by Han Yujoo
Mia and the Child pass the supermarket at the corner of the arcade. Mia turns to look at the Child. The Child avoids her gaze. A shadow falls across her face. The music of shadows. She is still unable to shake off her suspicions about Mia. Mia had said, What’s that? What’s all that under your arm? She remembers that moment in one-second intervals. What’s that? All that. Under your arm. Mia from the previous Thursday takes shape in the Child’s head. Mia is wearing baggy jeans with a green jacket. She taps the ground with the end of her closed umbrella. The water runs down the umbrella and drips onto the ground. Next to Mia is her mother, who is holding a plastic bag filled with groceries, including eggs. Mother and daughter. A scene like this is awkward for the Child. Do you live around here? What’s your name, Mia’s mother says. To the Child. In that instant, she comes close to dropping all of the thirty-five journals she’s carrying.
Mia looks away from the Child. The Child stares at the back of Mia’s head. As they pass the weed-choked flower bed beside the security booth, the Child looks up toward the rooftop of Building 101. Would it have rotted? Would it have frozen? Would it have died? She’s certain that it would have rotted or frozen or died. No. They say a cat has nine lives. So it could have been reborn and gone somewhere else. No. It could have been on its ninth life then. That’s right. Whether it has one life or nine lives, it’s bound to die someday. Someday. Everything. Everyone. All. The Child swallows. As Mia gets closer to home, her shoulders begin to droop. The Child looks at Mia’s shoulders. Mia tugs her backpack straps forward. The Child purposely trails several steps behind Mia. They might run into someone Mia knows, someone Mia might have to greet. The Child has never greeted anyone within the complex. No trace must be left. As Mia gets closer to home, she makes barely any effort to speak to the Child. As Mia gets closer to home, she forgets about the Child’s existence. Mia slows down. The Child stares at Mia’s ankles. Mia’s two feet and two legs have been in use for the past twelve years. Mia has passed through many places full of memories and recollections for the past twelve years. And so Mia keeps slowing down. The Child falls farther behind. An overgrown lilac branch that has escaped the flower bed grazes the Child’s shoulder. Despite the slackening steps, Building 110 gets closer. It’s over there, Mia says. Even though Mia doesn’t say anything, the Child already knows that Suite 904 of Building 110 is Mia’s home. Mia looks back. The Child is there.
Building 110 consists of three adjoining towers. Located in front of the center tower is the security booth. Each tower has its own elevator, with two suites separated by the elevator on every floor. The fifteenth floor is the top floor. Thirty households live in each tower and ninety households are in Building 110. If on average there are four people per household, around 360 people live in 110. That Friday afternoon, in front of the steps of the center tower, another vulgar family drama unfolds. One of Mia’s fathers is waiting for Mia. The Child, who has recognized him, stops in her tracks. Mia’s father walks toward Mia. Mia stands still as though she were glued to that spot. Mia turns and looks at the Child. Can you wait for me at the elevator? Mia says to the Child. Mia’s face is red. Mia’s father spreads his arms to greet her, looking at her awkwardly. His eyes are fixed only on Mia. The Child checks the security booth. No one is there. The empty booth, Mia’s father, Mia, empty home. The Child’s head fills with the smell of blood. She peers into the booth to see if there is a video surveillance monitor installed as she makes a wide arc around Mia toward the elevator that leads up to Suite 904. But there is nothing. The Child hides in the shadow of the mailbox and observes Mia and her father through the glass door. Although she can’t hear what they are saying, she can see that Mia has begun to cry and that Mia’s (possible) father is patting her, struggling to console her. Mia’s (possible) father doesn’t have the key to Suite 904. Why else would he receive the stinging, perhaps burning stares of a third party when he could quietly carry out this scene inside the apartment? Key. Again, the Child thinks about the reason why he might not have a key. Mia’s (possible) father doesn’t have a key. But she has no way of knowing whether or not this is true. She must simply believe it. No one is home. And no one will be home for the next two hours. Judging by the