Vol 3 Ch 3

It’s suffocating. It feels like something heavy is crushing me from above. Like being pinned under a mass of rebar. …Rebar? Now that I think about it, I had a similar dream a few days ago.

…Ah! As I struggled to make sense of it, something suddenly dawned on me. No, it was more accurate to say that the scenes flashed before my eyes like a slideshow.

I realized I was dreaming, but even so, fear swallowed me whole. It was a situation I never wanted to relive, not even in a dream. It was horrific, brutal, and so disturbingly realistic that even after waking, I’d been plagued by its aftermath for days.

Desperately, I tried to keep my eyes shut. But the me inside the dream wasn’t entirely me. I couldn’t control myself.

Cruelly, my eyes opened slowly. As expected, CEO Jang was there, on top of me. The man held my wrist in a vice-like grip, his hands moving tirelessly. Screech, screech. That chilling sound scraped down my spine. My anxious gaze followed his to see where he was looking.

‘…Uh, uuaaah! …Aah!’

CEO Jang was severing my fingers. There was no pain—only pure, overwhelming terror. I flailed and thrashed wildly, like a man possessed.

Unlike the man’s horrifying explanations, my fingers were cut off almost too easily. Five little sausages rolled across the floor.

Blood gushed like a fountain from the severed ends, bursting in torrents. The man watched the overflowing, sticky red liquid with a satisfied smile.

The fountains at the golf course had been beautiful, shining in vibrant colors. But this blood—this blood was nothing but dirty and vile. The flowing blood had formed a puddle now, too vast to ignore.

Suddenly, I realized something. This massive amount of blood wasn’t coming only from my severed hand. I traced the winding, blood-soaked path with my eyes. At the end of that crimson river…

I bolted upright from where I lay. I didn’t even notice that CEO Jang had disappeared. I scrambled forward on all fours, frantically crawling. My hands and knees were soaked in blood, but I couldn’t care less.

A middle-aged man with a shattered head lay sprawled like a fish hauled onto land, gasping for air.

‘…Ah.’

It was my father.

Slowly, I approached, cradling his head in my hand. With my left hand, I lifted his head, and with my right—my fingerless, mangled hand—I lightly tapped his cheek.

‘…Dad.’

From the stump of my hand came a cold sensation. A dream shouldn’t have sensations like this. But this—this was the exact feeling I’d had when I touched his cooling body in reality.

Those once-fierce, razor-sharp eyes were now hidden beneath his eyelids. The hands that had always seemed ready to strike hung limply at his sides.

Something streamed down my cheek. I thought it was blood, but what dripped from my chin was clear liquid. My voice cracked as I called out.

‘…Someone, please, help us.’

I needed to call the hospital, fast. I whipped my head around, searching for a phone. That’s when I noticed something to the right of my father’s head. It looked as though someone had thrown it there. A red brick.

His hair and blood were tangled messily around it. Yes, that’s right. He’d been hit with a brick and tumbled down the stairs. His head had shattered like a watermelon split in two.

Please, help. Save him. I cried as I begged for help. My voice echoed back at me, empty and hollow, with no one to hear it.

Soaking my hands in my father’s blood, I repeated those same words over and over until I woke from the dream.

…Help us.

***

My swollen, dry eyelids clung together, my lashes sticking as though they didn’t want to part. For a while, I stared blankly at the ceiling through a hazy view before slowly sitting up. From the corner of the room, I felt that ominous gaze again—a crimson form standing there, glaring at me with its hollow, empty eye sockets. That thing was so persistent, always appearing before my eyes.

I reached out to the jumper hanging on the coat rack and pulled something from the pocket: a scrap of sandpaper.

I ripped a page from the calendar, spread it on the floor, and sat on it, pressing it down with my thigh. The sandpaper was new, its surface still rough. It was going to hurt.

Without hesitation, I began scraping the area around my fingerprints with the sandpaper. I emptied my head, focused solely on the act, like I was doing a job.

Gradually, a stinging sensation spread through my fingertips. I felt something running down my wrist and suddenly snapped back to my senses. Bright red blood was seeping from my skin, dripping down in steady streams.

For a while, I stared at the scene, dazed. The hot liquid trickled gently along my palm lines, from the fingertips downward.

