[sample translations]cho chang in, just stay alive eng by LTI Korea Library

Sample Translations

Chang-in Cho Just Stay Alive E ng l i s h

Book Information

Just Stay Alive (살아만 있어줘) KL Publishing corp. / 2012 / 39 p. For further information, please visit: http://library.klti.or.kr/node/772 This sample translation was produced with support from LTI Korea. Please contact the LTI Korea Library for further information. library@klti.or.kr

Just Stay Alive Written by Cho Chang-in

Prologue

I’m going to die now. Hae-na looked at the blinking cursor and bit her lip. Who should she send it to? She flicked through the numbers in her cell phone. She couldn’t find anyone who would pore over her text.It’s unfortunate. This isn’t the life she wanted but it’s what she’s ended up with. A crescent moon floated in the dusky sky like a fingernail clipping and a flock of birds flew up from the riverbank before disappearing into the twilight. Hae-na erased the text and switched over to the camera function. She aimed it at the sky but then shook her head. It’s useless. Even if she takes a picture she won’t be able to look at it again. Mi-ju tapped her on the shoulder. “So this is the spot?” Hae-na nodded and leaned forward on the railing to look down at the river. She was shaking and she could feel her knees stiffen. It was only September 16, too early for her to feel chilly. To be honest, she’s scared. She’s so frightened that it’s hurting her heart, as if she took it out and stuck it in a compressor. For half a year, Hae-na walked across Seong san Bridge looking down at the river like this. The distance to the water was imprinted into her heart by now, something she’s become very familiar with. Fear isn’t something one can push away; one has to slam into it, go through it, and get used to it. She was used to it now. She became unfazed about height. But now the water seems so terribly far away. Pathetic. Hae-na shook her head. It was more terrifying to be alive, to live through

one more day. All I need is a clean ending. She wished she were a flower petal falling in a gentle breeze. Or a floating feather that sank down to the ground. She wanted to bid the world an uncomplicated farewell, just like a petal or a feather. Mi-ju leaned her head on Hae-na’s shoulder. Mi-ju’s skirt flapped in the wind. Jumping from the bridge wearing a skirt? Hae-na told her it would be undignified. Mi-ju insisted on it, though. And also on wearing red shoes. Hae-na was in jeans and sneakers, as usual. There was no reason to make a production out of it. Was death a period? Or a comma? An exclamation mark? An eternal question mark? I don’t know. Let’s say it’s like walking through fog. Life and death were both unknown paths shrouded in fog. What did it matter, whether you thought of it as revival, extinction, or transport into another world? She was tired. Exhausted. Just like a pilgrim lost in the desert, looking at the very last sip of water in her canteen. She was sick of making herself go through life. It would be nice to see the end of this tedious day. She remembered what Mi-ju said last night. “Suicide is cutting your leg off when your pants are too short instead of lengthening your pants.” “Who said that shit?” Hae-na scoffed. “My clueless mom, of course.” “That’s so ridiculous that now I’m really going to have to kill myself.” Hae-na looked down. A thought flashed through her head. Could Mi-ju’s mom be right? “Can you scratch this spot over here on my back?” Mi-ju asked, turning around and bending over. Hae-na felt stuck. She didn’t mean to get a companion for this. It was mortifying when people who couldn’t manage to die on their own killed themselves with another person. Three days ago, Mi-ju casually asked her, “Want to die together?” As if to say: if not, no

worries. As if asking Hae-na to go to the convenience store with her for some instant ramen.The process might get annoying. We’ll have to weigh and discuss things. But it might still be easier than doing it alone. Hae-na made a quick decision. Mi-ju pulled off the bandage around her wrist, revealing long, thin, red-black lines. She tried three times. Hae-na didn’t know why she didn’t succeed. What an idiot.If there were a resume for people who attempt suicide, Min-ju’s would be impressive. “Oh, no,” Mi-ju moaned, biting her nails. “The books. I forgot to return them.” Hae-na was beginning to understand these mammals called humans. Pitiful beings that tied themselves down with trivial and stupid reasons.That was the extent of being human. Hae-na turned to Mi-ju. “So what? You want to go back now and return them?” “Just saying I forgot, that’s all.” Hae-na wanted to scream. I’ma novice. It’s my first time. You’re being too flippant! Did Mi-ju really want to die? She did try three times and survived each one. Was she confident she would live through this one, too? It might not be important for Mi-ju to have the resolve to meet her goal. Maybe she wasaddicted to attempting suicide—Son Mi-ju, suicide addict. Hae-na was now really regretting it all; she clearly chose the wrong person to do this with. She was basically adding another regret on top of all the other regrets she already had. She was annoyed. She glanced at Mi-ju. “If you want to back out, go ahead. I don’t care.” “No. I just want to stay like this for a minute.” Mi-ju moved away from Hae-na. Right before they stepped on Seongsan Bridge, Mi-ju said, “If I act like an idiot, just shove me. I mean it.” Hae-na laughed.“You won’t.” Now, Hae-na thought she might really push her. It was an undeniably seductive thought. It might be necessary for both of us. Because it would push away a smidgeon of

doubt remaining in Hae-na’s heart. Mi-ju licked her lips. “Any last words for me?” “Bye.” Saying that felt inadequate and ordinary, like telling Mi-ju to be careful going home at night. She feltoff-kilter, like she put conditioner on her toothbrush instead of toothpaste. Finally, Mi-ju took off her red shoes and put them to the side, neatly. Hae-na tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and let out a low sigh. Don’t try so hard, she told herself. That just shows you’re regretting it. Don’t get serious. It’s just like brushing your teeth before going to bed. She wouldn’t do anything differently. It was just that there was something, something solitary or maybe aching, that remained pooled at the bottom of her heart; emotional remnants shewasn’table to toss away. “It was nice knowing you. Thanks,” Mi-ju said, and climbed over the railing. Hae-na scrambled over as well. She grabbed onto the railing behind her back. If she let go, it would be farewell to the world. Her hair stood on end, as if she sprayed an entire can of hairspray on it. I’m not scared. It’s okay. I’m fine. Hae-na chanted to herself as if casting a spell. For a second her head wasmagically cleared. It’s this simple; why did I take such a difficult, circuitous route to here? She heard the long, sharp honking of the horn along with the sound of a carscreeching to a stop. Hae-na looked behind her. The door of a white car opened and a bald man, looking like a boiled skinless potato, ran toward them. He was waving his hands, yelling. For whatever reason Hae-na wanted to remember his face.She smirked. I’m not trying to leave the world. The world is flicking me out. I’ve been abandoned so I’m qualified to die. Hae-na let out a long sigh and turned toward Mi-ju. She wasn’t there. Mi-ju—Mi-ju wasn’t there.

