The Impossible Fairy Tale

by Han Yujoo

  The road in front of the school gate splits into three paths. A car is parked in front of the stationery store. She notices something move under the car. It’s a cat. She crouches down and peers under the car. The cat glares at her with yellow eyes. The Child meows like a cat. Without budging, it glares at her. She does the same. She goes on meowing like a cat. The black-and-white cat cocks its head and slips out from under the car, hiding from her. She stands up. The key inside her pocket emits the smell of metal. Faintly. Her face crumples.

  As she heads home once again, she runs through the possible excuses one by one. Devoid of children, the alley is quiet. She walks past the glass shop and the hardware store. The shutters are lowered at the wallpaper and linoleum store. The sand and small rocks that are scattered on the concrete path crunch under her feet. One, two, three, she counts. The marks on her neck and the left side of her back from three days ago are still there. One, two, three. Three days later there may be new marks on her neck and the right side of her back. Mark, bark, dark, stark, she mumbles. She doesn’t mumble, It hurts, it hurts. Scar is bad. Because scar looks like scare. Ash is bad, too. Because it rhymes with slash, crash, mash, and gash. Women with black purses squeezed at their sides pass by, casting disinterested looks at her. She mutters, even as she passes the supermarket and hair salon. There are people inside every shop, but there’s no one inside at night, she thinks. I wish there was a place that kept its lights on even at night. In the middle of the night and early in the morning. Hair is all right. Because hair rhymes with bear. Mama bear, Papa bear, and Baby bear. The Child doesn’t sing. Legs and hips are bad. Because they rhyme with begs and whips. Fingers and toes are just as bad. There aren’t many good words. The best word is eye. Because it’s the same even when you read it backward, and it sounds exactly the same as I. But maybe it’s not good after all, because it rhymes with die. But die has more than one meaning. And there’s also dye. I throw a die. I swallow dye. I die.

  The Child swerves into the left alley. Because the earth is round, if she kept going, even backward, in the opposite direction from her home, around the earth, she would be back home. It would be nice if it took forever to go home, then she wouldn’t have to go home, ever. Time. Chime. The Child can’t escape from home. Her mechanical feelers must stretch toward home. Her gaze, which had been sweeping over the shopping arcade’s three-story, rectangular structure, suddenly falls on the shrubs beside the security booth. The stalks shake. Something is moving. She peeks inside the booth, but it’s empty. Slowly she approaches the shrubs. There is a kitten between the overgrown weeds. Their eyes meet.

  The small kitten meows at the Child. She moves slowly toward it. Hi, Kitty, Kitty, she says. Here, Kitty, Kitty, I won’t bite. It arches its back. But it doesn’t seem especially wary. The Child’s running shoes crush the grass. Slowly she bends her knees while keeping her eyes on it. Here, Kitty, Kitty. The striped kitten moves toward her. You must be hungry, she says. It fixes its yellow-green eyes on her. Carefully, she brings her backpack around to her chest and takes out her half-empty bento box. It watches her without moving. Inside one of the side dish compartments is some leftover spicy dried squid. She picks some up with her fingers and holds it out. The kitten backs away for a moment and then returns and begins to lick her fingers. Eat it, even if it’s spicy, she says. It begins to greedily devour this unexpected meal. Carefully, she stretches out her other hand and begins to pet it. Its spine is hard and narrow. She slowly strokes its spine. Nice Kitty, she says. Nice Kitty, pretty Kitty.

  All of a sudden, the kitten’s small, sharp incisor pierces the Child’s finger. She flinches. But it clings to her hand, as though planning to chew and swallow the finger, as well as the squid. She snatches her hand away. The kitten, dangling from her hand like a crescent moon, flops to the ground. In the middle of her thumb is a small, round hole. Blood wells up from this hole that’s like an inverted cone. The kitten looks up at the Child with pretty eyes as though it has no idea why the Child has snatched her hand away. Kitty cat, kitty cat, Kit Kat, kat. What does kat mean? Or kit? Tool kit. Tools hurt. Hammer, wrench, screwdriver. The Child stops thinking. Hit. Pit. Her thumb begins to throb. Grimacing, she offers the rest of the dried squid. The kitten goes back to devouring her bleeding finger and the squid. The kitten, which looks to be a month old, is so small and light that the Child can easily pick it up with one hand. Now in the Child’s arms, it is completely engrossed in eating. She hides it inside her jacket and looks around. Two middle-aged women and three or four children who appear to be about her age pass by, but no one is watching her.

