The Spirit of Tears
I woke up, but I couldn't open my eyes. I braced myself against the wall, stumbling toward the bathroom until I managed to splash some water on my face, which helped me see a little better. A disgruntled frog was rubbing its eyes in the mirror. Holy moly. My eyes were genuinely swollen, likely because I’d sobbed my heart out until the very moment I fell asleep last night. It was the first time since middle school that my eyes had puffed up this badly.
...I’d gone and remembered another unpleasant memory. Do you know about this? On the eve of the final day of a school retreat, there’s usually a campfire scheduled. If you’ve been through one, you’ll remember the terrifying program that comes right at the end: the "Sensitivity Stimulation Time."
The instructors, whose favorite catchphrase was, "Depending on how you act, we can be angels or demons," would light a massive bonfire—the kind that stirs up all sorts of complicated emotions even in the most stoic of people—and have the kids sit in a circle around it. Then, they’d order us to lie down and look at the sky. We’d resist internally, hating the idea of getting dirt on our clothes, but we’d comply, fearing that if we disobeyed, they’d cancel the wild all-nighter planned for that evening.
The bonfire crackled, sending sparks dancing high into the air, while the night sky was densely packed with stars, shining more beautifully than I’d ever seen before. As we stared at a landscape that could inspire a poem in the blink of an eye, these dual-personality individuals we called instructors would begin to speak in unnecessarily solemn voices. They’d tell stories of someone’s life—a life that wasn’t particularly special, but was therefore filled with all the more hardship. They’d talk about the people called "mothers," who loved their children more than anyone else, despite everything.
It was a forced experience of the kind of sentimentality you might feel when standing your first night watch at a training camp, and it wasn't something kids going through puberty could easily brush off. Just as the image of my mother back home would form in the sky, my vision would blur, and my chest would tighten. That was when the story would reach its climax, and the instructor would shout:
—Do you miss your mother!
—Yes!
—Is that all the love you have for her? Do you miss your mother!
—YEEESSS!!!!!
—Then shout it as loud as you miss her! Mom!
—MOOOOOM!!!!!!
It was a shout I never would have let out if I were alone. But caught up in the collective madness of sharing that emotion, the instructor would savor the kids’ cries as if they were a sweet opera. He was definitely thinking to himself, I made these kids wail! I can control their emotions! It was a truly devilish idea.
When the wailing finally died down, the instructor would say one last thing: "I hope you can carry the feelings you felt today all the way home." Then, he’d disappear with a satisfied smile. Most of the kids, having gone through that emotional torrent, would be busy trying to manage the lingering aftershocks. The girls could express that lingering emotion to their hearts' content; if they were crying, someone would be there to comfort and take care of them. But for teenage boys, that moment was a war. Back then, "crying" was synonymous with the loss of masculinity.
Usually, the boys were divided into three types. The first were the ones who showed no emotion at all. To prove they were the most masculine for not crying, they’d puff out their chests and loudly declare that it wasn't moving at all. The second were the ones who had shed a few tears but lied about it. Their eyes would be bright red, making it obvious to everyone that they’d been crying, but they’d quickly wipe them away, join in the chorus of "it wasn't moving," and go looking for another scapegoat. And finally, there was always that one boy who, unable to resist the overwhelming sensitivity of the day, would sob sorrowfully, even making noise. A poor lamb who had no idea what kind of horrific future awaited him.
And, goddammit, that was me.
I’d cried so loudly that everyone in my grade knew, and even after I got back to the room, I couldn't stop. I cried until I was exhausted and passed out. There was no way those vicious teenage boys were going to leave me alone after I’d been left behind by the all-nighter. When I woke up, I went to the bathroom to wash my face, and looked at the reflection in the mirror. Under my swollen eyes, the guy who would later go to art school had meticulously drawn high-quality teardrops running down to my cheeks, and on my forehead, the guy who loved fantasy novels had written the word "Undine" in stylish cursive, one letter at a time. Naturally, it was permanent marker.
I did get my revenge on the two of them with a pillow, but no matter how much I washed, the graffiti didn't come off until the retreat ended. Perhaps because my crying and that ridiculous doodle left such an impression, my nickname for the rest of middle school was "Undine." I was also called by the epithet "Spirit of Tears." I should have killed those guys halfway when they’d call me over whenever someone was fighting or crying, teasing, "Spirit of Tears! Please stop this child's tears!" I’d only thought about paying them back with interest later, but I never imagined that as I started working, I’d have less time to see them, and eventually, we’d end up unable to meet at all.