Chapter One Zelkova Tree

Eun-jae was now eligible to receive outpatient treatment. But his doctor, Hong Myeong-jun, said he wouldn’t recommend it. Eun-jae had already been in the hospital for two months. It was brutal. Living a single day was akin to going to battle against a day’s worth of pain. His body slammed into limit after limit and his spirit became ragged, like an old flag. Nobody would be surprised if he met his end, as his treatment wasn’t to cure him. Two days ago, he began preparing to leave the hospital. The roiling pain had abated for a moment. As far as he could tell, he might last until pain ravaged him again. He was done. He didn’t want to be in the hospital or even be an outpatient. He was used to death’s touch; he didn’t care whether he lived or not. Having heard about his discharge from the hospital, O Chan-mi, his longtime colleague from the publishing company, came to help. She turned the car on. “Mr. Kim made all the arrangements for you to stay somewhere else,” she said. “That’s fine, right?” Last night, his publisher, Kim Seok-gi, had mentioned his house in the countryside, saying lightly, “It’s a great place for you to rest and get well. I bought it with the money your books made me, so feel free to use it as long as you want.” “I’d rather go to my apartment,” Eun-jae said to Chan-mi. “I can go get anything you might need later,” Chan-mi saidunconfidently. At a red light, she handed him a manila envelope containing summaries of sales figures and royalty payments for July and August. He flipped through the pages half-heartedly.

Chan-mi glanced at him again. “Sales are up. The End of the World is doing especially well.” She was referring to his novel that was published three years ago. Itwas neither a successnor a failure, but the recent movie based on it must be giving it a boost. “How’s the movie?” he asked. “Critics like it. So does the audience. It’ll be in theaters for a while. I personally appreciated that it stayed true to the original. You’ll see it too, won’t you?” A few of his novels had become movies and television dramas. Every time he saw one, his heart dropped. How could I write like that with such confidence? “The director and the producerwould really like to meet you. I did tell them it would be difficult…” It made him uncomfortable to come forward and boast that it was his work. Years had flown by, swept by the rapids of time. One couldn’t dip one’s feet into the same river water twice. The water that brushed past his ankles would have reached the ocean by now. Once they reached Seongsan Bridge, they hit traffic and eventually stopped completely. Chan-mi turned on the radio. She flipped through the FM stations until she heard an English horn. “Mahler, right?” The Symphony No. 2, known as the Resurrection Symphony, was composedby Gustav Mahler in memory of his dead friend. By the unembellishedinterpretation of the number, it wasprobably Simon Rattle at the helm of the Birmingham Symphony. “You’re the one who taught me about Mahler,” Chan-mi continued. “Sometimes I wonder what life would have been like if I’d never found out about him.” He looked out the window instead of answering. There was a woman who introduced him to Mahler. She insisted no one else conducted Symphony No. 2 as well as Otto Klemperer. Was she right? Each person had his own hue and scent, and the range of enjoyment and acceptance was based on choices

following the listener’s preferences and predilections. Even so, it was her belief that became a certainty and the correct answer for him. Tomorrow would mark the first anniversary of her death. The winter he turned eighteen, he’d confidently promised her, “Just wait and see. I’ll live one more day than you.” He ended up living an entire year more. At least he kept his promise. He waited for her for a long time to keep that promise. An eternity. He’d ridden along the peaks and valleys of life, hoping he would see the light at the end of the tunnel at the next bend. Waiting for her became his flesh and bone. It kept him going. And finally the wait ended. But they only had a short time together before the eternal farewell. She rushed out of this world. As she left, his flesh and bone divided. The remaining years of his life wilted like grass past its prime. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would lean against her grave and listen to the birds all day or look up listlessly at the sky. He would recall the walks they took together long ago and bring out the conversations they had and remember her poems carved into his heart and recite them out loud. And he would end up sobbing. Tomorrow would be a fine day to wail until he lost consciousness. The Resurrection Symphony was hurtling toward the end of its first movement. He thought of the CDs that filled one wall of his apartment, collected carefully over years. He cherished listening to them, believing that, when he finally saw her again, they would be proof that he’d never forgotten her. But it didn’t work out that way. She never saw them. That sign of love ended up being just for his eyes. “Chan-mi?” He couldn’t continue. He wondered if it was because he was too attached to the things he was about to bring up. These were things he had to let go of, to get rid of. But he was acting like a forlorn motherless puppy gazing longingly out the gate, waiting for his mother to return. He tried again. “Chan-mi, I’d appreciate it if you would have

my CDs. You’re the only one I know who enjoys classical music.” Chan-mi let out a sigh. “I don’t like it when you talk like that.” She glanced at him through the rearview mirror, looking as though she would say a piece of her mind. He knew what she wanted to say. He sank deeper into his seat. When his friend Kim launched the publishing company, Eun-jae began working there as an editor. Chan-mi was the second hire. At the time she was going to a night high school. She did various administrative tasks for the company. When she entered college she learned how to edit from Eun-jae, and became a full-time employee after graduation. That was when he became a full-time writer. Since then they had continued an author-editor relationship. They’d lived through many years together. It had been a long time, long enough for each to know the most trivial things about the other. Chan-mi rolled down her window and stuck her head out. “Doesn’t look like an accident. Everyone’s milling around, looking down at the river. I wonder if someone jumped?” He hunched his shoulders and shuddered. It felt as though a cold hand was grabbing the scruff of his neck. He’d felt this way a few times in the past few days. It came and left without cause. He’d felt something like this a long time ago. Twenty years ago, on December 12. It was the evening he was to meet her, the day there was an unseasonable snowstorm. His life derailed in a single moment. The life he’d planned for himself faded away. “They say Korea has the highest suicide rate in the world,” Chan-mi said, turning the radio down. “They say that a society that glamorizes suicide is the most unfortunate, and it’s spreading like a disease.” A society that glamorizes suicide? A dead person’s mouth was shut, the eyes were closed, and the body was unmovable. If suicide were glamorized, that was just survivors reassuring or absolving themselves. The dead was dead, buried.

***

They were still stopped on the bridge. He opened the car door to take a walk along the pedestrian path. Chan-mi told him he would get cold and gave him a worried look. This was the very bridge where the girl had started walking six months earlier, usually when it was getting dark. She would stop in the middle of the bridge and take pictures of the mouth of the river with her cell phone. Some days a magnificent sunset graced her; other days it rained or it was overcast. Regardless of what the scenery was, the girl took pictures robotically, as if dictated byan old habit. Once, a long time ago, he was focused on photography. He wandered with a knapsack on his back, taking pictures of the sights he encountered. At one point, he wondered whether he was doing this because he wanted to roam around or to fan his desire to take photographs, and from that moment on he stopped carrying a camera. He didn’t want to live a life where the trivial reigned over the crucial. He had given his camera to the girl through Chan-mi, but the girl didn’t take it, telling Chan-mi that there was no reason for her to have it. She also insisted that she hated taking pictures. The girl usually walked along the left side of the bridge. He sometimes followed her from the opposite side, with lanes of cars in between, giving enough distance between them that she wouldn’t notice. It could be called a fateful distance. He couldn’t get too far or too close. It was his fate to live on, maintaining exactly that much distance. It’s enough that you know. You don’t get to have more than that. That’s what he was told by the woman who was no longer here. He wanted to reject that, to find a reason to refuse. But in the end, he accepted her words, feeling as though he were walking down an