  Where should I go? the Child mumbles. The kitten digs its claws into her shirt as though to shred it. The Child must not draw attention to herself. Should I go to the rooftop? she wonders. She heads for the apartment building directly in front of her. She gets into the elevator and presses the button for the fifteenth floor. The rooftop is only one flight up from there. She has been on the rooftop three or four times before. Should I jump? the Child had thought. Which side of the building would hurt more? she had wondered. It’s useless, she had backed down. There is no one on the rooftop. Not even a mouse or an ant. Even up there, the Child seeks out the darkest corner and only then puts her backpack and the kitten down. The kitten, which has finished eating, stares up at her as though it’s still hungry and licks its mouth. You’re wrong, you’re wrong, the Child says. There’s no food left. It doesn’t answer. Sitting idly on the edge of a shadow, it starts to rub against the Child’s feet. She strokes it. Its hair, curved like smooth wire, tickles the Child’s wrist. (It hurts.) Her thumb still hurts. Should I jump? she asks the kitten. I bet you’d survive if you jumped, wouldn’t you? The kitten doesn’t answer.

  For a moment, she gazes at the exquisite shadow cast by the kitten and then opens her bag and takes out her pencil case. Inside the pencil case is a stationery knife. The knife is long and sharp and pointy. It sometimes hurts the Child. But not today. With her right hand, she slides the blade out from its plastic handle. The sharp, thin metal slices the sunlight. The yellow-striped cat that is folding itself into her hand closes its eyes into slits and tries to sleep. Its nape under her left hand is soft and slender and delicate. She waits. Shadows pant in the patches of sunlight. One minute, perhaps two. The kitten grows quiet. The Child swallows and parts the hair at its nape, revealing the delicate flesh. It is trembling ever so slightly. The sound of the pipe doesn’t reach her ears. There are no mice or ants. She has heard that a cat has nine lives. In some book of fairy tales. But she has never owned a book of fairy tales.

  She tightens her grip on the knife and slashes the nape of the sleeping, defenseless cat. One. It writhes violently. Two. But she has a tight hold. Three. It extinguishes its breath without a sound. Its hair turns red. Red sweat trickles from the Child’s forehead and neck ever so slightly. The kitten sags red. Her dirty running shoes are sprinkled with blood. One sprinkle, two sprinkles, three sprinkles. Hey Sprinkles, she calls out to the kitten. The kitten doesn’t answer. The Child puts it on the ground and wipes the blood off the blade on its tail. Its tail turns red. The Child pants. Cold, red sweat trickles down her back. A long, narrow stream of blood stretches between her and the kitten. A cruel blood tie. The trail of blood suggests nothing. After gathering her things, she gets to her feet and suddenly looks back. No one is there. No trace must be left. She checks her clothes, hands, and trembling legs. Only her running shoes are sprinkled a little with blood. The dead kitten will not be discovered for a long time. People hardly ever go up to the rooftop. It’s all right, sorry, it’s all right, sorry, the Child mumbles. The dead kitten doesn’t speak. A cat is an animal that doesn’t speak, and what’s dead doesn’t speak. Sorry, that’s enough, stop it, stop it, stop. The Child stands motionless for a moment until her breathing returns to normal. Her shadow stretches over the kitten. Soon the darkness will fall and nothing will be seen. What’s dead feels no pain. Only what’s alive feels pain. Until it dies.

  T
he Child returns to the first floor and runs toward home. She is out of breath. The key clinks in her pants pocket. She’s really late. She must hide the key. Because she’s so late, the Child thinks she’ll be forced to strip off her clothes when she gets home. Sweat surges from her forehead, the bridge of her nose, her spine, and trickles down from there. Gravity and acceleration. It’s because of acceleration. Suddenly the Child recalls Mia’s words and just as suddenly forgets them. As she runs home, she puts her hand in her pocket and takes out the key. As she runs home, she turns her head to check behind her. She who was lost. She who will be lost. Behind her, a harsh silence gathers. Where is everyone? How can there be no one? Has everyone died? But that’s impossible. The Child hurls the key she’s been clutching at the balcony window on the second floor of an apartment building. Ca-clang! The explosion of metal hitting glass echoes through the air. It’s a good thing it’s not night, because if it were night, it would sound so much louder. The Child is scared that someone will open the balcony window and shout at her. But no sound comes. Everyone has died, everyone. The Child runs and runs some more. Ca-clang. She likes that sound. Ca-clang can be used as both onomatopoeia and a mimetic word. They say onomatopoeia portrays a sound and a mimetic word portrays an action. Next time, I’m going to throw something bigger, heavier, and harder, she thinks. Something bigger, heavier, harder. The Child knows of many such things. Something longer, pointier, sharper. She knows of many such things as well. A window, a window, a window is bad. It’s cold and transparent and breakable. Every beautiful thing cracks and shatters and collapses and crumples and bleeds. If not now, it will eventually. The parched April sunlight pursues the Child’s shadow. Her shadow shrinks and expands, over and over. There is no key and there is no cat, she thinks. So it’s all right. Things that have disappeared don’t follow me. (I want to kill, too.) One of her shoelaces becomes untied. She steps on the loose lace and falls before she can catch herself. Her chin, chest, and left knee hit the concrete. It hurts. Friction spreads through her whole body. But she doesn’t have the luxury of feeling pain. Blood oozes from her chin. It hurts, it’s all right, I can say the blood on my shoes is from tripping and falling. Her face crumples from holding back her tears. I shouldn’t cry, I shouldn’t laugh either. She struggles to compose her face. I can say I tripped over a rock on the way home, and that’s why I got hurt, and that’s why I’m late, at least today.