Isn't it ironic that I, who was an Undine in my past life, am a fire-user in this world?
I wiped my forehead and gave a bitter laugh, then dampened a towel and put it in the fridge. With my eyes like this, I couldn't eat breakfast or do anything else. I wasn't in the mood, anyway. I’d just sleep. I covered my eyes with the chilled towel from the fridge and forced myself back to sleep.
When I woke up around lunch, the swelling had gone down quite a bit. My eyes were just red and puffy, enough that someone might notice I’d cried yesterday, but that was it. Fortunately, I didn't need "true love" to turn from a frog back into a human. Now that I think about it, love with a frog—what kind of forward-thinking fairy tale was that? Still, amphibians are a bit... well.
I took some bean sprouts out of the fridge and made a stir-fry for lunch. I’d built up a tolerance to bean sprout stir-fry from eating it yesterday, so I wouldn't cry this time! It tasted even better since I’d skipped breakfast. You might think I’d get sick of it after eating it the day before, but not at all. When it comes to bean sprout stir-fry, I’m a captain. I could eat it all day long.
After lunch, I was lying on my bed when I suddenly felt like taking a walk. I opened my closet to change. I shed internal tears at the fact that I had so few civilian clothes and not a single pair of pants, so I put on the longest skirt I had, the most plain-looking shirt, and a cardigan before heading out. The weather was nice. A smile gently settled on my face in the ideal spring weather—not too hot, not too cold. The people walking down the street seemed to feel the same way; they all had pleasant smiles on their faces.
While walking without a destination, I saw an elderly woman walking down the road with a heavy-looking load on her head. Since I had nothing but time, I approached her and spoke up.
“Would you like some help, ma’am?”
“It’s quite heavy, will you be alright?” she asked, looking at me with a worried face. I smiled at her and lifted the load with one hand, making it look effortless. She was slightly surprised, then soon smiled as brightly as a young girl.
“My dear, you must be a hero.”
I carried the load and walked slowly, matching her pace. There was a sense of ease in her leisurely gait—the kind that comes from someone who has experienced all the speeds of life—as she let the energetic running of children and the passionate footsteps of young people pass her by first. The world viewed by someone in the period of tidying up the things they had achieved must surely be flowing slowly, just like this.
As we walked, she told me her story. The story of her son, whom she’d birthed in pain, growing up and introducing her to a woman he wanted to marry. The story of how her daughter-in-law had given birth to a child, and that child was already in high school. Her words were always accompanied by polite honorifics. They say the wrinkles etched into the faces of the elderly reflect the life they’ve lived. There must be a clear difference between a face piled with self-righteousness and stubbornness, and one piled with experience and wisdom. Her kind, smiling face seemed to be imbued with the respect for others she’d built up over a lifetime, and I thought that if I grew old, I wanted to be like her.
When we reached the destination and I returned her load, she tried to take money from her pocket to give to me, but I shook my hands, saying I hadn't done it for a reward. I was short on money, but how could I accept that? The grandmother, who had put the money away, held my hand and said:
“May your future be filled with blessings.”
I said goodbye and turned around, walking toward the park I’d seen on the way. When I glanced back, she was seeing me off with a smile for a long time.
I arrived at the park and sat on a bench, listening to the voices of children running around. Couples sat nearby, watching them with warm eyes. It was peaceful. In that peaceful scene, I felt like I was the only one standing apart. That was surely because I alone knew that this peace would not last long.
Perhaps because I’d cried last night, or because I’d remembered the past this morning, I felt strangely sentimental. I stretched my hand toward the sky, blocking the sunlight, and as I looked up at my hand, I said,
“Perhaps I am someone who shouldn't exist in this world...”
Just then, a sudden gust of wind blew dust into my eyes. As I rubbed my eyes, which were already sensitive, a sudden wave of embarrassment washed over me. *You crazy bastard, what are you doing, is this middle-school syndrome?* I whipped my head around to see if anyone had seen, and in the distance, I saw familiar white hair. Why did I see him all the time, like some random encounter monster? I quickly ran away, fearing I might run into Yoon Siwoo.
I returned home, showered, ate dinner, and lay down in bed. I tried to sleep, but the embarrassing thing I’d done earlier kept popping into my head, and it wasn't until I’d kicked my blanket off about three times that I finally drifted off to sleep.