unfamiliar path at the behest of a blind man. While he was admitted in the hospital for the past two months, he couldn’t see the girl. But he wasn’t completely uninvolved. He heard what she was up to once a week from the guy he’d hired to tail her. Until four days ago, everything had been the same as always. She worked part-time at a convenience store from midnight to six in the morning, then spent the rest of her time in her rentalamonga warren of rooms. She left infrequently to walk around or to head across the bridge. Hers was a simple life, a repetition of the same, placid days. A private investigator once mentioned to him, “It’s sad. A twenty-year-old girl living the life of an eighty-year-old shut-in,” which annoyed him. He hadn’t hired someone to hear his take on the girl! He called and got the company to send him a new man. The wind was cutting. He flipped his collar up and continued on. A dozen people were leaning on the railing looking down. Someone must have jumped, just as Chan-mi suspected. “If you could use half of the courage you have to kill yourself to live your life, you could do amazing things,” one spectator commented. “They should really think about the people they’re leaving behind. So selfish to do this,” another muttered. They couldn’t be faulted for being spectators, but Eun-jae didn’t think it was right to talk about a dead person that way. He wanted to scream at them. Did they know what it was like to want to kill themselves? Had they ever been mired in such despair that they couldn’t see the future? After all, suicide was the seductive whisper of despair, sweet and terrifying at the same time, one you couldn’t help but listen to. When he was about to be released from the hospital this time, he understood he would arrive at a moment where he wouldn’t be able to stand it any longer, where it would be

the last minutes of his life. He didn’t want to lengthen his life forcefully, with the face of a crazed man and the spirit of a beast. There were reasons for someone to live, and there were also reasons for someone to die. Sometimes the mind was in such agony that you wanted to destroy yourself physically, and other times the body was in such pain that you wanted to discard your mind. Sometimes there was only one solution, even if it wasn’t the right one. He picked his waythrough the crowd of people. A red shoe was hanging off the curb like a lone wild goose separated from the flock. He looked around; the other shoe was flipped over on the sidewalk near the crowd, about to be trampled on. Whoever it was, she wouldn’t have flung her shoes off like that. She probably took them off and hesitated for a moment, then placed them side by side, neatly. But someone would have tripped on them and someone else would have accidentally kicked them aside; even her last act was disregarded. He picked the shoes up and held one in each hand, staring at the river sunken in darkness. This girl—and she would have been young, at an age where she would confidently choose red shoes—would have walked here, listening to her own footsteps. He placed them down neatly on the sidewalk. His throat closed and something cold swept over the back of his neck. Something lying on the bottom of a longago memory was struggling to surface. It felt as if someone were waving at him desperately.

The apple smashed. The thudwas surprisingly loud, reverberating through the night sky. A person, larger and more solid than an apple, would break open spectacularly. The possibility of survival was nil, but she didn’t want to end up like the apple she dropped from the fourteenth floor. Falling once was enough. There were many ways to do it. No matter which path she took, the destination would be the same.

Mi-ju had asked her, “How are you going to die?” Hae-na told her she would jump off a bridge. “Why a bridge?” “What does that matter?” “Because you need to avoid the worst case scenario.” Mi-ju listed her requirements. “First, it shouldn’t hurt. Second, once you’re dead you shouldn’t look ugly. Third, you should die in an instant. Fourth, it must have a high probability of success.” So according to Mi-ju’s criteria, Hae-na’s choice was the worst. So what? Suicide itself was the worst possible choice. It was enough to remember the most important thing—that this was the end. Whether it was the best or the worst way to do it, it would end up the same way. “We should do it another way,” Mi-ju said, but Hae-na shook her head firmly. If Miju changed her mind that was fine, but she didn’t want to be bothered by trivial details. For close to half a year, Hae-na walked across the bridge and thought about why and where she should die and the world that would remain afterward. They were useless thoughts, but at least the place she would kill herself revealed itself to her quickly. The bridge was the

logical place. She didn’t want to consider anywhere else. Belatedly she realized she should have listened to Mi-ju. She assumed she would be embraced by the river the moment she touched the surface of the water. It was foolish.A very serious misunderstanding.Her body felt like it was exploding, as if she’d run at full speed at a cement wall. Then she was sucked into a deep, dark cave. This is it. I’m dying. That was it; there was nothing else in her mind as her body shot up like a rubber ball. On the far side of her consciousness, something wriggled ferociously, something she couldn’t control with vows and determination. She thrashed toward the pier against the current. She hung onto the pier for dear life, her fingernails cracking and her fingertips cutting open, struggling and fighting to stay alive until she lost consciousness; that miserable, terrible instinct to live. When she came to, the first word Hae-na heard was “miracle.” It was shocking that she’d survived such a fall. She’d wanted to die but she survived. A miracle, working as it is supposed to, even when it goes against wishes, a hopeless and futile miracle—Hae-na greeted that miracle with silence. Her soul had already died yesterday. She refused to lean on today’s miracle with only her body alive. She didn’t say anything. Nor did she eat or drink. It was shameful just to be alive. She couldn’t understand how she was still living, still breathing; she couldn’t forgive herself. She began to eat and drink two days later. Not talking and not eating made her feel as though she were reliving the miserable time she clung to the pier with all her strength, like she was making excuses after the fact. She spent a lot of time thinking. She concluded that she was stuck right now, wedged inthe gears of life and death. There was nothing she could do about it. But the gears would start to move and she would be able to go where she wanted. She decided she wouldn’t be upset or regretful about what was happening.

Someone wascoming up to the door leading to the stairs, whistling. It wasthat man. He was in his mid-forties or maybe older, and he started popping up three days ago, stealthily and whistling. Hae-na shoved her earphones in. When she wore them the likelihood of someone talking to her dropped at least by half. Glory to the person who invented earphones. There was a sign barring entry at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the roof. A padlock hung on the steel doors but it wasn’t locked. The good patients abided by the sign, so Hae-na, already marked as a problem patient, easily took over the roof. Not that there wasanything to do up here. She usually just sat on the floor and stared up at the sky. Sometimes thinking of those she didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to. The man’s whistling was terrible as usual. She didn’t know why he kept coming up here three nights in a row, after midnight at that. He didn’t come close or talk to her; all he did was glance at her from time to time. She didn’t have any excuse to get rid of him. All she could do was ignore him, but it wasirritating, like a thorn embedded under a fingernail. Hae-na decided to return to her room. She was annoyed that she hadto retreat three days straight. She started coming here to get away from people, and this guy ruined it. Being herebecamedrudgery, like being stuck in a broken elevator with a stranger all day. The chaos in her room would be better than this. Haena grabbed her crutches but she couldn’t stand up right away; the pain in her left side was acute, making it hard for her to breathe. The man stopped whistling. He came toward her, dragging his slippers. “Do you need help?” Hae-na put down her crutches. “You really want to help?” He nodded. “Just leave me alone, will you?”

