Edgeway 42

I had no memory after downing about four bottles. Heon must have carried me inside. And my shirt… it seemed he had taken it off.

The cramped studio was the same as always. The only difference was that the shirt hanging on the drying rack was the one I had worn last night. I stared at the damp shirt, then got out of bed.

I wanted to thank him, but it was probably class time now. Should I call to thank him? Or apologize? I had shown him my worst side—drunk and pathetic. He might even think I was gay. My face burned, and I roughly wiped it.

I took out my phone and scrolled through my contacts for Heon’s number. I had gotten it when we joined the same club, but I had never used it. I sent him a message:

Would this be enough?

I lay back down in bed. Pointlessly tapping my phone screen, I moved from one app to another. I opened my messages, then my call log, and stared at her three-letter name, silent. I raised my arm to cover my eyes. Even after drinking and crying, my suffocating heart wouldn’t ease.

I opened KakaoTalk and looked at our last conversation, then closed it. I felt depressed and guilty. After her message Going to take the bus, my Did you arrive safely? went unread. Until her mother called, the “1” next to my message hadn’t disappeared…

…Bus?

I turned the screen back on and stared at our last conversation.

<You’re late, be careful. Or should I give you a ride?>

<Su-yeon, did you get there?>

<Huh?>

<Busy?>

Going to take the bus. Bus. Bus.

I had driven her to her neighborhood several times during our dates, so I knew the bus route to her house. To get there, she had to take the bus from the main gate. But the accident happened near the back gate, where there was no bus stop. Why would someone who needed to take the bus from the main gate go down the slope near the back gate?

Why did she have to do that? Why did the semen soaked into the bed suddenly come to mind? The timing of the stalker’s reappearance, the fact that he had stopped contacting me after I blocked him—unlike before, when he had been relentless.

I nervously bit my nails. I opened KakaoTalk and checked my blocked list. Over ten IDs were blocked—all of them belonged to the stalker, who had messaged me from different accounts. I unblocked all of them to see which one he had used last. It was hard to find the last message because each chat had over 100 unread messages after I blocked him.

Finally, I found the stalker’s last message.

A reply from Heon came in:

I had no time to reply.

My hands were shaking. In the unread messages from the stalker…

<I’m annoyed.>

<Siwoo.>

<Siwoo.>

<Siwo>

<Siㅇ.>

<Siwooㅑ.>

<Siwooya.>

<I’m going crazy imagining it.>

<I’m annoyed.>

…Her name was there.

***

I began to limp around the house.

For the first time, I could leisurely explore the small house where the man had kept me under surveillance. I left the bedroom, which I had already searched several times, and entered the bathroom.

I glanced at the soap, toothpaste, a rough disposable razor, and a few bath products on the shelf. It was hard to find anything useful for escape among these ordinary items. Still, I opened the old cabinet and rummaged through it. It was empty. It seemed unused.

The narrow, dark bathroom, separate from the shower, was the same. The tiny space, barely big enough for three people, had only a toilet and a sink. Standing at the entrance, I looked down at the toilet. Suddenly, I felt goosebumps all over my body, as if I were standing in the exact spot where the man had always watched me. I hurried out and went to the kitchen.

The house where the man had kept me was incredibly small. It smelled musty, and bugs crawled around. The tiny bedroom, barely big enough for a bed and a drawer, the bathroom dominated by a bathtub, the cramped bathroom, and the relatively spacious kitchen—all connected by a narrow hallway too tight for two people to stand side by side.

The kitchen had a small window, just big enough for one person to squeeze through. The other side was painted black, blocking the outside view.

I approached the old window frame, touched it, and lightly tapped it with my palm. A dull sound echoed. It seemed that in addition to the paint, wooden planks or something similar had been nailed over it from the outside.

What if I broke this window? Even if I used a frying pan or a chair from the kitchen to smash it, if the outside was double-blocked, it might only raise suspicion that I was trying to escape, and I could end up locked up again.

I had to be careful.

I rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, finding a frying pan, a pot, a mug for drinking cocoa, and various seasonings. The sight of the cocoa made my mouth water. I wasn’t usually fond of sweets, but I realized how thoroughly the man had conditioned me. He had used subtle tricks to make me need him—despite the bugs, the smell, and the trauma.

All of it was his doing. If I could just get rid of him…

I avoided the bugs crawling on the floor and walls, turned on the coffee pot, and placed the mug down, scooping a large spoonful of cocoa powder into it.

I nervously licked my lips as I stared at the coffee pot, shaking my legs restlessly, unable to stay still. My throat felt parched. When the cocoa was ready, steaming, I didn’t even sit down. I blew on it hastily and poured it into my mouth.

I endured the heat and downed the entire mug in one go, then closed my eyes and placed my hand on my chest. My frantically pounding heart seemed to calm slightly. Maybe it was just my imagination, but the tinnitus that had been plaguing my eardrums and the disgusting bugs seemed to lessen.

I placed the mug in the sink and started searching the kitchen again.

It was so thorough that I couldn’t find anything. Every drawer I opened was empty. This wasn’t a place where someone lived. It was a prison built solely to lock someone up.

It’s unfair. Why me? Why do I have to live as a cripple for the rest of my life? Unable to walk or run properly. Seeing bugs every day. Being raped every day. My emotions spiraled out of control. My face flushed with anger, and tears welled up. I couldn’t stand it. I slammed my fist down on the old sink with a bang and silently let the tears fall.

My hand, clenched from slamming the sink, trembled as I tried to suppress my surging emotions.

For a while, I stood still, trying to control myself.

After a few minutes, I steadied my breath and resumed searching the kitchen. I gave up on the empty cabinets. I opened the storage space under the sink and peered inside. A musty smell of mold wafted up, making me wrinkle my nose. In one corner, I saw the man’s domino box. So it was here. I hesitated to open it and look inside.