This Is Real
"You're quitting acting?"
"Not quitting for good. I'm just going to rest for a while. I'll keep taking acting lessons from my teacher."
"Your teacher — that actor Jeong Dong-ho you mentioned before?"
"Yes."
I had told Dad a while back that I wanted to study acting under Jeong Dong-ho. Of course, I never breathed a word about the struggles I was having with emotional scenes. If Dad knew, he really would put a stop to my acting.
"Was acting too hard on you?"
"It's not hard right now. I just think it will be, later on."
"Later on?"
"Yes. I see the older actors at the broadcasting station all the time, and they say juggling school and acting is exhausting. I guess there's just never enough time. I want to do school properly."
The moment school came up, his expression shifted to one of instant agreement.
Aside from the aftermath of the emotional acting, I had a few more reasons for wanting this hiatus. For one thing, the entertainment industry of today was a far cry from the one I'd known before my regression.
Broadcasting power was locked up tight by the three major terrestrial networks — whatever you wanted to make, you had to go through them to reach an audience. Comprehensive programming channels wouldn't even exist until 2010, and it would take several more years after that before they could stand up to the terrestrial giants. By all accounts, true diversification of broadcasting was at least a decade away. And streaming services like Nutflix or Disnay finding their footing? Add another five years on top of that.
Promotion was no different. Of the social media platforms that had been indispensable in my previous life, the earliest, Facenote, only launched in 2004. Moutube, inseparable from anything video-related, didn't open its service until 2005, was bought up by Gooble in 2006, and only began flexing its muscles as a genuine platform in 2008.
The conclusion was simple: it was far too early to attempt anything right now. I had lived through an era where you could make your face known across every kind of media, handle your own publicity if it came to that, and act in Korea while the whole world watched. Compared to that, today's broadcasting landscape was, quite literally, a frog in a well.
"I had no idea my son thought that way. Dad was too impatient. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Just having a father who helps me do what I want makes me happy."
His expression turned strange, and then he suddenly swept me into a hug.
"You adorable little rascal. How does everything you say come out so sweet?"
And he kept rubbing his cheek against mine.
A shave might be nice, Dad.
"CEO Oh has been quietly eyeing you, you know. He'll be disappointed."
"CEO Oh's company will be signing far bigger celebrities than me soon enough. No need to worry."
"And how would you know that?"
"Just a feeling."
After all, it becomes one of the Big Three agencies even without me.
The day of the crank-in for Confession of a Pianist —
Before any film or drama shoot begins, the cast and crew always gather for one thing. A gosa, held before a spread of steamed rice cake, fruit, and a pig's head with a smiling face, offered up in prayer that filming might wrap without a single accident.
Sure, it might sound like superstition, but a heavy light rig toppling over, or an actor or crew member getting hurt by rough terrain or bad weather — any of it can happen at any time.
"The gosa is to keep away the sleep ghost, the rain ghost, and the wind ghost."
"There are ghosts like that?"
"Oh, absolutely. They always show up on set. Get the sleep ghost attached to you and you'll doze off fiddling with the equipment and hurt yourself. Get the rain ghost or the wind ghost and the weather kills your shoot. Nasty little devils, the lot of them."
Teacher smiled as he tucked a white envelope into the pig's mouth.
"Looks like Hajin's fine with the pig's head. Some kids cry and say it scares them."
"What's scary about it? It's dead."
I strode up confidently, set the envelope in the pig's jaws, and gave a deep, formal bow. When I raised my head, everyone was clapping and cooing about how cute I was.
These days it felt like I got praised just for breathing.
And so began the shoot for the first — and last — production of my childhood.
I rubbed my trembling fingers and let out a small sigh. Mother, who used to strike my shoulder at the slightest slip of a note, was away from her seat. I glanced at the sheet music to see how much was left — and the space beside the piano warped.
That thing had come again.
[Still sitting at the piano, I see.]
"I made a mistake earlier, so Mother added more practice time."
[You wear the face of a crybaby every time you sit down at it… why keep playing? You hate it.]
"The piano is all I can do. She says if I don't even do this, I'll be a worthless child."
[Who says that?]
"Mother."
[I'd like to see this mother of yours who talks like that.]
And with that, it vanished in an instant. A few seconds later, it reappeared right beside me.
[Let's go outside. Lie down in the garden and watch the night sky — you'll feel better.]
"No. Mother will be back soon."
[She's on an important phone call right now. It'll take a while. There's plenty of time for the garden.]
"How would you know that?"
[I can go anywhere in this house. I just checked from the second floor, didn't I?]
Its mischievous expression swayed my resolve. I climbed down from the piano bench and stepped out into the corridor. The hallway leading to the front door was empty.
