HMN C3

Chapter 3

“Let’s see. Just as I thought, I packed chicken breast in my bag….”

A college student living off part-time work in a one-room villa was hardly going to treat himself to proper meals. At the end of each month, he would boil up a week’s worth of substitutes like sweet potatoes and chicken breast, stash them in zip bags for dinner, and sometimes they served handily as cat food on nights like this.

“Don’t go scavenging food waste… You should be eating healthy protein, you rascal….”

Even drunk as he was, rummaging through his bag ended with him plopping down on the ground—but he didn’t care, plunging his hand into the backpack. Fumble, fumble. After a long dig, something crinkly met his fingers.

“Found it.”

Sniff. He snorted back his nose once more and pulled out a zip bag with about a third of the chicken breast left.

“Here you go, it’s unsalted.”

Nod. Nod.

He held out the chunk of chicken breast in his hand, but the cat wouldn’t close the distance. He dusted off his seat and dropped into a crouch. Here. Come on. He stretched his arm out a couple more times, and this time the cat outright bolted away.

“Hey….”

Normally, he would have left it by the utility pole or tossed it and gone home. The trouble was how drunk he was.

After being rejected from every job he’d applied to, and after even his friends had left him drunk and alone, he now felt, absurdly, as if this small creature were also spurning his sincerity. His lower lip and cheeks puffed.

“You don’t like this? Want me to buy you Churu? Just try this. One bite and you’ll change your mind….”

Try it. Just one bite. Saying as much, he quickened his steps toward where the cat had fled. Plod, plod. His unsteady gait wobbled onward.

“You’re hungry, and—ugh!”

Thwack!

Running on jelly legs while thoroughly drunk was not, as it turned out, a wise plan. He barely made it any distance before tumbling across the asphalt of a dim alley. There wasn’t a single pebble at his feet; he had simply tangled himself up and gone down. Flung at least a meter, he instinctively threw both arms wide.

Sssssk!

“Gasp.”

Both palms scorched. His knees, stamped hard against the ground, throbbed viciously, and his jaw ached as if it might crack.

“Hnn, ah….”

But he didn’t have the strength to spring up. He wasn’t even sure what state he was in. The chill of the asphalt had reached his face, and all he could do was blink and lift his head. He saw the chicken breast he’d been holding lying several steps ahead.

“Damn.”

Thank goodness there was no one in the alley but the cat. Even drunk, that thought came, because he dimly understood how hideously he had fallen.

Tap.

Still sprawled, he tipped his chin up.

There was someone after all. In the very alley he’d thought was empty. Near where the chicken breast had landed. The tall man’s face was masked by the streetlight’s shadow, and he couldn’t make out the features.

“Ah, sor—”

It wasn’t as if they’d collided; he had nothing to apologize for, and yet the word came first. He planted his hands to try to stand, but it wasn’t easy. This time his palms flared fiercely.

“Ah.”

In the end, he couldn’t get up. The skin of his hands, rasped raw on the ground, hurt too much, and the strength had drained from his legs. He managed only to turn his hands palm-up.

“……”

Somehow the asphalt had abraded them white, the skin on his palms ragged, and vivid red blood began to seep through the flaps. The pain throbbed, dull and imprecise, so he curled and uncurled his fingers.

Tap.

Footsteps drew near. The man who had stood a little ahead was now almost upon him. Even then, Daeyoung was still melted into his stupor, blinking from where he lay. So he imagined the stranger might help him up, or pick up his bag that had flipped to one side, or at least ask if he was okay. Vaguely, he thought so. Sure enough, the person who came to a stop in front of him extended a hand.

Perhaps the world was still kind. He mustered all his strength, reached out to brace himself, and began to lift his torso to take the hand.

Thud.

But in the next moment, the arm he’d extended to grasp on cleaved only air, and his upper body pitched forward again. The person who had offered a hand as if to pull him up had withdrawn it at once and straightened.

What is this. With his mouth half open, Daeyoung raised his head, dazed. To pull back a hand like that—might as well be mockery. As drunken thoughts boiled and shifted, anger crawled up. Using the fingers of the hand that wasn’t split open, he pushed against the ground and hauled himself upright. Slowly, haltingly, he straightened his back, limping on his knees. Even so, the height difference remained, but they were close enough now for the other’s face to come into focus.

Unfortunately, it was a familiar face.

“You again? You never run out of ways to make a spectacle.”

The man who had, yet again, witnessed Ahn Daeyoung’s most embarrassing moment spoke in a flat voice and walked right past him.

“……”

He wanted to say something like, A person’s fallen and can’t get up—are you not even going to help? But his palms were bleeding freely, his knees were pulsing with pain, and more than anything, something had gone wrong when he fell: his stomach lurched.