He closed his eyes for a moment. He moved a few paces away but turnedback toward her. He held out a packet of cigarettes. Last night, she demanded, “You have any cigarettes?” She knew she was being rude. She was hoping he would leave, and it washer way of warning him that he should stop showing up. He stared at her for a bit before telling her he quit. “What an amazing feat you’ve accomplished, sir,” Hae-na said disdainfully. So why did he bring cigarettes with him tonight? What was his deal? Hae-na took the pack anyway. “You have a light?” He took out a lighter. He was calm, instead of disapproving. Strange. Maybe he was an axe murderer putting on an act. But he looked like a normal middle-aged man you see waiting for the subway with his lunch tucked under his arm, or someone standing on an apartment veranda in his pajamas stretching lazily on a Sunday morning. Basically, he was unremarkable. If he stood next to you then disappeared it wouldn’t register at all. He must be a friendly axe-murderer. Friendliness was actually more dangerous anyway, since it was no different from revealing your feelings by dropping them like coins all over the place. Hae-na blew smoke into the air. She coughed, feeling dizzy. She’d only smoked once with Mi-ju, who always had a cigarette in her mouth. Mi-ju told her, “Secondhand smoke is supposed to be worse, so just try one.” “You’re acting like a mayfly about to die today worrying about the weather later in the week,” Hae-na retorted. Mi-ju laughed hard, making weird squeaky sounds like the screams of a mouse caught in a trap. “I haven’t laughed this much in forever!” Maybe what Mi-ju really wanted was to live, forcing herself to laugh every day. If that was true, it was her mistake to have made Mi-ju as her companion in death. The kindly axe-murderer was whistling again, his back to her. His whistling was

really terrible. It was the same tune every single day. She knew this song: something about going around the bend of a river strewn with dreaming forget-me-nots. The lyrics were annoying. They’re corny. A forget-me-not dreaming?It was ridiculous, like an ant sipping lemonade, legs crossed, watching The Matrix. Mom used to hum this song. It didn’t fit her at all. Mom considered all the songs in the world to be a luxury. Hae-na didn’t want to think about her anymore. She rubbed the cigarette out on the ground and handed him the rest of the pack and the lighter. “You can keep them.” Hae-na smirked. “What, you wanna be friends? Listen. I’m only interested in guys younger than me.” He let out a short sigh and nods. He was acting like he’d lost his confidence, or like his ability to think was impaired. Not that she cared. She hadn’t cared about anyone in a long time. She’d rather be stranded on a deserted island and be forced to eat turtle eggs to survive. The moon was perched on his shoulder. She wanted to look at it but his was is in the way, his sallow face that looked like someone slathered mud on it, complete with sunken eyes, hollow cheeks and prominent cheekbones, and cracked lips. He must be dying. So what? It wasn’t her job to say anything. Why should she say a few words of politeness, useless reassurance or even worse, encouragement? She was sick of having to regulate her emotions based on another person’s situation. Better to be silent if you couldn’t say what you really think. In her head, Hae-na practiced what she was going to say nextbefore blurting it out. “Can you lend me some money? Ten thousand is fine. Or whatever.” He took out a fifty thousand won bill from his wallet. He hesitated. “I don’t have ten thousand.” She looked between him and the bill. It was weird. He was definitely up to something. Whatever. Hae-na tapped her left leg. “I can’t really move. Why don’t you go get

me a bottle of soju while you’re at it?” He looked down at her cast. “Car accident,” Hae-na said. “A hit-and-run. The luckiest girl in the world, aren’t I?” He nodded quietly, continuously, as if something horrible would happen if he stopped. Usually people asked all sorts of questions. She couldn’t tell if he didn’t care, or if he believed everything she was saying. At least he wasn’t chatty. “And a packet of wafer cookies, too.” “Wafers?” Soju and wafers didn’t go together, but she didn’t give a damn. The most important thing is whether I want it. Hae-na always thought that was true and believed her body would move the way she wanted. If she took a shot of soju and ate a bite of wafer cookie, it felt like she was bounced out of the world, far away from everyone rushing around fussing over every little thing. It made her triumphant that nobody thought of wafer cookies as a good snack with soju. She liked feeling free, being different from everyone else. “If you don’t want to, just lend me the cash,” she snapped. “I’ll go, it’s not a problem,” he murmured. He looked exhausted, like a camel crossing the desert. She suddenly got a strong feeling that something was missing in him; he’d lived with a hole within, unable to fill it up. Hae-na quickly looked away. It really was none of her business.

***

She didn’t know what time it was, and there was no way of finding out right away. But then again, there wasn’t any reason to. She had more than enough time, at least. She just had to be

back in her room before morning rounds and act like a sad puppy. She took the earphones out. When she launched herself off the bridge, the cell phone in her pocket smashed into smithereens. The iPod in her back pocket looked fine but it was dead, too. She believed she wouldn’t survive, so she didn’t really care about her cell or the iPod. The problem is that she did survive. She didn’t really care about her cell; she didn’t have anywhere to call or anyone who would call her. But the iPod’s demise depressed her. She bought it when she first got to America, even though it was way too expensive. She didn’tdwell on how she cherished it back then, but she needed it immediately. She needed to wall herself off from the sounds of the world so time would flow by the way it should. Three fractured left ribs, the left femur broken in half then shattered into numerous pieces. And a ruptured left Longuscolli muscle and ACL. Thankfully, Mi-ju died. She went safely to another world; for Mi-ju, it was a success. For Hae-na, it was dismal, like a removed wartthat had grown larger on its return. When she opened her eyes, she was in the emergency room. She didn’t know how long she’d been out. She wasn’t interested in finding out. She just felt lethargic, like an old bear waking from hibernation. The doctor informed her that it would have been much more serious if her ribs had dislocated and punctured the pleural cavity instead of fracturing. She wanted to laugh in his face, but it was hard enough to breathe. It felt like glass shards were embedded in her side. The doctors cut her flesh, pieced together bone fragments with pins, and put her in a cast, telling her that it would take six months, including rehab. She could get better sooner if she put in a lot of effort. Willpower, basically. She’d decided to die and failed at it. How could they expect her to muster the will to live?What did having a healthy body have to do with her plan to die? It was as useless as worrying about whether her underwear was clean the moment she drew in her last breath. Six months—she felt as if she were given a death sentence, but

she didn’t want to drag it out pathetically. She was a dead tree; there was no way she would suddenly sprout leaves and grow flowers six months later. Five days ago, she was moved to this hospital. It was a general hospital like the first one, but this one was much fancier, known to be the best in the country. She was also now in a two-person room, instead of a six-person one. There was no way that the government created a special protection program for suicide failures; she’d heard that those who attempted suicide weren’t covered by medical insurance. She didn’t know why she was moved. According to her doctors it was because she needed focused, systematic treatment, but really it was plainly obvious. It was so she could receive psychiatric care for depression. That was what they’re thinking, even if they didn’t say it to her face. How could she be considered depressed, when she planned and decided on what to do with her own life? An actress hanging herself, the head of a major conglomerate throwing himself off a building, a star scientist overdosing, all of that was determined to be caused by depression. They said depression was a cold in your soul, but thenthey applied itto suicides and treated it like it was as serious as terminal cancer. It wasall so ridiculous. But Hae-na accepted treatment; she had no other option. She was broke, so she had to accept what they were going to do to her. She’d fallen to the status of a slave, receiving what they doled out and moving according to their orders. She would run away when they asked her to pay the bills. Or she would try again. She was hospitalized against her wishes but she wouldn’t keep living as a debtor. But the hospitalnever brought it up. She tried to ignore it, but eventually, this morning, she went to the administrative offices. “It’s Kang Haena, in room 1212. I was wondering about the bill—” “It was paid in full through yesterday.” “Who paid it?” “Oh, I don’t know that. We don’t keep records on who makes payments.”