fact that he has no key, the man standing awkwardly before Mia is probably not her actual father. Which means there is a greater chance that Mia won’t allow him into the apartment. Mia knows how to use this situation to her advantage. Tears flow from her eyes. She rubs her eyes with her fists. Mia’s (possible) father places a hand on her shoulder. Mia shrugs it off. A woman passes by and gives them a suspicious look. Mia will begin to cry harder. Her tears will secure the promise of a bicycle, perhaps a dog or cat. In a few days, Mia will have what she wants in her hands. In a few days. If only there were a few days left. Mia allows her tears to fall to the ground. Because a parked car is in the way, the Child can’t see the tear stains on the ground. The Child swallows. The small blood clot that was stuck in her throat finally slides down her esophagus. The security guard comes up behind Mia. The Child can see the guard’s face. As though he were caught in a bind, he merely watches the back of Mia’s head and Mia’s (possible) father without doing anything. The shoulders of Mia’s (possible) father droop. Mia shoves him with both hands and heads toward the Child. The Child hides herself completely behind the mailbox. Mia’s (possible) father calls out to Mia. Mia whips her head in his direction and shouts, Go away! Looking defeated, he keeps his eyes on Mia for a long time. The Child has already pressed the elevator button. Mia smiles awkwardly at the Child. Mia is relieved that the Child doesn’t say or ask anything. The Child’s shuttered eyes and firmly closed mouth gain Mia’s trust. Mia is relieved that the Child, and not Inju, has accompanied her home today. Unlike Inju, the Child wouldn’t whisper about Mia to others. Just as Mia hoped, the Child doesn’t ask anything. Truthfully, the Child has no questions. The elevator arrives. Mia, who first slips into the elevator, presses the button to the ninth floor. With her head bowed, the Child steps into the elevator.
Mia pulls her backpack around to her chest and removes a key from one of the pockets. This is it, Mia says. The Child taps the dust off her shoes at the front door. Strewn before the shoe rack are shoes that belong to Mia’s mother. The Child removes her running shoes after Mia, setting them neatly in the entrance facing the door. So that she can slip them on quickly and leave at any moment. The Child’s mouth fills with the taste of blood. The small living room is dark and still. Sunlight slants in between the heavily drawn curtains. Dust covers the low table that holds a stack of three or four magazines. Dust is bad. Dust leaves traces. Can feet also leave toe impressions? But the Child is wearing socks. Luckily. Mia, who has gone into her room, comes back with a loose T-shirt. Change into this. I’ll wash your shirt for you. The Child awkwardly takes Mia’s T-shirt. Can I change in your room? she asks. Mia nods. Mia’s room is bright and sunny. A pink blanket lies rumpled on top of her unmade bed. Mia’s desk. Mia’s dolls. Mia’s bookshelf. Mia’s wardrobe. Mia’s framed pictures. Even while pulling off her sweater, the Child surveys the room. Through the door, she can hear the sound of Mia opening and closing the fridge. And the sound of glass cups being set on the glass table. The Child quietly opens Mia’s wardrobe. Clothes that are white, pink, brown, and gray are hung neatly in a row. A green sweater catches her eye. It is folded neatly. Following the fold of the sweater, the deer that’s knitted on the front is also folded. She closes the wardrobe door without a sound and takes off her bloodstained shirt. Her bare body is revealed. Her white, red, black, and blue body is reflected in the mirror beside the wardrobe. She turns her back to the mirror and puts on the shirt that Mia had given her. White, red, black, and blue stripes appear briefly in the mirror and then disappear, covered by the T-shirt. Holding the clothes she has removed, she opens the bedroom door and looks back without thinking. The Child, who is dressed in Mia’s shirt, appears in the mirror beside the wardrobe. Her face in the mirror reeks of blood. Mia’s bright, sunny room. The mold growing in every c