…I didn’t really believe that doing this would erase my fingerprints.

“Yeowon, I couldn’t find it.”

Uncle had approached me then, trembling in fear, telling me he couldn’t find something. I had already lost the ability to think properly—what was it that he couldn’t find? What was that which had soaked my hands? And what happened to Father? A string of questions piled up, but in the end, I didn’t ask anything.

Uncle had searched around and brought back some unknown chemicals. I had been in a state where I could see and hear nothing, following his instructions with empty eyes. Uncle had examined the inside of my hand, which had been dipped and pulled out of the solution dozens of times, and muttered, “S**t, this is useless.”

He left the house, only to return with a black plastic bag. The contents spilled out next to me as he tossed the bag down. I had stared blankly into the air, unmoving. Uncle had grabbed my hand and begun rubbing the faint, blurred fingerprints again with the coarse sandpaper.

“…….”

I opened my tightly shut eyes and looked down at my hands. I clenched my fists, then opened them.

It seemed the bleeding had stopped for now. I resumed the task, gripping the sandpaper tightly and scraping at the soft skin. I wasn’t naive enough to believe that what I had done would disappear as if it never happened.

It’s just that… I wanted to forget the sensation. I wanted to lose it forever. That horrific feeling of warm blood—my father’s blood—soaking both of my hands.

With no work to keep me occupied on my one day off, I spent the entire day wasting time under the blanket.

I couldn’t muster the strength to move a single finger. Now that I think about it, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d eaten a proper meal. It felt like there was nothing left inside my ribs. Yet, instead of craving a hot meal, I longed for that acrid smoke. Just two cigarettes would be enough to fill this emptiness inside me.

I reached out, stretching my arm across the floor, searching blindly. My fingertips finally brushed against a paper pack. I opened it, only to find it empty.

Out of cigarettes, too.

Having laid around all day, I felt like mushrooms might start growing from my sides. I decided to buy a pack, sliding out of bed. I reached for the jumper draped over the chair, but my shoulders flinched at the sharp sensation in my fingertips.

“…Ah!”

I flipped my hand over and looked at the inside. Where my fingerprints should have been, dark red scabs now filled the space. My ten fingers were a complete mess—so bad I could hardly bear to look at them.

With my unkempt hair covering my face and my crushed fingertips, I probably looked suspicious even to myself. Realizing I didn’t own any gloves, I paused to think. How could I hide this?

Then I remembered the work gloves I used on the job. I pulled a pair of frayed white cotton gloves from the closet, slapped them against my thigh to shake off the dust, and slowly slipped my hands inside. No matter how careful I was, the rough interior scraped against my fingertips. I bit my lower lip hard, trying to bear the pain.

“…Ugh.”

It felt like all the nerves in my body had gathered at my fingertips. It stung terribly. The only relief was that the gloves had a red lining on the inside, so even if my fingers bled, it wouldn’t show much. Then again, that wasn’t much of a comfort.

I put on the jumper and remembered to pull on a hat. That should do. I shoved my gloved hands deep into my pockets.

Opening the door, I stepped outside. The rusted iron door groaned shut behind me.

I had just started to walk toward the building entrance when something caught my eye. I would have ignored it, but I turned my head sharply and looked again. On top of the mailbox, a pile of envelopes still sat there.

‘…Huh?’

Drawn by some inexplicable force, I trudged over and looked down at the envelopes.

Something felt off. That envelope was gone—the one with neither a sender nor a recipient written on it. Except for that, the rest of the envelopes were exactly as I had left them a few days ago. It felt as though someone had deliberately picked out that one envelope.

Did the owner come and take it? A new question arose. How would they know it was theirs when there wasn’t even a sender on it?

“…….”

As I furrowed my brows, deep in thought, a more fundamental problem hit me. Why was I even so bothered by this? It was just one envelope. Maybe the sender had warned someone beforehand and delivered it personally. Perhaps it was mistakenly placed in my mailbox, and they had taken it back.

I ran through various scenarios, trying to suppress the unease bubbling inside me. Even as I turned away and walked toward the exit, my nerves remained focused on the mailbox behind me.

If I truly believed it was nothing, I wouldn’t be here fighting off these persistent doubts in my head.