Who’s looking out for her? She doesn’t have anyone. She was like a scarecrow standing in the middle of barren fields. Who moved her to this fancy hospital, paid the bills, and got her in an expensive, two-person room? It was the way of the world that whatever was sown would eventually be reaped. What did this person want from her? Hae-na stuck her iPod in her pocket. Her fingers touched the ring inside—Mom’s ring she’d taken with her everywhere but never tried on. She wasn’t moved by memories.She didn’t believe in them. Memories were only yesterday’s hopes packaged by today’s eyes. Yesterday’s hopes were over yesterday. Bothering with yesterday’s wishes was as futile as holding up a flower in front of a blind man and saying, the scent is just so-so, but the color is incredibly beautiful. The axe murderer came back and spread out a feast—vacuum-packed pig’s feet, warm fish cakes in broth, peanuts, dried beef, and wafer cookies. “I thought you’d need snacks like these with soju,” he said, and held out a fifty thousand won bill. “This is on me. You can borrow this.” He sat down, facing her. Now he’s trying to be friends? Hae-na shifted a little so she wasn’t facing him directly, even though she wasn’t particularly pleased to be showing him her profile. She had no choice. She had to get through this politely. She twisted off the cap of the soju bottle and poured some into a paper cup. She downed it, then another. She took a bite of the cookie. She regained her balance. Drinking wasn’t something she cared for, but sometimes it wasnecessary. Her problem was that those times came up frequently. “Have some broth, it’s very nice,” he said, pushing a disposable dish toward her. Being overly kind was part and parcel of pitying someone, a rude attempt to squash the other’s ego. He wiped his forehead with the end of his sleeve. “Can I have some too?” She suppressed the urge to say, “Why are you groveling? You’re worse than a cockroach!” and handed him the bottle.

He took it but stared at her. “You’re not seriously expecting that I’ll pour it for you?” Hae-na snapped. “Well, that would be nice—” “Look here, mister!” His mouth gaped open. Did he hope she’d call him something else? He looked like a goalie costing the game by letting in a suicide goal minutes before the buzzer sounded. An ambulance siren came close, ripping through the quiet night; someone died or was dying. After it passed, Hae-na asked, “Mister, do you likeyour life?” “To be frank, not really. It’s pretty tough.” “Then why do you keep going?” “Why wouldn’t I?” “You’re delusional. You believeyour life will get better.” “That’s a sad assumption.” “It’s also the correct answer.” “A long time ago, someone told me this.Just stay alive, no matter what you do.” “Just stay alive? That person loved you a lot, I guess,” said Hae-na. “That was when I fell in love for the first time.” “So it was your first love.” “And my last.” Hae-na snorted. She glanced at him. “You don’t have too long to live, do you?” “Does it look that way?” “You picked the wrong girl to mess with. As for me—” Hae-na snatched the bottle out of his hand. She dumped soju in her cup and downed it. “I’m in a worse situation than you. I’m going to be gone long before you.” She was talking too much. She picked up her crutches. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to pay you back.”

“You will. I’m sure of it,” he saidwith the confidence of a shepherd shouting to drive away wolves. But soon the shepherd would fall asleep and the wolves would rip into the sheep. It was always like that. She wanted to ask, “Have we met somewhere before?” She was pretty sure she hadn’t but something nagged at her. Even if they had, what would she do? She didn’t need more complications in her life. Her head was throbbing from this conversation anyway. She hesitated for a moment then headed toward the stairs.

“I’m curious. What made you suddenly change your mind?” asked Dr. Hong. It took Dr. Hong six full days after Eun-jae was readmitted to see him; the doctor had been at a conference. Eun-jae looked out the window over the doctor’s shoulder at the yellowing gingko trees lining the walls of the hospital. How was it already autumn? He hadn’t looked forward to it; he’d reached a point where he paid little attention to seasonal change. He’d lived a long time. As he spent more and more time hovering on the edge of life and death, he felt as if he’d been greedy by still remaining alive. He’d done all he could. That was enough; he wouldn’t hope for a tomorrow. He was going to greet his end calmly, withoutlingeringattachment to life. But then he voluntarily readmitted himself into the hospital. It wasn’t something he could make happen by wanting it, but now he faced a reason to live, to suffer through it a little longer. He’d picked up a new cord to attach to someone else and now he had to tie it tightly around himself. “From our perspective, we always welcome patients like you,” Dr. Hong said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “You know, patients who pay extra to have a private room can be difficult in many ways. But you’re not like that at all. I don’t mean it as a compliment. I feel that you might not have the will to fight this disease. A patient needs to get aggressive, complain to the doctors, insist on treatments, and fight with the disease.” Eun-jae thought life was hopping on the train of fate and hurtling off to the unknown; death would be just getting off at a certain stop. He didn’t want to fight on and on, clawing on. He’d always believed this, even before his diagnosis two years ago. “We’ll do our best,” Dr. Hong said.“I hope you’ll take this on with renewed focus.”

Eun-jae wondered what would change by renewing his focus this late in the game. Each time he turned another corner, a deeper valley was waiting for him. At the end of last winter, when Dr. Hong told him that he’d relapsed, Eun-jae had asked, “How long do I have left?” Dr. Hong had removed his eyeglasses and carefully rubbed the lenses, focusing on them as though he might lose his eyesight if he didn’t take care of that immediately. “A year?” Dr. Hong had remained silent. He’d persisted, asking if he had six months. Dr. Hong had nodded reluctantly. Six months had flown by as he underwent several intense treatments. He was still hanging on, like a leech. Sometimes he was apologetic that he hadn’t met that deadline. Now, Dr. Hong was telling him there would be an opportunity to beat this and he should keep hoping for the best.That was the best outcome the doctor could give him, but it hadn’t happened for two long years. Of course, he didn’t blame the doctor; he was a great practitioner, skilled and knowledgeable as well as empathetic. The problem lurked within Eun-jae himself. His body disintegrated as he waited and waited. Even if there was the chance to receive treatment that would cure him, he wouldn’t be strong enough to survive it. Dr. Hong was expressing in a roundabout way that the only cure was a miracle.A miracle—an oasis in the desert, where you can quench your thirst but not a place to settle down forever. He couldn’t bet on a miracle. There was no guarantee that, even if he miraculously extricated himself from his situation, he wouldn’t stumbleright back in tomorrow. A miracle was only momentary. Still, he wanted to hang onto that possibility. He had to keep fighting even for that fleeting flicker of light. Dr. Hong went over his treatment schedule, a walk in the park compared to when he’d undergone intense treatment. It hinted that he’d reached the limits of medical science,