  She runs. Today of all days, her home is an eternity away. This is like a dream, she thinks. No matter how far I run, I feel as though I’m running in place. The square landscape retreats from the running Child. Is this a dream? she wonders. Perhaps it is. But it’s a dream that will wake her.

  13

  Monday arrives. That afternoon, none of the children comes forward to confess. The teacher waits until the bell rings at the end of the last class. The children open and close their bags noisily as they get ready to go home. Most of the children have forgotten about last Thursday’s incident. Do you want to come over today and do homework together? Inju asks Mia. We can play outside with my puppy. Mia becomes excited at the thought of seeing the dog. Sure, Mia answers brightly. Mia’s voice reaches even the Child’s ears. The Child turns and looks at Mia without thinking. Mia’s long hair is held in place by a green hair tie. The Child doesn’t think, It’s green. When all the children place their bags on top of their desks, the teacher speaks. I will give you until Friday. If no one comes forward by then, we will take a trip to the police station together. Several children breathe sighs of relief. There are even some half-witted children who ask, What? What happened? Park Yeongwu whistles. Looking uninterested, Mia and Inju secretly change out of their indoor shoes into running shoes under their desks. Friday, police station, interrogation, fingerprints. The Child stands up, looking as though she has received a blow to the head. To her, a blow to the head is nothing. But no one notices the Child’s confusion.

  Mia’s green hair tie moves away with her. Gazing at it, the Child slips down the hall. No trace must be left. The Child goes into the bathroom at the end of the hall. She waits until the other children have left before filling up the sink with water and washing her face and neck. The cold, red water cools her heat. She doesn’t lift her hot face. She doesn’t look into the mirror. What she sees are her ten fingers attached to her open palms. Fingerprints. Fingerprints on the journals. Slowly she makes her way out of the bathroom and begins to walk down the stairs to the first floor. How could I forget that? she thinks. I can’t get caught now. I still have so much to do. As she descends from the fourth floor to the third, from the third to the second, closer and closer to the first floor, her legs begin to shake. She grabs hold of the railing. She doesn’t realize that the teacher’s threat is empty. She doesn’t yet know that the teacher isn’t the type to disgrace himself by dragging a group of children to the police station, or that even if he were, the police wouldn’t be interested in a problem that didn’t involve death or injury, in a trivial issue concerning children’s journals. Key. She thinks about the key that she had hurled at someone’s window last week. Key. Flee. Key. She must find the key. Key. Plea. Key. Key. Mumbling, she slinks down the stairs. From the second floor to the first. But as she is about to set her foot on the last step, she trips. Oh feeble soul—but does she even have a soul?

  The Child’s hand, which had been gripping the railing, beats the air lifelessly. She tumbles down several steps. Key, key, key, fingerprints, fingerprints, fingerprints. Even while she lurches in every direction, she thinks only about the key and fingerprints. I have to find the key, she thinks. Her cheek throbs, pressed against the concrete floor. Because of the bloodstains on her running shoes, because of her cut, swollen chin, because of her torn palms, she had completely forgotten about the past weekend. Like all the other weekends. Like all the other days. She forgets even the past weekend, like today and tomorrow, like yesterday. In the future, she will not remember anything. She will not be able to remember anything. Wounds heal and scars fade. Memories get blotted out and there is no recovering them. Memories are dazed and forgetfulness blazed. Key, key, key. If you say key over and over, it sounds strange, she thinks. The cold that comes up from the icy ground cools her heat. Key, key, key. If you say key over and over, it doesn’t seem like key anymore. I have to find the key. She sits up. Right then, someone thrusts a childlike hand in front of her face. She looks up at its owner. It’s Kim Injung.

