruff and hurled him into the corner of the kitchen. Dooyoung’s forehead hit the wall, and he slid slowly to the ground.
“Insolent little bitch. You’re my kid, when I say let go, you let go — who do you think you are, talking back!”
Heo Samhyeok spat the words out in broken bursts, kicking Dooyoung in the stomach with each one. Under the indiscriminate assault, Dooyoung curled his body inward. A faint metallic taste of blood pooled behind his clenched teeth.
Heo Samhyeok, the first to give out, exhaled in rough, heaving breaths.
“Fuck… disgusting little bastard. Takes after that bitch of a mother who ran off on him — not a single scream.”
Heo Samhyeok spat a yellowish glob on the floor, then, not satisfied with Kim Chunnyeo’s bankbook alone, went through Dooyoung’s coat pockets and backpack. Dooyoung pressed his palms over his ears and counted. He counted to ten, then his mind cut out and he started back at one. He did that over and over — and when he finally opened his eyes, he was alone in the mold-smelling house.
Dooyoung dragged his battered body into the room and burrowed into the crumpled blanket. His body was trembling beyond his control. The cold felt like it was seeping directly into his bones.
On nights like this, he thought a lot about his mother. The last time he’d seen her, her hair might have been long — or it might have been a short bob. He couldn’t be sure. The hand that had stroked his face had been warmer than his grandmother’s. If he were to feel that touch now, in this state, he thought he might break down crying.
When he was young, he’d resented his mother a great deal. With time, that hatred had diluted, and now he felt nothing about it. A person who wants to live will keep on living by any means necessary. He had experienced death so many times that he wasn’t afraid of it. Physical death probably wouldn’t be anything more remarkable than that.
A self-deprecating smile crossed his face, and he crumbled apart like a sandcastle drying out. The suffocating stillness felt like the threshold of death, and goosebumps crawled up to the inside of his skin. Dooyoung scrambled out from under the blanket in a panic. He didn’t like the dark. It felt like something hiding in the shadows was watching him.
Dooyoung went out to the kitchen, and the moment his feet touched the cement floor, he sank down like a newborn animal. His socks were wet. Looking down, he found the ice cream — utterly trampled.
Just as every person has clothes that suit them, I suppose the same goes for food. It was the moment he learned what happened when you coveted something beyond your station. Dooyoung picked up the crushed paper cup. Then he hurled it at the sliding door flapping in the wind.
He was angry at the wretchedness of himself, but didn’t know how to let it out. He raked his nails over his body hard enough to peel the skin. He tore at his own hair, hit his own cheek. He screamed into the air — a hollow, empty sound — but even that couldn’t dissolve a lifetime’s worth of things knotted inside him. If anything, it only made the suffocation worse.
After the fierce rage came a deep and heavy inertia. He couldn’t move a single fingertip. Dooyoung curled up on the cold cement floor like a fetus.
Sunrise was still a long way off. He decided to rest just a little until then.
Dooyoung had foolishly come to school anyway, and immediately regretted it. His body, shattered into pieces and clumsily forced back together, wouldn’t move the way he wanted. He couldn’t even skip — afraid Lee Juhak would come after him with a barrage of pushy interrogation.
He wore a mask to cover the burst bruise at the corner of his mouth. The warm moisture building up inside it was uncomfortable. Because of the kids moving around nearby, he had to keep his face buried in his desk.
“Who’s that slumped over? Get up.”
At some point class had started, and Dooyoung, having fallen asleep without realizing it, couldn’t hear the voice telling him to get up and stayed face-down on his desk. Hong Seungpyo poked Dooyoung’s cheek with his index finger. When there was no reaction, he grabbed his shoulder and shook it. Only then did Dooyoung make a small pained sound and drag himself upright, slow as a grub. The teacher shook their head and clicked their tongue.
“Kids who aren’t going to college — don’t get in the way of the ones preparing for their exams, just exist quietly. That’s the one way you can be useful, you little shits. These days everyone thinks they can make it big just by having some ‘personality’ and becoming a content creator or whatever — that’s all in your heads. Teachers who worked hard to get where they are stand up front to teach you, and you can’t even sit through one hour of it without sleeping — how exactly are you going to succeed at anything? Just graduate without committing any crimes. Free study period now.”
The words hit Dooyoung like breaking bones, and any remaining sleepiness evaporated completely. He wasn’t particularly angry. He had been sleeping through class, after all.
When did I give up on studying. It was so long ago he couldn’t even recall it right away. Dooyoung had been slow at everything from birth. Talking. Walking. All the way through second grade of elementary school, he couldn’t get to school by himself without his grandmother.