but he took notes and nodded along. Dr. Hong cradled his chin in his hands. “The last time you were released, you publisher came for a visit. He told me he was your only next of kin, so I told him the truth. I hope that was all right.” Kim was an old friend. They waded through difficult times together, leaned on and opened their hearts to each other. But since when did he become his only next of kin? He suddenly felt embraced by warm sunlight. This must be what having a family feels like. He hadn’t told Kim about his situation. Each stay in the hospital was a trip abroad. Just before he was released from the hospital last time, Eun-jae told Kim about it for the first time, believing the end was near. He didn’t want to hide it forever. Kim had been incensed that he’d been kept in the dark, andcried for a long time. “I’ve been your doctor for two years but I never realized who you were,” Dr. Hong said apologetically. Kim must have told him all sorts of things about him, begging on his behalf to save his life. The doctor took out an armful of books from his desk drawer. “My wife is a huge fan. She’s read every single book you’ve written.” He spread out the books in a row on his desk. Eun-jae understood what he was being asked to do. He gazed at the fourteen books in front of him. He’d written prolifically over the years, publishing a new book every six months to a year. Each time he felt as if he were entrusting a letter in a bottle to the ocean. He thought of her always, with each choice of a word. He wrote each line, hoping she’d know where he was, what he was thinking, what he yearned for. He couldn’t be sure that it worked, but he had to believe. He believed.The last three years produced only silence. He couldn’t write a single sentence. He could blame his illness, but the real problem was the link between him and writing had snapped. He might not be able to write anything ever again after her death. There was nothing he could do about it. He signed his pen name, Lee Seon-u. He’d discarded his real name in his books, and

in his life he lived as though he had nothing to do with this Lee Seon-u fellow. Neither felt completely his; he felt that he’d lived life with someone else’s face and heart. It wasn’t sorrow speaking. Rather, it was what he’d chosen and what had been chosen for him. “My wife will be thrilled,” said Dr. Hong. “She says you’re an enigmatic writer, who’s never even shownhis face in public.” He could tell the conversation was heading to an undesirable place. He stood up. “Doctor, I’d like to keep it that way. Thank you.”

***

He got off the elevator. His room was to the right, but he turned left. The door to room 1212 was open a crack. Hae-na wasn’t there. It was just after 10 a.m.Usually she would be sleeping, curled up in bed. She never left the room before her psychiatrist appointment in the afternoon. Her days and nights were switched; when darkness descended, she would stretch and begin her day. Before In-hui died, she’d told him, “She’s like a fragile bowl. She pretends to be strong because she knows she’d be shattered if she bumps into something. That’s how she’s always been, and that’s how I raised her. I feel bad for her.”Hae-na—the only flesh and blood In-hui left behind. She waited and waitedfor Hae-na’s return to the end, telling him she was sorryfor her. She didn’t ask him to take care of Hae-na; in fact, she ordered him to keep his distance. “It’s like getting wet from the rain along with someone who’s already wet, instead of giving him an umbrella. But it’s meaningless to get wet together, unless you can wait with them until theirclothes are dry. And if you can’t do that, it’s better that you don’t do anything that will get you both wet.” That had been her cryptic reason why he shouldn’t approach Haena.

He didn’t understand it, but he had to abide by it. He was a sinner and a sinner had to do time. He was allowed only regret and self-recrimination. A year went by as he staggered around, flustered. His illness deepened. He approached death; he acknowledged that In-hui had been right. His role was to observe, as if gazing at a forest and noticing fall colors. That is, until he heard about the suicide attempt. When he picked up the phone and heard the private investigator on the line, he knew instantly what that chill had been, the chill that swept over him right before he was released from the hospital, and understood why he’d been driving across that very bridge the moment Hae-na jumped. Despair was luxury to a sinner, but he couldn’t remain an observer. He would ignore In-hui’s order. The girl’s strenuous efforts to die had to be blocked by the earnest attempts of a dying man. With his remaining days, he would protect Hae-na’s future. He just wasn’t sure how to accomplish that. Last night, Hae-na spoke to him. Of course, she was cold and jeered at him rudely, as if she’d never learned how to make friends. She was struggling to preemptively push away anything that might hurt her.

Eun-jae sat on a bench at the end of the corridor and picked up the newspaper that was next to him. He scanned the headlines as he kept an eye on room 1212. Where did she go? An ominous feeling gripped him; cold sweat beaded his forehead. She wasn’t well enough to leave the hospital and she couldn’t have gone up to the roof. He’d gone to the hospital maintenance office and asked them to lock the entrance, but couldn’t shake the feeling that it was merely a temporary way to make himself feel better. He was supporting a tilting tower with his hand. If she really wanted to, she could choose a myriad of ways to end her life. His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Kim. “Hae-na’s situation is all taken care of. They won’t bother her anymore.” Eun-jae had met twice with the detective who came to talk to Hae-na. The first time,

the detective said he was investigating Hae-na for the crime of aiding and abetting suicide, which could bring a sentence of one to ten years. Eun-jae immediately called a lawyer, who told him while aiding and abetting was difficult to prove, he should collect evidence to the contrary. He would have to figure out what happened and the reason Mi-ju wanted to commit suicide. Eun-jae found Mi-ju’s mother, a woman who sold boiled corn in a small stand at an open-air market. He told her the truth, and Mi-ju’s mother was honest, too. “I’m furious,” she said. “It’s not fair. Why did she live while my Mi-ju died? I heard she’s an orphan. I know it’s terrible, but she should have been the one to die. She doesn’t have anyone! Mi-ju killed me by killing herself. I know it’s not the other girl’s fault but I can’t help it.” “I’m sorry,” he said repeatedly. He didn’t just mean it for Mi-ju and her mother; he felt bad that there was nobody on Hae-na’s side who would be as angry as Mi-ju’s mother. He learned that Mi-ju had attempted suicide several times. He couldn’t leave, even though that was what he’d come for. Mi-ju’s mother reminded him of a line from one of his novels: Parents who have let their children lead them out of this world lose the right to face heaven. On their second meeting, the detective didn’t back down. Even acknowledging that Hae-na was innocent, he insisted that there had to be someone else who was involved since they were trying to commit suicide together. Eun-jae could guess how the investigation would unfold; he’d experienced it himself. They’d corner Hae-na and threaten her until they got the answer they wanted. He’d called Kim, thinking his friend would be more effective than himself, as his own life had narrowed over the years. On the phone, Kim said, “You owe me. And you know the only way for a writer to pay back his publisher is to write a new book.” Eun-jae knew he should say thank you, but he was silent. “But forget about the manuscript,” Kim continued. “Just take care of yourself, will you?”

Eun-jae hung up. Hae-na was coming down the corridor. He could tell it was her from her height. In-hui was taller than him, too. 173 centimeters, tall enough to be a basketball player back in the day. He was only 169 centimeters, so she only wore low-heeled shoes when she was with him. Hae-na took after her mother; she had to be at least 175 centimeters. He himself would be much shorter, worn down by passing years. He let out a long sigh, watching her stumble along on crutches. What was she thinking, doing that to herself? Hae-na caught his eye. “You came for the money I owe you? I was feeling grossabout it anyway. I can’t stand owing anyone anything.” He folded the paper neatly and put it on his lap. Hae-na glanced at the bench but didn’t sit down; she’d feel uncomfortable sitting side by side with him. He stood up. “Why don’t you sit down?” Her eyes hardened. She turned away. He sat down again, awkwardly. It would be silly to open the newspaper again. He wanted to say something, anything. What could he say? He could ask how she slept. Before he could open his mouth, Hae-na piped up. “You said you were sure I’d pay you back somehow, remember? Well, you’re right. Here you go.” She stuck her palm out, holding a chubby ring that overlapped onto itself in the middle. He was stunned, as if a strong ray of light pierced his pupils. Small black dots flitted around his visual field like dancing fruit flies. He squeezed his eyes shut. “To pay you back,” Hae-na continued. “It’s platinum, so you’ve gotten yourself an excellent deal. I’d go sell it somewhere if my leg was better.” “It doesn’t look like something you should part with.” “That’s not for you to decide, is it?” She bit her lip and dropped the ring into his shirt pocket. She turned around.