revice of the large window is hidden by curtains that hang on either side. The mold cannot be seen. The Child estimates how much time she has left. Will half an hour be enough? One hour should be more than enough. Within an hour, the Child will be sitting in her own room, wearing the freshly washed shirt that had been dried with a blow-dryer. She steps out of Mia’s room. On the table facing the living room are two cups filled with juice. Mia sees her and smiles. It looks big on you. Here, give me your shirt. I’ll wash it for you, says Mia. The Child hands Mia the T-shirt that has been rolled up in a ball. You can get cleaned up while I wash this. The Child nods without saying anything. Mia turns around. Oh, there’s juice on the table, by the way. While Mia speaks, the Child glares at the back of her neck. Today. Mia has tied her own hair for the first time today. Perhaps for this reason, her green hair tie is knotted loosely at the base of her neck. Mia’s neck is white. It is small, rather than thin. It’s a childish neck. When’s your mom coming home anyway? the Child asks. Probably around dinnertime, Mia answers. Where’s your bathroom? the Child asks. Across from my room, Mia says as she fills the kitchen sink with water. The Child goes into the bathroom. Mia’s toothbrush. Mia’s toothpaste. Mia’s toilet. Mia’s bathtub. Mia’s tiles. Mia’s mirror. Mia’s faucets. Mia’s soap. Mia’s shampoo. Mia’s toilet paper. Mia’s hair. Mia’s lashes. Mia’s skin flakes. Mia’s fingerprints. The Child twists the faucets and fills the sink with water. It’s cold. The cold water is cold. After splashing her face a few times, she dries herself with Mia’s towel. Her reflection in the mirror is pale. She takes off Mia’s bathroom slippers and emerges from the bathroom. Just as she expected, Mia’s (possible) father doesn’t press the doorbell to Suite 904 or knock on the front door. Grown-ups use grown-up ways. Mia’s mother isn’t home. Mia’s (possible) father must not bother Mia. The Child approaches Mia, who is scrubbing the Child’s T-shirt with dish detergent. The shirt must first be soaked in cold water to remove the blood. The Child has experienced many difficulties in the past, because she had soaked her bloodstained clothes in hot water. Mia, on tiptoe, looks as though she will get sucked into the sink at any second. The Child thinks all of a sudden that she wants to bash Mia’s head into the sink. The Child’s face cleared of all moisture dries out. It’s not really coming out, Mia says. Sorry, the Child says without thinking. Why are you sorry? Mia grips the T-shirt. The Child looks at Mia’s fingers. Hey, the Child says. She holds her breath for a moment. Have you ever …, she trails off. Ever what? Mia looks back at the Child. Some detergent suds are on Mia’s small, pale cheek. Have you ever wanted to kill someone? the Child asks. Mia’s face hardens. She is silent for a moment. How about you? Mia asks. I …, the Child says. I have. When she hears the Child’s answer, Mia reddens. Actually, me too, says Mia, looking embarrassed. To the Child. And I wish I were dead, too. Because if I died, my mom would cry and say it was all her fault. Because everyone would come to my funeral then and say it was all their fault and beg me to come back to life. The suds on Mia’s cheek are white. Mia raises her shoulder and wipes it against her cheek. She doesn’t seem at all suspicious of the Child. I’m almost done. Mia turns on the faucets and rinses the Child’s T-shirt. We’ll hang it for a bit and if it’s still wet we can use a blow-dryer. The Child nods. So who do you wish were dead? asks Mia. The Child flinches. In her head, countless faces appear and disappear repeatedly. Instead of replying, she stares blankly at Mia’s hands as she wrings out the shirt. Sometimes I wish my mom were dead, Mia says casually. But I shouldn’t be like that. After all, if it weren’t for my mom I wouldn’t even be here. The Child broods on Mia’s words. If it weren’t for my mom I wouldn’t even be here. If it weren’t for the Child’s mom there would be no Child either. The Child’s face crumples. Okay, all done. It just needs to dry. Mia spreads open the shirt and shakes it free of water. Water droplets splatter onto the Child’s face. Cold sweat trickles down the back of the Child’s neck. What should we do while we wait? Do you want to watch television? asks Mia, who has draped the shirt over the kitchen chair. Well …, the Child mumbles, and continues in a low, monotonous voice, Do you want to play the fainting game? She asks Mia, Have you ever fainted before? It feels really good to wake up after you faint. It’s like being born again. At first, everything’s fuzzy so you can’t see very well. Then everything gets really clear. Your head becomes totally blank and you get thirsty. Then all you have to do is drink some water or juice, she says. A smile spreads across Mia’s face. She says to the Child, Isn’t that game for boys? Who says only boys can play it? the Child says. Let’s try it. You go first. Then I’ll go next.