“Urk.”

Clamping a hand over his mouth, he reflexively curled inward and pushed himself to his feet.

By then, the man was already going on his way without a backward glance.

That bastard again. The alcohol flooding his body bubbled like lava. Yet even that fury didn’t last long. His pocket buzzed; the moment he answered, Wonjung’s voice was shouting. Somewhere around then, the night blacked out completely for Daeyoung.

“Is my brain… on fire?”

— Good. Real good.

Ten o’clock in the morning—industrious people had already been busy for hours. Wonjung’s voice grazed his ear. Daeyoung tapped his screen to put it on speaker, set the phone by his pillow, and curled tighter. Every movement sent a hideous headache roaring through him. A hangover.

“How did I get home? I think I’m dying….”

He remembered knocking back drinks at the bar, and then nothing. No—maybe they went to karaoke. He could almost picture himself gripping a mic and screaming the high notes….

— How would I know? While I was putting that punk Haegyeom in a taxi, you got yourself home.

“Damn. I can’t—ah!”

— What? What’s wrong.

“Sss, huh? What is this….”

He couldn’t even open his swollen eyes; he twisted on the bed and suddenly contorted with a searing pain.

— What’s wrong, I said.

Blood.

“…Hey. My hands are bleeding a lot?”

Both palms were caked with dark red scabs. He stared, horrified, then slowly peeled back the blanket. The throbbing wasn’t only in his hands.

— What?

“…My knees are bleeding too?”

— Ha… you insane bastard….

Looked like he’d come home drunk and still stripped off his pants before getting into bed. Below his bare thighs, a big, bright red scab had formed over a shattered knee.

“God, where did I do this again….”

— Bravo. Huh? Excellent, you idiot.

“It hurts so much….”

He didn’t remember it cleanly, but he was pretty sure he’d fallen in an alley. He vaguely recalled thinking his knees and palms had been scraped raw and stinging….

— How bad can it be. Want to come out for hangover soup?

“If I go out like this, I’m a mutt. Go where? I’m not going anywhere. Just hang up for now….”

On any other day the lure of soup would have swayed him, but as he woke from that analgesic drunken sleep, the pain sharpened. He hurriedly ended the call and gingerly stood, heading for the bathroom. He could swear he’d promised himself on the way out last night to drink moderately and come straight back, but once he started with those guys, there was no end.

What the bright bathroom lights revealed was a wreck. Youth was youth—overnight, the wounds had already begun to scab, matted with gray asphalt grit. He stared at his face, still red and puffy with leftover alcohol, then awkwardly climbed into the tub, careful not to bend his knees too much. First, he’d rinse the filthy wounds with lukewarm water—and shower while he was at it.

“Ugh! Ah! Sss, ah!”

Obviously, he groaned the whole time he showered. As he gently washed the dust-caked wounds with warm water, blood ran in thin streams. Limping back into the living room to disinfect them, he found himself, humiliatingly, sniffling tears.

“If I drink again, I’m not human.”

A resolution of absolutely no use. If he said that in front of his friends, they’d either ask if he was finally admitting he was a dog, or jam a soju bottle between his lips and tell him to bark. Swallowing bitter tears, he rifled through the first-aid kit.

“God, kill me.”

He plastered on hydrocolloid bandages, stripped the blood-smudged bedding, and ran a full wash, but the hangover held fast. This was why he kept a mini-fridge stuffed with barley tea and sports drinks: he gulped them down. Sleep would be better for a hangover than this, but there was something he had to do.

“Let’s see… course registration, general electives….”

He needed one elective to fill his credits. The popular ones were already full; he’d have to pick from the dregs.

“Ugh, all the good ones are closed.”

When they’d drafted schedules, he’d just copied whatever Koo Wonjung made and never really looked. Now, belatedly, he saw only the classes everyone avoided were left. He hated intros, hated rote-heavy courses….

“Sss… Volunteer work?”

But the deliberation didn’t last. A pretty time slot, a perfect fit for the hole in his schedule. He didn’t love the course itself, but handled right, it could be killing two birds with one stone. Besides, if he didn’t take that, he’d need a morning class another day—this was the best option for now.

Click, click.

At times like this, quick hands beat words. After a couple of clicks, he’d cobbled together a timetable for the semester with surprising ease. Leaning back to scan the monitor, he lifted his phone to his ear as it buzzed again. Wonjung.

“Ugh, what. I said I’m not going out.”

— Hey, is this you? Check your messages.

“……”

The tone, out of nowhere, was ominous. His face tightened as he tapped the screen. Moments ago, his messenger had been a wasteland; now the red badge was plump. Sixty-three new messages. I’m not even an insider yet. He had a bad feeling.