What was this nameless sense of anxiety gnawing at me?

Creak. The old door groaned open, and the sharp wind pushed through. The bitter cold, almost alive with malice, pierced through me.

***

The cramped supermarket didn’t have much stock. I bought a cup of instant noodles, placed it on the counter where the owner was seated, and asked for a pack of cigarettes.
“Six thousand five hundred won.”
I pulled out the bills I had prepared in advance from my pocket and placed them on the counter. The owner, with no interest in my hand, lazily counted the money and handed me a pack of cigarettes and a 500-won coin.

I left the store and headed for the phone booth. With a cigarette between my lips, I inserted the coin I had just received into the slot. The public phone clanged softly as it swallowed the coin.

I firmly pressed the dial buttons and brought the receiver to my ear. But there was no dial tone—only the familiar voice of a recorded woman echoed.

-The person you are trying to reach cannot answer….

I hung up the phone with a sigh. Of course, that piece of trash wouldn’t pick up. There was nothing else I could do now. Waiting wasn’t going to solve anything, so I had no choice but to call the hospital directly.

I dialed the area code first, then slowly recalled the hospital’s phone number and pressed the buttons. Truru, the ringing tone sounded. Even though it was just a simple inquiry call, my heart pounded loudly. I nervously smoked my cigarette until a high-pitched voice came through.

-Hello, Jeil General Hospital.

“…Ah.”

I paused for a moment before continuing.

 “I’m calling to pay for patient Im Sunhwa’s hospital fees. Can I find out the unpaid balance and the account number to send the money?”

“What’s the patient’s date of birth?”

 After giving my mother’s birth date, the nurse asked me to wait a moment. I heard the sound of typing. The faint noise of paper being turned followed soon after. 

Finally, the nurse picked up the phone again.

“I just checked.”

 “Yes.”

-It looks like all of Im Sunhwa’s unpaid bills were settled when the transfer process was completed.

 “…What?”

 I reacted like an idiot to the unexpected words. Transfer process?

-The patient has already been transferred to a larger hospital. The process was completed.

 “Then, can you tell me where that is?”

-I’m sorry, but I can’t provide that information.

 “…W-Why?”

 I didn’t even realize I had muttered the words aloud.

 -Doesn’t the family know where she was moved?

 The moment I said it, I flinched, but the word “family” technically referred to close relatives, so I reassured myself. The nurse, taking it as nothing unusual, replied in her formal tone.

-Normally, we can provide that information, but in this case, the guardian filed a privacy protection request. You’ll need to contact the guardian.

 My hand gripped the receiver tightly. By guardian, she meant my uncle. I couldn’t even begin to guess why he would do something like that.

 “He’s currently unreachable. Can’t you please tell me? I’m begging you.”

-I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do to help.

 Her words were polite, but her stance was firm. For a moment, the only sound coming through the receiver was my breathing.

-If you don’t have any further questions, I’ll have to hang up now.

 I hurriedly stopped her.

 “…Wait. When was she transferred?”

-It was about a month ago.

 …A month ago?

I bit down on my glove-covered thumb instead of the cigarette I had half-smoked. What the h**l was happening? My thoughts tangled into a chaotic mess, and I couldn’t figure out where to start unraveling them.

-Please contact the guardian directly. I’ll be hanging up now.

 With that, the call ended. I dialed my uncle’s number again. Pressing each digit of the 011-number firmly, I brought the receiver back to my ear. I anxiously tore at the chapped skin on my lower lip as I waited for the dial tone. But once again, the mechanical voice of the woman told me the phone was turned off.

 “…….”

 The receiver slipped from my hand. The cold plastic, still hanging from its cord, bounced against the walls of the phone booth. Tang, tang. The small square space echoed with sharp, shattering noises before silence returned.

Transferred about a month ago…?

 If it was a month ago, that matched up with when I’d first lost contact with my uncle. With my gloved index finger, I tapped the plastic wall.

Unlike modern phones, my uncle’s old flip phone could last for days if unused. So… so if his phone hadn’t been used at all for about a month….

Lowering my gaze, I stared at the dangling phone. It still swayed midair as if it had been hanged upside down, a victim of some kind of twisted fall.