[See? I told you.]
Trusting the thing's word, I started walking toward the front door. I was halfway there when a loud voice rang out behind me. I turned — and Mother was somehow already standing right in front of me.
"How dare you… trying to sneak away?"
Startled out of my wits, I stumbled backward and fell hard on my bottom. The thing had disappeared without a trace.
"A-aaah… ugh…"
"Not today. You don't get past me. Get over here!"
It was unbearable, meeting my mother's murderous glare. I threw every ounce of strength into scooting away on my backside, putting distance between us — and then the sound of the front door opening cut through the room.
"What do you think you're doing to a child!"
It was Father. He lunged at Mother and snatched the rod from her hand.
"Who said you could come in here… why are you even here!"
"The divorce isn't final. Until it is, this is still my house, so spare me the act."
The shouting kept climbing. The shrill shriek and the frost-sharp bass tore at my ears until I thought they would rip right off. Unable to bear another second, I clapped my hands over my ears and bolted for the front door.
I made it outside the house — with nowhere to go. I just ran, blindly, toward the end of the alley, until I caught my foot on a jutting rock and went down. My knee split open and throbbed, but I got up and kept running.
Out of breath, I finally stopped at the playground. My legs gave out; I couldn't stand any longer. I sank to the ground and stared blankly ahead.
Someone was walking toward me from across the way.
"Oh my, look at that knee, all scraped up. Where do you live? Didn't you come here with your mom?"
I was too winded to speak. When I just kept hiccupping and sobbing, she apparently decided there was no other way and pulled me to my feet.
"Do you know your mom's or dad's number? A cell phone number, I mean."
I shook my head. Mother and Father had never once given me their numbers.
"Then… do you live around here? Or…"
"…I live around here."
"Hop on my back. I'll carry you home."
I figured if I went home with an adult, Mother might yell at me less, so I climbed onto her back obediently and pointed the way with my hand.
"Here. This is it."
"Wow, what a nice house. Hold on a sec."
No matter how many times she pressed the doorbell, Mother didn't come.
"Is nobody home?"
Through the garden I could see the front door hanging slightly open. I must not have closed it when I ran out.
"You can just go in."
I slid down off her back and, limping, pushed open the front door. The corridor was just as dark and silent as when I'd left.
"Goodness, why is it so dark in here? Mind if I turn on a light?"
She must have assumed the house was empty. Without waiting for my answer, she flipped the switch on the wall.
"KYAAAAAH!"
She collapsed right there in the entryway. Because a short distance away, Mother lay sprawled on the floor. Blood pooled thick across the boards — who knew where it had come from. My whole body shook and rattled, but no sound would come out.
Because beyond my fallen mother, I could see it — a faint silhouette, smiling a sinister smile.
[I promised, didn't I? That I'd help you.]
"KYAAAHK!"
I wasn't as out of breath as I'd expected. The script had three more people written into that scene besides me, after all.
"Whew, now this — Hajin's acting is one thing, but even his bit-part has a completely different feel to it. What do you think, Director Jeong?"
The credit went to Jeong Seong-sik, the camera director who had been with the company since my debut.
"Say no more. I don't care how many times I watch it, that scream is not acting. Taesik, keep an eye on that kid for me. A shame to waste him on a single scene."
Staff and managers rushed over to help actress Go Eun-hye up off the floor. The look she gave me was a strange one.
"Sunbae-nim, are you all right?"
Our positions had completely reversed since the last reading. This time, it was Go Eun-hye who looked far more drained — and yet she answered my concern with a faint smile.
"The second Hajin worries about me, my strength comes right back. I'm fine now."
She peeled off her damp outer layer and walked over to the camera director.
"One look at Director Jeong's face and I don't even have to ask."
"Actress Go, you were especially good. In the full shot, when you're bearing down on him — the look on your face was terrifying… That was acting, right?"
"Play it back a bit."
As she watched the monitor, Go Eun-hye's expression turned grave.
"Is that… me?"
"You had that same face just a moment ago. I wonder if Hajin wasn't scared."
The staff around the monitor chimed in with murmurs of awe. A face she could scarcely believe was her own filled the entire screen.
"It's like I get possessed by something whenever I act with Hajin. The audience at the theaters is going to curse me out."
"Well, I cursed you out plenty just filming it. Hahahaha!"
This was the scene I'd pulled out of her by stepping into the script and becoming the mother who despised me. However razor-edged the method acting, it could not beat the real thing. This scene was a genuine atrocity wrapped in the guise of a performance.
And this kind of real was only possible when I was the one on the other side of it. I was the perfect actor — and the finest partner a scene could ask for.