by Han Yujoo
The water brims over the basin and soaks Mia’s hair. Crouching beside Mia, the Child gazes down at Mia’s hand. She thinks, The left hand is better. No, she thinks no such thing. She blindly reaches for Mia’s left hand. Mia’s hand is warm. But that warmth doesn’t reach her. You have to cut the artery, not the vein. But she can’t distinguish between a vein and an artery. All she knows is that she has read many news stories about people who cut their veins instead of their arteries and failed to commit suicide. Hesitation wounds. External injuries and internal injuries. Blood vessels. Blood. The depth of wounds. Fingerprints. Water. The Child knows many such words. They’re words one can know without understanding them. She presses Mia’s wrist but she can’t tell which is the vein and which is the artery. The Child picks up the knife she had left on the bathroom threshold. She hesitates and then removes Mia’s T-shirt that had been wrapped around the handle. She is no longer shaking. The sound of the water coming from the showerhead gobbles up her silence. Mia’s hair sways in the flowing water like a dead fish. Slowly, the Child lets out a long breath. In her left hand is Mia’s wrist, in her right hand is Mia’s paring knife. The Child looks like Mia’s red-and-blue shadow. The Child’s body is completely hollow. She has no memory and no past. She has no more tears. Such things left her long ago. Like her missing fingernail. Mia is motionless. Is she dead? The Child looks at Mia’s face. Or is she alive? Suddenly, the Child recalls the sentence “I want to kill” that had been written in Mia’s journal. She recalls Mia’s green hair tie. She shakes her head. Because the bathroom light isn’t on, the Child’s face can’t be seen. But even if the light were on, we wouldn’t be able to read her expression. We must not look at her face. When she turns to look back, we must disappear. The Child brings the blade to Mia’s wrist. Mia’s face, sunken in darkness, is strange and silent. One. A long slash appears on Mia’s wrist. Through the torn flesh, blood begins to seep out quickly. Two. She scrapes the blade over Mia’s wrist with a little more force. Mia flinches. No. The Child has only imagined it. She nearly drops the knife. Her breath surges up to her chin. She pants. She gasps. She shuts her eyes. She opens her eyes and thinks, if only she could be anywhere but here. She opens her eyes and thinks, if only it were her instead of Mia who’s lying on the floor. She hacks at Mia’s wrist until the blade nearly snaps. Something cold and wet collects on the Child’s face. Water. Perhaps sweat. Perhaps blood. It covers the wounds on her body. Her gasps drown out the sound of the water. The inside of her head sinks and bleaches out. Faster and faster. Harder and harder. Deeper and deeper. She drops the knife. The knife falls on the tiles. Plink. Clink. Ca-clang. But no onomatopoeia exists, not in any language on earth, that can express the sound of a knife falling onto tile.
She stands up. Mia doesn’t move. Even the tip of her finger doesn’t move. Only Mia’s loose hair ripples in the water, quietly, in the dark. Somewhere within the Child’s body, a nerve strand snaps. Mechanically, she blinks a few times. Mia. Mia is dead. Mia will never reveal anything. The Child slowly flicks on the bathroom light. She shuts her eyes. When she opens her eyes, if only she could be anywhere but here. She opens her eyes. But here is here.
Mia and Mia’s things, Mia’s world, is marked by Mia’s blood. The mark’s expression is cold. The Child doesn’t scream. She doesn’t sink to the floor. She doesn’t look at Mia. She can’t look at Mia. Mia’s small, light body is drenched in bloodstained water. The Child bends over Mia’s body and picks up the showerhead. Mia’s loose hair is covering her face. The Child rinses herself off. She is shaking. Is it because the water is cold? Mia’s left arm is submerged in the basin. The bloodstained water brims over. The Child carefully cleans the blood off her face and body. She is shaking. It’s because the water is cold. She works her fingers through Mia’s hair. Something gets caught in her fingers. She grabs hold of Mia’s green hair tie.
