Chapter 12

The hospital life that followed was uneventful. With nothing else to do but use my smartphone, I naturally found myself immersed in it. At first, I searched for articles about myself. It seemed that up until recently, I had been quite the center of attention, and there were indeed many articles about me. However, most of them didn’t stray far from the first article that Ham Yejin had shown me.

If there was anything else, it was probably the interviews with my schoolmates from the same era. The interviews were mostly filled with criticism of me. “He’s dogmatic and selfish,” “He brings up unpleasant topics without hesitation,” “He acts like he hates women,” “When reviewing, he unnecessarily insults people,” — basically, those kinds of contents.

There were also articles about my novels.

My debut and representative work, *The Boy’s Womb* was discussed.

Let me take a moment to talk about *The Boy’s Womb*.

It’s a story about a boy who suffered continuous abuse from his mother and later meets various women as he grows up. It’s not a warm tale of healing; the boy keeps getting hurt, his wounds festering as he moves forward.

What the boy longed for was the warm embrace of his mother. But the women he encounters demand different things from him: money, love, sex. The moment the boy fails to satisfy them, they abandon him.

Thus, the boy realizes that what he truly needed wasn’t his mother’s womb. No matter how much he yearned for it, it could never be fulfilled. So, instead of filling the void, the boy decides to empty himself—of greed, lust, desire, materialism, everything. And then, the boy encounters his mother again.

After leaving him, the mother had found success, marrying an upstanding and diligent man. It was only after meeting this man that the mother realized the gravity of her sins—the abuse she had inflicted on her son. Her new husband, a generous and virtuous person, was willing to accept her past mistakes, and it was under these circumstances that the mother sought out the boy to make amends.

But it was too late. The boy had already emptied himself too much. What remained was no longer a boy, no longer a child who needed his mother. Crying and apologizing, the mother was left behind as the boy departed.

He went to the women he had met. They had all changed. Some apologized to him, others blamed him. The boy realized something: all of them had been stand-ins for his mother. The women had grown into adults, but the boy, having emptied himself of everything, remained forever a boy, incapable of growing any further.

The boy could not even envy them anymore, as envy itself was something he had already abandoned. In the end, the boy carved a womb into his abdomen. The boy, never embraced by anyone, embraced himself. Curling up like a fetus, he slowly awaited death.

This was a story I had meticulously crafted since my college days. *The Boy’s Womb* won the top prize in a prestigious publisher’s contest, marking my successful debut. The publication was also a success, and I remember briefly making it onto the bestseller list.

At that time, I garnered significant attention both in literary circles and among the general public. Of course, modern literature readers are few and far between, but still, I received recognition.

However, now that attention seems to have turned toxic.

Journalists pointed out the misogynistic tendencies in my novel. Hah, as if. I wouldn’t call it misogyny.

It was justified hatred.

If they were sinners, then their first sin was being born female. The journalist’s name certainly seemed feminine. Is this why they wrote such a stupid article?

Trying hard to suppress my frustration, I skimmed through the article until the end, where I found this line written:

“The woman-hating novelist who wrote the story about the boy with a womb might just have received divine retribution. He now suffers from the disease that turns him into the very women he despises. It’s truly absurd to see him living out his own novel.”

For a moment, I was about to throw my smartphone, but I restrained myself. I didn’t want to add the cost of a new smartphone to my already tight budget.

Divine retribution? Divine retribution? That’s an absolutely ridiculous phrase. If there really were a god, would they have made me like this in the first place? How could there possibly be a god in a world where there are orphanages? My very existence is evidence that there is no god in this world.

Of course, it was ironic that I, who had recently cursed and begged god, was now denying him so fervently. Still, I wanted nothing more than to reject the idea of god.

After that, I became obsessed with searching for any mention of myself online, a phenomenon known as “ego surfing.” I even searched through the social media platforms I knew.

The internet was even more vile and disgusting than I had imagined.

As I delved deeper, the comments I found were filled with sexual harassment and slurs. Some were so bizarre that I had to double-check their meanings through further searches, only to be shocked by their horrifying implications.

Examples ranged from:

“Disgusting male writing a story about having a womb and selectively mimicking women? Just gross… hahaha.”

“Toxic, desperate bottom faking his way around. Another wannabe woman-hating bottom. Laughable.”

“Knew him from the same department—super famous back in the day. Guess being abandoned by god made him hate women, now he writes anti-female drivel. But he’s hypocritical when criticizing other women.”

