3
Memories of childhood with my parents are hazy. A few memories remain, but I’m not even certain if they were real events or if they’ve been edited in my mind.
For instance, scenes of sitting at a table eating meals with my parents, my father holding the back of my bicycle to keep me from falling, or my mother holding my hand as she took me to kindergarten.
They were such ordinary, everyday moments, not special occasions, that I wondered if they might be memories I created from things I’d seen on TV or imagined.
“I grew up in alleys like these. Children easily evoke sympathy, so they’re good for begging. They’d smuggle several kids out of orphanages and sell them to organizations. Who would care if a few orphans went missing? It’s easy to make excuses that they left the orphanage on their own. Once you end up with an organization, they make you beg when you’re young, and as you get older, they teach you skills and send you out to the streets. That’s what I went through to become who I am now.”
I haven’t seen many photo exhibitions, but I can tell this one is unusual. Instead of beautiful landscapes, people, or animals, it displays photos of back alleys from various countries. Among them were familiar Korean back alleys.
It was truly nauseating, and still is.
The black and white prints had their own unique gloominess. They made even the viewers feel depressed and dirty. The person who took these must be a pervert. Making viewers feel like shit while enjoying it themselves.
“Every time I see these, I think what shitty photos they are.”
“How can you say that here?”
The guy standing next to me scolded me quietly while glancing around.
“I’m calling them shitty because they are shitty. What’s wrong with that?”
The fault lies with the photographer who took these shitty photos. I proudly expressed my opinion, and the guy let out a low sigh.
“You’re too concerned about what others think. Keeping things bottled up inside will make you sick.”
“You don’t care enough about what others think. There’s such a thing as proper manners.”
“That may be true, but not in this case. Anyone would call these shitty. Honestly, even you wouldn’t spout nonsense about being impressed by these photos.”
The guy, looking pale as if afraid of what else might come out of my mouth, grabbed my arm and pulled me away. As I was led out of the gallery by his hand, I quietly cursed at those who collected entrance fees for something they called a photo exhibition.
“If you hate it so much, why not see another photo exhibition or art show?”
“Do I look like someone with the leisure to go around enjoying cultural activities?”
“Yet you come to this exhibition regularly. Despite pretending otherwise, don’t you actually like these photos?”
Somehow I ended up picking the pocket of this guy who was leaving the exhibition, and somehow this place became our meeting spot.
We never exchanged names or contact information, and we weren’t close enough to arrange new meeting places or wait for each other in cafes or restaurants.
It seemed like he was conscious of his driver who, though unspoken, was keeping a watchful eye. I had no desire to get closer to him or show off our acquaintance, and I especially didn’t want to appear in any intimate scenes.
We were just… people who ran into each other at the exhibition, briefly asked how the other was doing, chatted about daily life, and parted ways—that was enough.
“I don’t come because I like the photos. I come to watch the people looking at them.”
“Of all places, you people-watch at a gallery?”
“It’s amusing to see people who avoid and turn away from real back alleys because they’re dirty and scary, but who then admire them as if they’re works of art when captured in photographs. I enjoy mocking that.”
The guy kept his mouth shut, but his eyes said, “You’ve got a nasty personality.” Feeling good about that, I laughed, “Haha,” but then broke into a coughing fit and hurriedly covered my mouth.
After coughing repeatedly, my chest feeling like it would tear apart, I finally calmed down and removed my hand. The guy, who had been quietly watching me, turned pale and frantically searched his pockets.
“W-what is it?”
He asked while wiping my mouth with a handkerchief he had taken out.
“What?”
At my question, he unfolded the handkerchief he was holding. There was a red blood stain on the white cotton handkerchief, the kind a child might use. When I opened the hand that had covered my mouth, I could see blood stuck to my palm.
“…Are you really sick?”
“What’s there to be sick about? I bit my tongue while laughing.”
“You know that doesn’t make sense, right?”
“Fine, I am sick. I’m sick and about to die soon. I have a cancerous mass in my chest and I’ll be dead soon.”
Despite getting the answer he wanted, his expression didn’t relax. Instead, he looked as pale as if he’d heard he was the one dying, looking like he might collapse at any moment.
“Is it true?”
“Who would joke about something like that?”
“Have you… been to the hospital? Wouldn’t surgery make it better?”
“I don’t even have money to eat before I die, let alone surgery. Not only do I lack money, but it’s also too late. Even back then, they said I’d live for just two more months.”
“When was that?”