“Wait!” Hae-na turned to look at him. “If it’s too much, buy me an MP3 player. It doesn’t have to be fancy. You must know what those are, right?” She hobbled away without waiting for his answer. Eun-jae plucked the ring out of his pocket. Could life be condensed into a single thing? This was exactly that moment. He rested his head in his hands. Time and the past and the many different circumstances rushed at him like falling dominoes. Life didn’t follow one’s hopes and plans; of course he knew this. He’d accepted that. But it wasn’t supposed to be like this. He’d believed that if he tried hard and fought, his life would be on track. He lowered his head as a tear dropped on his knee.

“My only sister died because of you. It’s all your fault!”Mi-ju’s older brother was yelling at her in the lobby of the hospital.His face was flat and broad, like a folded playing card, and his lips were thick and his eyes were slanted. Tattoos snaked down his forearm. It might be the tail of a dragon or a squashed lizard, and it squirmed each time he moved. “I can’t sit by and not do anything about it!” According to Mi-ju’s brother, Mi-ju would never plan a suicide; she had no reason to. She was a steady girl living a normallife. It was all Hae-na’s doing, seducing Mi-ju and urging her to her death. Hae-na couldn’t tell if he didn’t know about Mi-ju’s three suicide attempts or was pretending not to. Hae-na met Mi-ju by chance. Mi-ju told her they’d been in the same class in eighth and ninth grades, catching her off guard. “Really?” Hae-na asked. “I don’t know why I can’t remember.” They ended up eating lunch together, and because Hae-na didn’t have anywhere to go she slept over at Mi-ju’s. The day they’d planned for dawned before Hae-na could leave. That first night, Mi-ju told her, “I’m going to kill myself.” Hae-na wasn’t surprised. She felt as if she were in the stands, watching a soccer player getting a red card. Supposing that people who should live and those who shouldn’t were lined up in separate queues, Mi-ju would definitely be in the latter. She seemed to be demonstrating with her whole body that she couldn’t wait to die. Her shoulders were slumped, she was short, and her voice whined like that of a kitten soaked in rain. But worse, it was her face, the kind that made you look twice because it was so morbid. Of course, it wasn’t her fault she looked like that, but she had to deal with everything that came with being ugly. That was the world they lived in; your appearance mattered the most. Those who couldn’t cut it were pushed away. To Hae-na, Mi-ju’s declaration seemed obvious. “Why are you telling me

this?” “You’re just like me, aren’t you? It’s all over your face. You’re living because you haven’t been able to kill yourself.” It wasn’t false. Hae-na was sad for a moment; she herself was relegated to the line for those who should die. Mi-ju’s brother cracked his knuckles. “How does it feel? Your friend dies and you survive.” Hae-na couldn’t believe her ears. Mi-ju wasn’t her friend! They were just classmates; if that madeher a friend then everyone on earth would be one. “You used her. You used her because you were afraid to die on your own.” Hae-na smirked. “You’re seriously laughing?” Mi-ju’s brother yelled, his face crumpling. “You killed someone! How could you laugh? You should feel guilty.” Hae-na lowered her head. It wasn’t because of Mi-ju’s brother’s tattoos or his shouts or because of the word “guilty.” She felt awkward that everyone was staring at them. “Do you even know how much she suffered?” Hae-na did hear about that; Mi-ju belly-flopped into the river. There were negligible visible wounds but her organs had ruptured. She was told Mi-ju would have been in excruciating pain until the moment she died. Hae-na thought back to the moment she jumped. There wasn’t any time to wonder whether she’d fall on her back, stomach, head, or legs; she flailed in the air briefly then slammed into the water and was pulled in. Ithappened in the blink of an eye. She couldn’t even let out a scream. Mi-ju too would have fallen without any control. “Mi-ju’s dead, and here you are. Relaxing in the best hospital in the country. I can’t stand watching this.”

“What do you want from me?” “Take responsibility for what you did.” Mi-ju died. Just like she wanted. Hae-na lived, against her wishes. What was she supposed to take responsibility for? She would rather be talking to a cricket trapped in a bottle. Hae-na looked away and spotted the friendly axe murderer leaning on a pillar, watching. It had been two days since she’d seen him. The roof was off limits now; the lock hanging there for show had been locked at some point. Instead, Hae-na found a corner in the boiler room three floors below ground level. She’d basically fallen from heaven to hell, but it was a relief to be alone. Since she paid him back, she didn’t have a reason to see the axe murderer again. But she did think about him from time to time. She didn’t know why. She thought it wasbecause of the MP3 player she asked him to get her. Mi-ju’s brother rolled the sleeves of his t-shirt up to his shoulders. Maybe he wanted to show her that the tattoo wasn’tof a lizard but a dragon. “Tell me. What did you do to Miju?” “What do you want to hear?” Hae-na shot back. “Want me to take responsibility? Fine. I can’t make her come back to life, so why don’t you kill me?” “What? Kill you?” “No? You don’t want to? You can’t? Then I’ll do it myself. Just wait and see.” Mi-ju’s brother started swearing up a storm. Hae-na looked away, feeling nauseated. She caught the axe murderer’s eye; he nodded slightly in greeting. As usual he couldn’t read a situation. She was mortified. “You’re on the hook for aiding and abetting suicide! You convinced her to do it! You basically murdered her, get it? Murder!” Mi-ju’s brother shouted. The day after she regained consciousness, a detective came to see her for what he

called a simple investigation. But he hinted at something similar to what Mi-ju’s brother was ranting about. Hae-na ignored the detective, and luckily her doctor popped in and made him leave. Looking uncomfortable, the detective told her to get well soon. She wouldn’t be surprised if the detective came back and interrogated her about aiding and abetting suicide. “It’s just suspicious to me that she was the first one to fall. She was such a scaredy 34

cat.” As they walked onto Seongsan Bridge, Mi-ju asked her, “Who wants to go first?” “You want to pull straws?” “No, but if we jump at the same time, it’ll be mortifying. Like we’re trying to be like the three thousand court ladies of Baekje who leapt off a cliff to avoid being captured by the enemy.”Mi-ju had betrayed Hae-na just so she wouldn’t be mortified. Mi-ju’s brother glared at Hae-na. “So what I’m saying is I think you pushed her.” There was no point in defending herself. She might as well make a false confession in the face of his insistence. Mi-ju characterized her brother, who was five years older, in one word: “Asshole.” “That’s harsh,” protested Hae-na. Mi-ju clarified. “He’s worse than an asshole.”Mi-ju was usually vague; she was indecisive and bumbling. If she was contradicted, she would immediately change her opinion. She seemed to have figured out how to survive by hiding behind her indecision. But she was firm and unmoving when it came to her brother. He’d gone into some kind of business that failed and the family ended up having to give up their home. Mi-ju’s dreams for college were shot and they were harassed by loan sharks. Although that idiot brother of hers had taken away Mi-ju’s future, Hae-na didn’t completely believe it when Mi-ju insisted she had to kill herself because of him. Because when you tripped over a rock, it wasn’t just the rock’s fault; the foot that couldn’t avoid it was also to blame, or maybe the flabby calf.