  With small, black eyes that resemble those of an herbivore, Kim Injung looks at the Child. His eyes look similar to a cow’s or goat’s. But the Child has never seen a cow or goat before. Does it hurt? he asks. Does it hurt? Does it? The Child gets to her feet and dusts off her clothes. She doesn’t look at him. Does it? Does it hurt? Kim Injung asks. The Child doesn’t answer. He follows her closely. Does it hurt? She looks back without thinking. No one is not there. Kim Injung looks at her with eyes full of unknowable thoughts. Or perhaps eyes full of no thought. I’ll blow on it for you, he says. One, two, three, four, the Child counts without thinking. There are four pockmarks on Kim Injung’s face. Five, six, seven, she counts out of habit. There are three moles on Kim Injung’s face. He stares blankly at her. Key, I have to find the key, she mumbles. Does it hurt? Key? Kim Injung cocks his head. A sudden murderous desire pulses from the tip of her tongue. You stupid retard, she mutters. Kim Injung cowers like an animal before slaughter.

  The Child begins to walk quickly. She slips out of the school gate and walks past the stationery store, snack shop, wallpaper and linoleum store, and hardware store without slowing down. Kim Injung follows her. She turns and glares at him. Kim Injung cowers and asks, Does it hurt? Does it hurt? She resumes walking. The sound of the pipe doesn’t reach her ears. Kim Injung follows her. She decides to leave him alone. It’ll be okay, she thinks. He probably doesn’t know what I’m doing anyway. I mean, what I’ve already done. The hair salon, dogs, middle-aged women and children, the supermarket and fruit stall follow her. Kim Injung won’t know what she will do e
ither. The street is covered with pale pink cherry blossoms. The crushed transparent petals don’t retain the Child’s footprints. Walking quickly, she glances at Kim Injung’s reflection in the window of the movie rental store. With his mouth hanging open and his gaze fixed on her back, Kim Injung is following her earnestly. Retard, she thinks, biting her bottom lip with her top teeth. You stupid retard, get lost. But she leaves him alone. Once again, there are people in every shop. Of course they wouldn’t have all died. They were all alive. No one had died. This, too, is like a dream, she thinks. A dream where they come back to life no matter what. A dream where they don’t die. Where they won’t die. Sweat beads on the bridge of her nose. Is this a dream or a lie? Dream is a bad word. Lie is bad, too. That’s right, every word is bad. Almost every word. She walks past the security booth. Behind the booth, between the tall overgrown weeds, nothing moves. She doesn’t look in that direction. I forgot, I will forget. Then it means I haven’t done anything, she thinks. Nothing happened. But the Child hasn’t forgotten anything. She can’t forget anything. Not yet.

  She sees Building 101. She stops for a moment in front of the building but doesn’t look up toward the rooftop. Kim Injung, who has stopped and is standing on her shadow, looks up toward the rooftop. She turns to glare at him and then resumes walking, looking for the spot where she had hurled the key. No trace must be left. But Kim Injung is following her. Anyone who could recognize the Child must not see this sight. The sound of Kim Injung shuffling his feet gets on her nerves. All of a sudden, she stops and turns to look at him. Get lost, she says. Does it hurt? Does it? he asks. (It hurts.) Get lost, you retard! she yells. Does it hurt, does it? he asks. (It hurts.) I told you to get lost! she shouts, stamping her foot. But he comes closer and gazes blankly into her dark eyes. Does it hurt? (It hurts.) She closes her eyes. Kim Injung puts his hand on her cheek. Does it hurt? he asks. She shakes her head. (It hurts.) He strokes her cheek. The pain that she had forgotten about comes alive. She shoves his hand away and begins to walk toward the spot where she had hurled the key. It will be fine, there’s still some time left, she thinks. Mom said she’d be home late today, she told me to make my own goddamn food. She said I could eat or starve, for all she cares. Late for the Child’s mother means after sunset. There’s still plenty of time before the sun goes down. Before the shadows lengthen, before the shadows disappear, the Child must go into her room and sit as though she were dead. Retard, you stupid retard, I told you to quit following me, she thinks. She reaches the spot where she had hurled the key last Thursday. There isn’t a single blemish on the large balcony window. There is no stain, mark, scratch, or scar. She steps into the flower bed in front of the balcony, below the clear glass that tautly reflects the sunlight. Kim Injung follows her in. While she tramples on the clusters of dandelions and pansies blooming in the flower bed, while she pushes aside the stalks with her feet, Kim Injung copies her ruthless movements. Key, key, key, she mumbles. Kee, kee, kee, Kim Injung mumbles. Keep, keep, keep, he mumbles. Keen, keen keen, he mumbles. She moves faster. Gradually she grows anxious. Budding lilac branches graze her body. Key, key, key, Kim Injung lisps into her ear. She flinches. Does it hurt? Key? Looking dazed, he thrusts a small metal object in front of her eyes. The key.