The Child dries herself with a towel. She puts on each item of clothing that is on the table in order. On the table are the two cups of juice that Mia had poured. The Child doesn’t take a sip. She puts on her wet T-shirt that is hanging over the kitchen chair. She is shaking. Is it because the wet T-shirt is cold and wet? Her sweater is on the bed in Mia’s room. Mia’s room. The Child stops pulling on the sweater and looks once more around Mia’s room. Mia’s wardrobe. The Child rubs the handle with the end of her sweater sleeve. She comes out of Mia’s room and stands in front of the bathroom. Mia. The Child looks down at Mia’s small, light body. It is no longer small and light. It is no longer anything. She wipes the light switch with Mia’s T-shirt that had fallen by her feet. As her hand moves up and down, the light flickers on and off. Mia flickers. Blood has splattered even onto Mia’s T-shirt. The Child leaves the bathroom light on. Because Mia might get scared if it’s too dark, the Child thinks. No. She thinks no such thing. The knife is by Mia’s chest. She might get hurt if she moves around, the Child thinks. No. The Child thinks no such thing. She thinks nothing.
The Child stuffs Mia’s T-shirt and the wet towel into her backpack. What else? She mechanically surveys Mia’s apartment. Mia is no longer there. Mia is dead. The Child puts on her backpack and her running shoes. From the entrance, she surveys Mia’s home for the last time. The sound of trickling water comes from the bathroom. She wraps the front of her sweater around her hand and turns the knob. She does this several times, because the sweater keeps slipping around the knob. The door opens. The elevator is on the ground floor. She climbs the stairs up to the rooftop. From there, she goes down another tower, which can be accessed from the rooftop. She decides to use the stairs all the way down. She doesn’t catch anyone’s eye. She returns to the ground floor. The fragrance of lilacs suffocates her. She lets out a long breath. Her heart begins to beat violently. Her world goes askew. Where there should be light, there is darkness. To her. Inside her. Outside her. It starts pouring. One, two, three, a hundred, ten thousand, a million of her nerves snap at the same time. She is on ground level, but she’s far from grounded. She binds her breath. She opens her eyes wide. But everywhere her gaze touches, the world sinks. Buildings heave. Roads twist. Cars flip over. Blood trickles. It collapses. It’s collapsing. No matter how much it collapses, here is here forever. Even in a million years, here will be forever here.
25
Will we ever know the Child’s name? Impossible. It’s been impossible until now. The incident leaves traces. No trace must be left. But how do you erase the traces of a trace? She doesn’t move. She hasn’t moved until now. We must avert our gaze. We must not look at her. She must not move. The instant she moves, time will move again. The instant time moves again, she will leave traces again. The instant she leaves traces again, those traces will grab hold of her feet. Therefore we must no longer look at her. Our eyes must not see, not even Mia’s hair tie that is clenched inside the Child’s fist, not even the Child’s wet T-shirt that is rolled up above her belly, not even her empty eyes that are gazing out at the empty world. Do not look at her. Do not read about her. Do not think about her.
But that’s impossible.
II
26
Snow is falling. Snow is falling on the two-lane road that stretches darkly ahead. The end of the road disappears into the end of the hazy sky. The end of the end. The end beyond the end. Even the silence has frozen, like breath turning white. One, two. One snowflake, two snowflakes. The drifting snowflakes land on my cheeks. My cheeks are no longer warm enough to melt the snow. My face freezes. I put my hands in my coat pockets. My pockets are full of pebbles. I grab them without thinking and pull my hands out of my pockets. The pebbles are white and transparent. They are lumps of ice. The lumps of ice that my hands are clutching freeze the lines on my palms. The fate lines on my palms freeze. Fate freezes. Fate that has turned to ice influences nothing. I begin to walk. I am alone on the long, black, narrow road. Not even a single car is on the road. Snow falls on top of the asphalt. The black road turns gray. Soon the road will turn white, and then the road will disappear. Alrea
dy, the road’s half gone. The shadows of white. Everything silent. Desolate branches hide themselves in the snow. When I happen to look down, there is snow up to my calves. Someday, the snow will gobble up the entire landscape. I will become buried in snow without even a gravestone to my name.
