ATTEW – Chapter 6

“Oppa! Oppa!”

“What—weren’t your legs shaking? You run pretty well. Chasing me down for another round?”

“You shorted me. Give me five thousand more.”

“Hwajin, stop being a bitch and go when I’m asking nicely. Huh?”

“It’s five thousand short. Here—look. This is exactly the money you left.”

“Ha… Who do you think you’re scamming? I paid full twenty thousand for the fuck—what bullshit is this!”

“No more talk—just hand over the five thousand. Nothing else to cut, so you cut the payment?”

“So now I see—you’re trying to squeeze more money out of me…… Fuck, won’t you get lost?”

“Give me my money! Go flash your dick somewhere else and give me my money!”

The mood was turning ugly. Unfazed by the man’s bulk, Hwajin lunged at him head-on.

The snowflakes were growing larger. The cold wind rattling the shop’s old glass made a racket. None of it seemed to matter to Hwajin in her thin dress. Thinking her mother must be freezing, Eunho turned to fetch a coat. She’d taken only a few steps when—

“You ragged bitch, fuck! Are you crazy? Are you insane?”

“You bastard! Give me my money! You’re five thousand short!”

When Eunho spun around at the escalating curses, Hwajin was screaming and diving for the wallet in the man’s back pocket. He grabbed her arm and her hair, shaking her hard.

The alley where the Guhyeongjip stood was lined with tiny rooms where women working in the district lived. “Lived” was generous—most were practically confined. Drawn by the midday shouting, disheveled women began to peek out, one by one, over the cement walls.

The man’s face darkened—whether from rage or shame, Eunho couldn’t tell. At the same time, the force with which he swung Hwajin grew more violent.

But Hwajin wasn’t backing down. Even with her clothes yanked up, one breast fully exposed, she stubbornly kept reaching for his back pocket.

“You crazy bitch…… Are you out of your mind!”

“Ah!”

At last, the man shoved Hwajin away. She slammed—thud—into a low wall made of stacked cement blocks and collapsed with a sharp cry.

“Ugh…… you fucker…… I won’t…… let this go.”

“Crazy bitch……”

“Fuuuck……”

Clothes torn and stretched, pale thighs bare, Hwajin flailed. The blow to her back and head must have been severe; she couldn’t get up. Eunho took a step to help her—when she saw it.

A flowerpot perched atop the cement wall was wobbling. Clack. Clack. Clack. Tilting dangerously, the old pot tipped completely—and dropped onto Hwajin’s head as she struggled to rise. Thud.

“Kyah!”

Women watching from beyond the wall screamed. It was as if someone had dumped icy water over everything. Frozen in place, Eunho stared at the black soil and shards of pottery covering Hwajin’s face.

“She’s dead!”

“What do we do!”

“It was Big Uncle?”

“Shouldn’t we call the police?”

“Call her aunt—now!”

“Unnie! Yeonji unnie! It’s bad!”

The voices grew faint. Then there was nothing at all. In the strange silence, Eunho stepped closer, one step at a time.

Dark red blood was seeping from beneath Hwajin’s tangled hair. The spreading stain soaked broken briquette ash and potting soil, spreading wider and wider. The bare feet that had been thrashing moments ago now lay limp.

“…….”

Eunho crouched beside her. Snow piled onto Hwajin’s pale chest and thighs, onto her wavy hair—big, downy flakes. Eunho reached out to brush the snow away, then tugged at her clothes.

She tried to cover the soft mounds of breast and the plush thighs—anything to hide them—but her eyes caught on Hwajin’s bare feet. They looked so cold. The bright red polish on her big toenail was half-peeled, and it bothered Eunho.

Where did the other slipper go?

Slowly, Eunho turned her head. She searched for Hwajin’s cherished petal-pink slipper—and found it. And the man standing on it.

“F-fuck……! I didn’t kill her!”

Starting with the terrified man’s shout, noise flooded in all at once. Hating the racket assaulting her ears, Eunho covered them. Then the stench hit—thick and metallic—filling her lungs.

“…….”

It was worse than the fishy smell that lingered after the men left the back room. Similar to the scent when Hwa-jin, off men for a few days each month, cursed while washing her underwear—but denser, more acrid.

Who put a big pot up there? On a leaning, crumbling wall like that? Who watered a dead tree—when all it would do is freeze the soil? Who would welcome flowers in a red-light district? Flowers couldn’t bloom in winter. They couldn’t bloom.

“……Mom.”

Eunho brushed Hwajin’s face with her small hand. The damp, cold soil—partly frozen—clung in clumps.

“Mom.”

“Get up. Let’s go home. You need to wash. Forget the stupid five thousand—let’s just go. I don’t need jjajangmyeon. You haven’t eaten breakfast yet. You’re hungry.”

No matter how she moved her hands, the pale face revealed between blood-caked dirt only grew more ruined.

Still—still, she had to clean her. Mom liked things clean.

The daughter she raised as a “son” could be left grimy, but Hwajin always kept herself immaculate. Not for selling her body—she simply loved soaking in hot water. On bathhouse days, she’d hum, plainly pleased.

Hating the dirt that marred that pretty face, hating the snow settling over it, Eunho worked her hands faster. Then she stopped—when the fingers she’d reached out to smooth Hwajin’s hair touched her forehead.

“…….”

This shouldn’t be like this. It should be hard here. It can’t be soft. It should be raised—not sunken like this.

It wasn’t the shape of a human head she knew. The caved-in softness, like a deflated ball, made fear crash over her. Terrified, Eunho curled the hand that had touched it into a fist and shook Hwajin.

“Mom…….”

The calls came quicker, her voice already breaking.

“Mom…… Mom……!”

Tears pooled until she couldn’t see Hwajin at all. She wiped them with the filthy sleeve of her old coat, but more tears flooded, blurring everything.

“Mom—hngh—moom—uhhh…….”

Shaking Hwajin while crying, words she’d often heard flashed through her mind.

[“Don’t cry. Crying makes you look like a girl.”]

[“But boys cry too?”]

[“Sure, boys cry. But you’re not a boy. When you cry, you look even more like a girl. So don’t cry. And crying doesn’t help anything. Instead of crying, you have to lunge harder—like a rabid thing.”]

[“Lunge?”]

[“Answer me, Lee Eunho. When do people cry?”]

[“When it hurts, when it’s frustrating, when I’m angry, when I’m sad and upset.”]

[“Right. And does crying change anything? Does it make it stop hurting?”]

[“…No.”]

[“Exactly. Crying is useless. When it hurts because you’re hit, lunge at the bastard who hit you. When you’re frustrated, lunge at whoever made you that way. When you’re angry or sad or upset—same thing. Lunge at the bastard who made you feel that way.”]

[“Lunge and do what?”]

[“Make that bastard cry.”]

[…….]

[“Crying just makes you look weak. Don’t look weak. To anyone who looks down on you—tell them to go fuck themselves.”]

Maybe she’d said it just because Eunho’s crying was loud and annoying. But whatever the reason, Hwajin taught Eunho how to endure without crying.

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