“Just ridiculous. Such a pathetic parasite should’ve never been born.”

And even:

“I used to be such a fan of his writing… but finding out he’s a misogynist is genuinely revolting. Disappointing. Won’t buy his books anymore.”

Despite the general crassness of these comments, the most terrifying were those that disparaged my novels, degrading them as amateurish works.

Comments about *The Boy’s Womb* ranged from mocking my supposedly achieved desires, labeling my work derivative of personal trauma, and even suggesting I only wrote this because I was abandoned by my parents.

“Man, the title alone is revolting. Pathetic.”

“Sounds like you just wrote your own experience—no wonder you’re writing a story about being abandoned by your mother. Soon you’ll die from it.”

“If I wrote this garbage, I’d dump it too. Haha!”

“Read this book once out of curiosity—it’s absolute trash. Don’t buy it.”

“From start to finish, this so-called “work” is nothing more than a product of self-victimization, filled with nothing but an exaggerated sense of suffering. It’s incomprehensible how this won any awards. Clearly, this is just the level of Korean literature.”

Stop. Your kind doesn’t deserve to evaluate my work.

I was more devastated by the insults aimed at my novels than those aimed at me personally. Most of these critics probably haven’t even read my work. But that also meant some people truly had read and criticized my work.

Having my novels dismissed was tantamount to having my life dismissed.

If the most important thing in my life had already been negated, how could I endure the loss of everything else? I would have nothing left.

As I continued my ego surfing, I encountered many insults related to my illness.

“Fucking pathetic men thinking cutting off their dicks makes them women? Get out of here. You’re pathetic, Korea is pathetic.”

“Damn, is this guy just trans? Why treat a trans man as a woman? The government gives handouts, but it’s my tax money going down the drain.”

“Wow, ironic that this guy turned into what he despises most.”

Changing websites only brought more vulgar and nonsensical comments.

“Wow, this dude’s now some kind of ‘female?’ Damn, I’m envious.”

“Hazy picture, but looks like he’s tiny now. Pathetic.”

“Farm jokes… hahahaha.”

“Wait! From now on, he’s a woman! Everyone remember that.”

“Should we take away his rights now that he’s trans? Common sense, right?”

“Probably gonna get married soon, some dude will snatch her up.”

“Wtf, he was gay originally? What the hell?”

“Hello, new sister~”

“TSed freak, gonna crush you like a dog.”

It felt like I had scoured almost half the internet in one day. I found no allies. It seemed as if the whole world was against me. This story had spread far and wide, and my hair had bleached white during my hospital stay.

That meant that as soon as I stepped outside, everyone would recognize me. The thought gave me chills. Would I ever be able to live a normal life in this country again?

No, maybe I was overthinking things. But after spending the day reading those comments, it was hard not to think this way. Negative words have a way of turning one negative.

I put down my smartphone.

First thing after leaving the hospital: get my hair dyed. I was determined. Ham Yejin had already mentioned hair dye, so it seemed like dying my hair was possible.

However, the doctor’s visit the next day shattered my plans.

“Here are the precautions you need to follow after your discharge.”

The list of precautions handed to me by the doctor wasn’t very long—only about two pages. The contents were mostly minor precautions: my body would likely be more fragile and prone to illnesses, so I should take care.

But when I saw the last sentence, I questioned the doctor.

“Excuse me, what’s the meaning of this no hair dye rule?”

“Hair dye can be quite toxic. Perhaps after a few years, once your body stabilizes, it might be okay, but at this moment, dyeing your hair could cause severe allergic reactions.”

“But the National Intelligence Service said dyeing is possible!”

“In Korea, it has been possible in past cases, but in your case, your constitution is quite poor, so it’s not recommended.”

“So you’re saying I have to walk around with this hair color known nationwide?”

“For now… you can use a wig, or a hat to hide it. Or perhaps shaving your head entirely could be an option.”

Another stress built up. Alright, as soon as I leave, I’ll visit a barber and cut this hair—it’s pointless to keep it like this anyway. But what the doctor said next only added to my despair.

“Even if you shave your head, considering your current condition, your hair will most likely grow back quickly. Since you’ve been hospitalized, it’s already grown more than 10cm. It appears to be due to hormone imbalance, which has no immediate solution.”

“What… what did you say?”

—

And there it was, the end of the conversation.