I begin to walk. Snowflakes fall on my frozen cheeks. Even as I walk, I can sense the futile beauty of snowflakes. The word snowflake is beautiful. The word snowflake may be more beautiful than an actual snowflake. Snowflake. Word. Footprint. Word. Shadow. Word. One footprint, two shadows. I look back. The footprints have disappeared. Because snow is piling up on top of them. The sky is white and the ground is also white, and so, there are no shadows. Even the crunch of my footsteps on the snow cannot be heard. Is it cold? I ask myself. Strangely enough, it doesn’t feel cold to me. Is it because all sensation has left me? Any sensation that remains is overwhelmed by the snow-white color of snow. Is white a color? Snow reveals neither light nor shadow. White snow is simply white snow. I brush off the snow that has collected on my coat. The strength of snowflakes is stubborn. I can no longer recall the color of the coat I am wearing. The coat has already turned to ice. I slow down. I’m surprised to see that snow now comes up to my waist. The snowflakes that keep falling on my forehead and lips freeze. I remove my hands from my pockets that are filled with ice pebbles. My hands have turned to ice. Through my transparent hands, I see the white ground. Snow piles up even on top of my hands that have turned to ice. My transparent hands turn white. I look back again. White snow, everywhere white snow. I turn back around. The road has disappeared. White snow, everywhere white snow. White hill, white slope, white field, white road. The border between earth and sky is unclear. I no longer walk. I simply stand in the same spot and watch the snow that is endlessly falling. When this snow stops falling, perhaps I’ll be able to walk on it all the way into the sky. Suddenly, I realize that I’ve come here to discover the most beautiful snow crystal. But there is snow all around. And all the snow crystals are already beautiful. Therefore, which one am I supposed to take back? But even if I managed to come upon something perfectly crystallized, the road back has already disappeared. And so, therefore. I stand still and watch how a world is buried in snow. Soon my two eyes will become ice. The phrase snow blindness comes to mind. A blind world withdraws into snow. Gradually, my vision grows dim. When I look down, snow is up to my chin. I can no longer touch the ice pebbles inside my pockets. It’s because my arms have turned to ice. Using the last of my strength, I stare straight ahead. Ice has formed even on my lashes. But the ice on my lashes cannot cast a shadow. Because even the light has frozen. And I can no longer see a thing. Because both of my eyes have become ice pebbles. I should have taken off my coat. I should have checked whether the bones beneath my skin, which has turned to ice, were black or white. And so, before the white snow covered my transparent body, I should have checked whether one bone, two bones, the bones beneath my skin, which has turned to ice, were black ice or white ice. But it’s too late now. Time itself has frozen. And I can no longer think. Because even my mind has turned to ice. White snow, everywhere white snow, like the whites of our eyes.
27
I begin to walk again. No. I’m driving in some kind of trance. I’m still on the two-lane road. I look behind me through the side view mirror. On a slope back in the distance, snow is falling. That scene is as small and exquisite as a postcard. I keep gawking at the view and then glancing at the dashboard. The speedometer is pointing to 0 km/h. I look back again. The scene with the falling snow is growing distant. Faster and faster. It is now as small as a fingernail. But I can see each of the snowflakes falling in the scene that is as small as a fingernail. All of a sudden, I realize I’ve left the most beautiful snow crystal—that perfectly crystallized thing—back in that scene. But I can’t turn the car around. Is it cold? I ask myself. It is cold. It’s so cold I can’t bear it. All the while, the scene is growing more and more distant. It has already become as small as a fingernail clipping. But I can see each of the snowflakes falling in the scene that is as small as a fingernail clipping. A thousand snowflakes, ten thousand snowflakes. I shift gears and turn the steering wheel. All of a sudden, I can’t help but think that I don’t know how to drive. The car doesn’t move forward or backward, it neither floats nor sinks. It’s simply going somewhere. Onward, somewhere, onward. I look straight ahead. The scenes on either side of the car move backward. The car is moving forward. The speedometer needle is stuck on 0 km/h. Slope, brick, vallate, glacier, corridor, well. Words I have never seen before parade past the windows. All of a sudden, my vision swells up. I blink, but I can’t open my eyes once shut. When I swipe at them with my hands, pointy ice cones burrow into my palms. Is it cold? I ask myself. It is cold. It’s so cold I can’t bear it. Are these the world’s most beautiful snow crystals? But before I can answer, the ice cones on my palms vaporize. Without vapor. My hands are neither black nor white. They are neither smooth nor transparent. I can’t sense the color of my palms. Snow blindness. I look back again. Ice scales fall into my collar. The particles of the scene are sinking. The scene as small as a fingernail clipping, ten thousand snowflakes, ten thousand and one snowflakes. I’ve left behind that perfectly crystallized thing. I must go back and get it. I must confirm what cannot be confirmed. I must go back. But my body doesn’t move. My body, my frozen body. There is frost on the glass. I must go back. But my hands have frozen onto the steering wheel. Every time I move, ice scales burrow delicately, sharply, into my body. I can’t tell whether the scene I see is the foreground or the background. Probably neither. I must go back. But the scene grows distant. I can no longer recall the names that point to objects smaller than fingernails. A part of a fingernail, a part of a part of a fingernail, a part of a part of a part of a fingernail. From that place in the distance and beyond, countless snowflakes are in bloom. The snowflakes take over. White petals are in full bloom. The scene begins to crack. The cracks spread, and the scene spills over onto the scene. The scene overflows. I am nowhere to be found. Ice scales burrow into my entire body. I glance down at myself. I vaporize. Without vapor. Without vapor.