Now, Hae-na wondered if she shouldn’t have disagreed when Mi-ju wanted to write a letter to leave behind. At least she wouldn’t be dealing with this ridiculous situation right now. Maybe Mi-ju’s brother wanted a payout. He picked the wrong person. Hae-na didn’t even have a coin for a coffee from the vending machine. She’d lost the fifty thousand she got from the axe murderer. Mi-ju’s brother hawked up phlegm and spat on the floor. Worse than an asshole and disgusting to boot. “My mom’s so depressed she’s about to go insane. You didn’t even tell her you’re sorry.” “Sorry? Why would I say I’m sorry?” “You cold-hearted bitch!” Mi-ju’s brother raised his hand. Hae-na almost wanted to tilt her head on a fifteen-degree angle so he could get a good shot. Do whatever you want, she thought. Kick me, break my neck, I’m not scared. This is like walking through drizzle after getting soaked in the shower. A hand leapt into view and grabbed the brother’s wrist. The friendly axe murderer. Mi-ju’s brother glared at him. “What the hell?” “You’re being too loud. This is a public place.” “So?” “Shut up, or leave.” Mi-ju’s brother smirked. He yanked his wrist out and cracked his knuckles. He prodded the axe murderer’s chest with his pointer, pushing him off balance. “You don’t know who you’re messing with. Come outside. We’re in a public place, after all.” The axe murderer placidly followed Mi-ju’s brother out through the revolvingdoors. He glanced back at Hae-na and gave her a faint smile. Should she follow them? Or go back to her room? Ugh, whatever. She was tired, like a hundred rhinos were sitting on her shoulders.

***

Back in her room, Hae-na crawled into bed and pulled the blankets over her head. If she didn’t, her roommate, the national chatterbox champion, would rush over and chirp away. Sora was a ten-year-old cancer patient. She was round in appearance, with a marble-shaped face and large round eyes. Even the end of her nose was round. She was easygoing and bubbly, just like her appearance would suggest. Hae-na felt the urge to roll her like a ball. If Hae-na snubbed her, she pouted for a moment then laughed. Hae-na didn’t like her. But shedid have to admit that the kid didn’t have a bad personality. The second day she moved into So-ra’s room, the little girl asked, “Did you really jump off a bridge?” Hae-na didn’t want to explain everything to a kid, or to anyone else. Anyone who hadn’t wanted to kill oneself wouldn’t be able to understand why she wanted to die. There was no way to make anyone get it. So-ra looked like she would burst into tears. “I’m killing myself trying to stay alive, but you’re the exact opposite.” Hae-na ignored her, but she thought of that phrase every time she saw the kid. Killing myself trying to stay alive. So-ra knocked on her blanket. “I’m tired,” grumbled Hae-na. “The guy from 1201 came to see you. Twice.” So-ra roamed around the twelfth floor like it was home; it must be natural for hersince she’d been here almost a year. Hae-na had no idea who she was talking about. “You know, the skinny man with the dark face.” It wasn’t the best description in the world but Hae-na realized she was talking about

the axe murderer. She turned away from So-ra. She didn’t know why he came to her room. Or why he went all the way down to the lobby to meddle in someone else’s business. It wasn’t his place to jump in, even if Mi-ju’s brother slapped her. It was normal to ignore things like that, not to mention it was considered smart to avoid getting involved in other people’s affairs. What was he trying to do? Was he prepared to deal with what might happen next? Mi-ju’s brother was scum, petty and slimy, the kind of person that would grab onto someone’s weakness and never let go. Logic didn’t work on a person like that. How long was he going to harass her for? Was he going to come every day to scream at her? There was no reason she should feel guilty about Mi-ju’s death. She’d been mad at Mi-ju this whole time. It was as if she’s been waiting for a long time and Mi-ju cut in line. Hae-na closed her eyes. She just wanted to sleep. But it wasn’t easy. She could barely remember the last time she slept well. The brief moments of sleep flailed in the violent undulating dreams that pushed in. Falling asleepwas terribleand so were the many sleepless hours. The inside of her head wasweighed down and messy; a truck’s worth of garbage was mixed in. She thought of Mi-ju’s mother, whom she met in the first hospital. Mi-ju’s mom came to see her after the funeral, looking like an old, sick sailor rescued from a deserted island fifty years later, looking like the shell of a person, worn and frayed. She sat silently next to Hae-na for a while. “What—what did she say before she jumped?” Hae-na couldn’t think of anything to tell her, no matter how hard she searchedher head. She couldn’t tell her that Mi-ju mentioned an overdue library book. Mi-ju’s mom continued slowly. “I wish you told her not to do it. Not to jump.” Hae-na knew she wouldn’t have stopped Mi-ju, even if she could do it over. Someone deciding to die was choosing the final exit, and that decision was made after struggling to live in so many ways. “Live her life, too,” Mi-ju’s mom said finally.

In silence, Hae-na watched her leave, feeling dull and dazed. She was suddenly envious of Mi-ju. What if Mi-ju had survived and she died? Who would have gone to see Miju, wondering what Hae-na’s last words were? Who would have told Mi-ju that she should have told her not to do it? She’d wanted to be forgotten, but that wasn’t true. The one person who would have remembered her even if she didn’t want her to had already died. The cord linking Hae-na to the rest of the world had been irretrievably severed. She was all alone, able to melt away without impact—for some reason that made her sad. The door yanked open and in rushed a group of kids, So-ra’s friends. Hae-na was sick of it. They kept coming, new ones every day. How could a fourth grader’s social life be so full? They were so loud. Even if she yelled at them, they were quiet fora minute before getting raucous again. Stupid kids. If only there were a special capsule that could quickly grow humans! The world would be a nicer place if it was legally required to put kids inside the capsule until they were adults. Hae-na decided to leave the room. She sat on a bench at the end of the corridor where she could see the axe murderer’s room. Since he’d come to see her twice and even down to the lobby, she figured he’d show up eventually. She could wait until he did. Was he okay? She would be shocked if he were. He basically stuck his leg into a rabid dog’s mouth. There was no way Mi-ju’s brother decided to let him go. The axe murderer was clearly ill, but nothing about him made her think he was fighting to survive. It occurred to her that maybe his butting into her affairs was his first act of bravery. Or did he think he could act rashly since he was going to die anyway? Or maybe he just acted impulsively. He wasn’t showing up. Hae-na was getting tired. She was annoyed to be waiting and at herself for feeling anxious. Hae-na limped over to 1201. She knocked lightly and opened the door. The axe murderer was sitting on the sofa. She’d startled him. He got up, looking

perplexed. Hae-na went to sit across from him.