“Three months ago.”
I’ve lived an extra month beyond the two the doctor predicted, so it’s a bonus. Who knows? I might bumble through another month like this. Not that I have any particular desire to cling to life.
“Did you go to a large hospital for tests? Get a thorough examination. My family owns a hospital. It’s a big hospital, so they can diagnose you accurately. I’ll pay for it. Okay? They might have made a mistake!”
The guy held my hands and desperately pleaded. It was the first time I’d seen him strongly demand something from me, which felt new, and somehow it made my heart ache knowing it was for my sake.
“I have no intention of going for a confirmation kill.”
“The results could be wrong!”
“I agree there are many quack doctors out there, but this one seems certain. Look at me. Do I look human? Even when I eat, I keep losing weight until I look like a withered tree, and I cough up blood. I wake up at night from pain so severe I roll around—does this look like a healthy person to you?”
Even someone with no medical knowledge can tell this isn’t normal. Anyone would think I’m about to die.
I laughed hollowly, but the guy just stood there, tears falling. I don’t know why he’s so sad. His face looked as sorrowful as if he’d heard a family member was dying.
At most, we’ve known each other for two months, and we don’t even see each other daily—just meeting for a few tens of minutes before parting ways. He was kind, foolish, and overly sentimental.
Life must be really hard for someone like him.
Here I was—with nothing to my name, with only my body as my possession, a body that was now wearing out and about to disappear—worrying about someone who was born with everything.
In the past, I would have said he was born with everything and just talking nonsense from a full stomach, but facing death seems to bring out compassion for others.
“Ah, enough. Let’s stop this depressing talk.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I said enough. What do you have to be sorry about? Please stop apologizing for no reason. People will look down on you.”
“You should have had a better life.”
“Yeah, I know I lived like trash.”
I thought he was worried about me, but was he actually cursing me, saying I’d go to hell after death? While I admit I lived like trash, hearing it from someone else’s mouth made me think I really would go to hell if it existed.
“You could have lived differently. You should have lived that way. That was taken from you.”
Gripping my hand tightly, he mumbled with eyes that had lost half their focus. I knew his mood fluctuated normally, but was his mental state this unstable too? I began to feel a bit scared.
“Hey, are you okay?”
The person about to die was me, but somehow the guy in front of me seemed in worse condition than I was. I tried to pull my hand away from his grip, but despite being as thin as my weight-lost hand, his grip was surprisingly strong and wouldn’t budge.
“Hey, I said it hurts.”
“Being cared for by parents, going to school normally, laughing and talking with friends. Worrying about your future or relationships instead of survival. Not having to be sick like this…”
“That’s just hypothetical. Frankly, you could be living perfectly fine one day and be gone the next.”
I tried to lighten the mood with a joke, but he showed no signs of returning to his senses. What am I supposed to do with this? I looked around for help, but today of all days, even the driver who should have been waiting nearby was nowhere to be seen, perhaps gone to the restroom.
“Why…”
“What?”
“Why do people live by harming others? Taking precious things without a hint of regret or reflection. Destroying other people’s lives and then strutting around as if they’ve earned a medal.”
“What are you talking about?”
He was clearly talking about something, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. He was speaking in circles, leaving out the important parts. How was I supposed to understand? I sighed, wondering if I should continue listening to his vague words.
“Somehow you look worse off than I do. Go home and rest. Where’s your driver? Why can’t I see him?”
“Those people should be the ones punished, right? Why is it always the ones who are taken from? Why is it always the ones who suffer? It’s already unfair to suffer at the hands of others, so why must they get sick like this too?”
“Hey, I appreciate your concern, but take it easy. I didn’t get sick because I wanted to, and no one made me sick either. It’s just that my body broke down because I didn’t eat well, suffered, and lived miserably. There’s no need to feel wronged or grab anyone by the collar.”
To be honest, I did feel angry and wronged.
I resented the organization guys who took every penny while making me beg and pickpocket without even feeding me properly. I resented the orphanage director who sold children like objects to those guys. I resented the hit-and-run driver who hit my parents with a car and fled. I resented the police’s incompetence in failing to catch one measly hit-and-run driver.
The world was cruel to me, and I truly resented it. Each day was painfully difficult and intense. But now facing death, I felt there was no one to blame—this was just my fate.
“Still, it’s nice that someone is worried about me dying. Thank you.”
“Why… are you thanking me?”
Author: Hyacinthus B
Hyacinthus