24
April. Friday. Close to 5:00 p.m. Mia clutches the Child’s throat. Like this? Instead of answering, the Child nods. Squeeze harder. Mia’s pinky fingernails dig into the Child’s red neck. Harder, harder. Mia’s face turns red and the Child’s face turns white. Mia’s mouth opens and she pants. The Child, who lets herself sink to the floor, bursts into laughter. You really suck at this, she says to Mia. Sulking, Mia looks at the Child. Then you do it. Let’s see how good you are. The Child has been waiting for Mia to say these words. She lifts her hands to Mia’s throat. Watch. This is how you do it, she says, grasping Mia’s throat and applying all the force she can muster. Mia’s laughter gets caught in her throat. Her eyes fly open. Her hands flail over the Child’s hands. Hold on, you’re almost there, the Child says. An expression like laughter or sobs flickers across Mia’s face. The inside of the Child’s head reeks of blood. She can’t see anything. Mia’s face, even the Child’s hands, evade the Child’s gaze. She shuts her eyes and tightens her fingers around Mia’s throat, harder and harder, with crushing force. Mia’s body begins to go slack. She sinks back, her face white. The Child uses the last of her strength to squeeze Mia’s throat. A few indiscernible words escape from between Mia’s partly open lips. Mia collapses. Tears flow from the Child’s eyes. She lets go. Mia’s head falls back limply. She supports Mia’s head and lays her on the floor. Mia’s body is on the floor. The Child pants. It’s not over yet.
She slaps Mia’s cheek. The whimper of a small animal escapes from Mia’s throat. The Child puts her hand on top of Mia’s chest. But she can’t tell whether Mia is breathing or not. It’s because her own heart is pounding. She takes short, shallow breaths. The Child’s face can’t be seen. She looks back. No one is there. But her wet T-shirt is hung over the chair. She looks beyond the T-shirt at the kitchen sink. A drop of water falls from the faucet. Drip. No. Drop. No. Drib. There is no onomatopoeia that can express the sound of a water drop falling into a stainless steel sink. She tries to slow her breathing. Where is it? Her gaze shifts desperately toward the sink. Mia is splayed out on the floor. Knife. Where is it? Knife. I need to find a knife. She takes off Mia’s T-shirt that she’s wearing and wraps it around her hand. Her hand that is wrapped in the T-shirt violently opens and closes cabinet drawers. Mia’s spoon. Mia’s chopsticks. Mia’s fork. Mia’s plate. Mia’s cup. Mia’s straw. Mia’s paring knife. Mia’s kitchen knife. Even while rummaging through drawers in search of a knife, the Child keeps an eye on Mia. Mia remains splayed out on the floor where she fell. Finally, the Child picks up the paring knife. She brings the blade to her bare, shirtless body. The knife is cold. The cold knife is cold. Her face turns cool. She removes the rest of her clothes. No trace must be left. She places the knife, T-shirt, pants, and underwear on top of the table. She must move Mia. She puts her arm under Mia’s shoulders and sits her up. Saliva pools around Mia’s mouth. Mia is small and light, but her weight isn’t easy for the Child to handle. The Child’s face crumples as she lifts Mia. But there is no time to think about anything else. There is no time. She drags Mia toward the bathroom. There is no time. Truly. The Child must take care of Mia before she wakes up, before Mia’s father rings the doorbell, before Mia’s father opens the door and comes in, before Mia’s mother returns home to avoid Mia’s fathers. The Child doesn’t turn on the bathroom light. There is a dull thump as Mia’s body passes over the thre
shold. The Child thinks she hears Mia moaning. No. She must have heard wrong. The Child quickly studies Mia’s face. White psoriasis has bloomed around Mia’s mouth. The Child’s thin, naked body appears in the bathroom mirror. The traces of assault. But they are much too distinct to be called traces. She looks as though she is wearing red-and-blue clothing. Her chest shows no traces of development. At some point, she stopped developing.
The Child tries to put Mia in the bathtub but staggers under her weight. She looks around the bathroom and spots a large basin. Mia is crumpled up on the cold tiled floor. Using the handheld showerhead, the Child fills the basin with water. For a moment, the sound of falling water calms her. She comes out of the bathroom and picks up the knife that’s wrapped in the T-shirt from the table. The blade reflects nothing. She peers at the tip of the blade. Will this work? Will this be enough? Her hand that’s clutching the handle begins to shake violently. She tightens her grip.