28
I am erased from the dream. Night is crouching. Before this dream disappears, before it retreats to the far side of recollection, before it retreats beyond the midday shadows, I must put this dream down in writing. But I soon fall back to sleep again and am thoroughly separated from the dream. The dream that has drifted by forgets me. It is forgetting me.
But now I’m aware that I’m dreaming. I’m walking along a road paved with bricks. It isn’t snowing. It’s probably summer. The sky hangs low. Buttercups grow in the cracks between the bricks. Although I have never seen buttercups before, I somehow know that they’re buttercups by their thin green stems. A nag passes by. On the way to a zoo? A farm? A slaughterhouse? It’s headed somewhere, wherever that may be. Everywhere, death is being dispatched with speed. The nag that had been passing me nags, That dog was dried out. What the nag just nagged is probably wrong. Dogs don’t dry out. Drying out can’t be a dog’s trait. The nag nags again, Then is it you who’s dried out? I look at its face, but I can’t tell what it’s looking at. I keep staring as it passes by. In the distance, at a point where the brick road ends, there’s a brick fence. Beyond the brick fence, there’s a brick building. The nag that disappeared is back and is now standing beside me. I climb on and we trot down the brick road. The brick wall looms so close I think I can touch it. That dog was dried out, it nags in a low voice. That’s wrong. You can’t use the expression “dried out” for a dog, I nag in its ear. It shakes its head. But I can’t tell if it has understood my nagging.
Beyond the brick fence, there’s a brick building. The nag jumps over the fence. I tilt backward. The world spins. Its hooves trample on the buttercups. The brick building grows larger and larger. The brick door of the brick building swings open. The nag that’s carrying me enters the brick house. Brick shoes are laid out in the brick entrance. I’ve never see
n a brick entrance or brick shoes. The nag steps inside, scattering the brick shoes that were lined up so neatly. I crouch so that my head won’t bump the ceiling. The nag’s mane burrows into my neck. Inside the house there is both everything and nothing. The nag goes up the brick stairs. I don’t ask, Where are we going? I don’t ask, Where are we? It trots up the steps in no time. Second floor, brick pillar. Third floor, brick hallway. Fourth floor, brick wardrobe. That dog was dried out. The nag stops at a spot where the stairs end. Get off, it nags. I listen to its nagging. I walk forward, groping the brick wall. The brick light shines from the brick ceiling. I walk on the brick carpet past the brick table and draw back the brick curtains and open the brick window. The shadow of the sun falls across my face. All of a sudden, sleep floods over me. I must tame sleep.
I lie down on the brick bed and pull the brick blanket over me. Gazing up at the brick ceiling, I close my eyes. When I open my eyes again, the nag is standing beside me. That dog was dried out, it nags. Yes, I know, I say. The nag is standing beside the brick bed. Aren’t you cold? I ask. No, I’m not cold, it answers. Do you sleep standing up? I ask. I don’t sleep, it answers. So I don’t dream either. The brick breeze blows in through the open brick window. This is a dream, I say. The nag replies with a cold snort. I pull the brick blanket up to my chin and shiver. The brick sunlight crushes the brick pillow. That dog wasn’t dried out, the nag nags. Yes, I know, I answer. Do you know the opposite of confusion? the nag asks. I don’t answer. There is no opposite of confusion, it nags. No such word exists. Buttercups are growing in the cracks between the bricks in the pillow. Why did you bring me here? I ask. To ask you if you knew the opposite of confusion, the nag nags. What kind of nagging is that? There is no such word, I say. Fine, let’s play another game then. Let’s find the most beautiful word in the world, the nag nags. I lie on the brick bed with my head on the brick pillow and cover myself with the brick blanket and nod. Buttercup stems burrow into the nape of my neck. They are long and pointy and painful.
