Chapter 77

As lunch break arrived, the doorbell rang. It was that man from earlier.

“I’m leaving the food.”

The man, who casually spoke in a businesslike tone through the intercom, got back into the elevator and disappeared.

After watching the man leave, I brought in the plastic bag left at my door. Inside was an elegantly patterned bento box. It was clear that this wasn’t something bought from any franchise bento shop.

As soon as I opened the lid, I was a bit taken aback and slightly parted my lips. Eel and abalone, deliciously sliced steak, pancakes, and tempura, along with kimchi and salad—menus that were not usually found in a typical bento greeted me. Caught off guard, I searched for the store name written on the bento lid.

The price was on a completely different level than what I had known before. In fact, I would have been fine with just a cup of ramen left at home. I wouldn’t have complained if I had been given a pork rice bowl from Kimbap Heaven, but this bento felt undeniably a bit burdensome.

That said, I couldn’t just return it and ask for something else. After letting out a small sigh, I picked up the spoon included with the bento.

The bento indeed had a taste worthy of its price, but I felt a bit queasy. Was it because of the burden? Is it ridiculous to feel burdened by something like this at a time when I’m already living at someone else’s place?

After finishing about half of the bento, I set the spoon down. The amount was overwhelmingly large, making it impossible to finish.

Once the meal ended, I felt strangely lethargic. I resisted the urge to lay down and stood up. However, there wasn’t really anything else I could do, so I ultimately sat down again.

I turned on the TV in the living room, which looked extremely expensive. In fact, most of the furniture in this house was not cheap, even to someone like me who had no knowledge about such things. The only exception was the coffee pot that Ham Yejin used for brewing coffee.

But just because the TV was expensive didn’t mean the broadcast would be any different. I hadn’t had a TV at home, so it was refreshing to see one, but I felt no particular excitement. I wasn’t watching dramas, talk shows made me uncomfortable, I had no intention of watching childish animation, and variety shows weren’t entertaining.

In the end, I settled on a documentary that required no thought. As I stared blankly at it, my body naturally began to relax.

The image of a killer whale self-harming in a tank reminded me of the aquarium I had visited before. Of course, there were no killer whales there. I wasn’t even sure if there was an aquarium in Korea that housed them.

Although the exact cause is still unknown, it is said that killer whales raised by humans end up with their dorsal fins bending. Furthermore, there are no recorded instances of killer whales ever having eaten a human, and the number of attack incidents is extremely low. They are reportedly animals that like humans remarkably well.

The documentary ended by discussing how these killer whales needed to be freed from aquariums.

What does any of that mean?

Does it mean that because they’re good at charming humans, they deserve help? Surely, there are more beings trapped in aquariums than just killer whales. Should only the killer whales be freed among them?

Of course, it was entirely natural to feel a stronger affinity for beings treated well. Above all, killer whales are cute.

It was an extremely normal thing. Perhaps I, looking at it this way, was the one who was twisted.

Still, if the appearance of killer whales wasn’t this cute, but instead resembled grotesque monsters, the story would be different. Before they even thought of charming humans, they would have killed them all.

With no particular thought, I picked up my smartphone. My face faintly reflected on the black screen.

…Right, if I had transformed into a grotesque monster like in Franz Kafka’s “Metamorphosis” or Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein,” rather than changing into this appearance, my story would have differed significantly. It would have become a grotesque horror novel, neither a tragedy nor a comedy.

While it was certainly a fact that I could not welcome, I at least recognized that this form of mine was one that could easily win the favor of others. The occurrence of that which had happened was undoubtedly because of this appearance. It was disgusting.

And that fact tormented me.

The treatment I received because of my looks, the glass reality brought on by my appearance, and what I suffered because of… that event. That horrible touch.

It wasn’t just these things that tormented me.

What if I had had a choice, a choice to maintain my complete sanity?

I had to admit it—I had changed, and I continued to change.

My mind was becoming polluted. It was being eroded. I had become too weak.

Given the choice between the hideous monster reflecting my complete sanity and this current self,

what would I choose?

I would undoubtedly choose this current form. No one wants to be a hideous monster. I was no different.

And so, that fact tortured me.

The value of my complete sanity was incredibly cheap.

…My tragedy felt like the childish whining of an immature child in a foolish, cheap melodrama.

Perhaps I had already been a hideous monster before.

If not, I would have been able to receive the love I rightly deserved.

I had not received the first love I was to have when I was born.

To be alive was to pursue beauty, but simultaneously, I was an incomparably ugly being.

Life was a story like that. Living was ugly.

I despised that ugliness.

Based on my extremely personal grudges, I found all that ugliness repulsive.

The first thing I saw when I was born, witnessed instead of love, was that unbearable ugliness…

and I was longing for it.

For my name.

Every day, I was scorned, begging for affection pitifully, yielding,

that one-room space that was much smaller and colder than this current house…

a little,

just a little.

~

My memories were still trapped in that small one-room space.

And I self-harmed by banging my head against the wall.

The image of a killer whale hitting its head against an aquarium wall came to mind.

Perhaps the thing that was bent wasn’t the fin but the heart.

That cold one-room space in winter was Seol-guk.

And perhaps that was Victor Frankenstein’s fault as well.

Before he made a bride for the monster, he should have first given it a name.

If it is still visible that I cannot escape this name…

~

…The only person who could draw such musings from a killer whale documentary might be me. It was because of the writing I had been doing earlier. I had buried myself in the meaning of names and had hit my head against the wall. It was foolish. It was meaningless to have these thoughts.

I thought I had graduated a long time ago. Unfortunately, perhaps because my body had regressed, someone seemed to have stolen my diploma.

Let’s not think unnecessarily.

The documentary had long finished, and another program was now on. I simply switched channels.

As I randomly flipped through channels, I found myself stopping at a crime profiling talk show. Normally, I wouldn’t even pay attention to such a channel, but the topic happened to be sexual crimes. An interview with a rape victim, her face blurred, was airing.

Just as I was about to change the channel, a subtitle caught my eye.

…She said she had been raped and bore a child.

By the time I noticed, it was already too late.

Eventually, she said she had sent the child to an orphanage.

…It was just a sudden thought.

So sudden.

It was a thought I had never considered before.

“Seol-guk” is a novel beautifully wrapped in pristine white snow.

However, when you brush off that snow, what you see inside is beyond the main character Shimamura.

My mother once said that she might be Komako or Yoko.

But perhaps,

truly perhaps,

what if she was neither Komako nor Yoko?

My memory was not clear. I still vividly remember that voice crying out that I should have been aborted, but I do not remember the face of that person.

But, but now that I think back on it… that voice was surely,

a bit,

young.

Whoever named me, the novel “Seol-guk” was ultimately a story of infidelity. It was just wrapped too beautifully to be discerned.

Because of that, I thought of my name as a self-deprecation or derision.

So, naturally, I considered myself a byproduct of infidelity.

However, if this name held no meaning at all,

if my mother also had a person named Lee Cheon…

Ah.

Then, what would be different?

~

Seeing me think such strange thoughts, it was clear I was not in a normal condition. My lower abdomen hurt a bit. It wasn’t severe pain.

I heard the sound of the front door’s password being pressed. I forced a stiff expression to soften. Soon, I locked eyes with Ham Yejin as she entered.

A brief silence.

“Did you, um, have a good trip?”

I didn’t know why my speech was trembling.

After a moment, Ham Yejin spoke.

“Yes, I’m back.”