The Cliff
My life went wrong.
That was the conclusion I'd reached after stepping into society for the first time and grinding through endless years of it.
I'd been duped by compliments like "You're such a good guy." I'd thrown myself into every task assigned to me, working until my body felt like it would shatter, always giving it my absolute best. But no matter how hard I toiled through the night, some unreachable standard bound me, squeezed me dry, and refused to let go.
The fruits of my labor were snatched away by my direct boss or colleagues, who flashed fake smiles while taking credit. All I got in return was the nickname "good guy." What a hollow, incomprehensible label. Does being a good person mean it's okay for others to steal your achievements? Or if you lack blood ties, connections, or alma mater networks to back you up, are you just one of the lowly ranks destined to endure it all in silence?
Why couldn't I rage properly or voice my objections from that powerless position? Why did I have to churn myself into the ground day after day like a hamster on a wheel? Even as the anger festering in my chest ate away at me, I kept working diligently.
I fell for the trap of being called "ordinary," and an inexplicable fury pressed down on me from the depths, with nowhere to vent. Still, I couldn't escape that label of averageness, so I poured my blood, sweat, and tears into living as hard as I could. The values I'd learned my whole life were rooted in ordinariness, and straying from them filled me with an undefined terror—as if some invisible standard would throttle me, slowly tightening around my neck.
Swayed by a bodiless fear, without any special purpose or resolve, I hurled myself into that cycle and ran as hard as I could. I ran endlessly, never truly escaping. Clutching a stubborn faith that some dramatic moment would one day shatter this reality, I dreamed of a getaway like a trip and kept running.
But...
Where did it all go wrong?
When Father passed away? Or when Mother had her accident? Maybe it started the moment I was born.
Whoosh!
They said that when I was born, Father quit his stable job and moved to An-nam City with Mother and me to open a shop for our sake.
Crunch!
Because Father had family up north as a separated kin from the division, Mother's family had opposed the marriage. Defying them, he'd quit his job and fled south with her to start a family.
Crack!
I learned later that while Mother was pregnant, she'd kept occasional contact with her family. But after I was born, every time they visited, I'd cry and throw tantrums, and relations gradually soured.
Could a family really drift apart over something so trivial? One might wonder.
It was that fleeting first impression. The perfect word for it. Even a child, once branded with dislike, has their fate sealed by that initial bias—an utter absurdity.
Crunch!
I vented that absurdity by tormenting my little brother. He was smaller than me, idolized me too much. Up until her consciousness faded in the accident, Mother had begged me to take good care of him. In rebellion, I'd dumped him at an orphanage and run away.
Was this my punishment for that sin?
Crunch!
Exhausted from overtime into the late night, I'd missed the last bus and called a cab. Then, in a drunk-driving crash, I lost everything once more.
It wasn't much, but I had a job where people introduced me as "a good guy." A warm family I'd dreamed of. I'd run this far believing it was all perfect. But it shattered in an instant.
The drunk driver fled the scene and claimed through the insurance company that he hadn't been drinking. I wasn't at fault. I was the victim, forced into a life forever altered by the aftermath.
It was the drunk driver's fault for crossing the median. That one person's mistake upended my entire existence again.
My first thought was this:
Ah, so this is my punishment?
For failing to care for my brother as Mother had implored from her hospital bed before her own admission? For selling the ancestral gravesite where Father was laid to rest because a student couldn't afford her bills? I'd excused myself back then, saying I was too young to handle it all. But the weight of being a sinner lingered like a stigma, too heavy to bear.
Crunch!
Strength ebbed from my dangling arm. The branch I'd barely clung to was slowly uprooting from the cliff face.
Right now, I hung desperately from a tree root embedded in the cliff. Above me, I felt the gaze of the wife I'd once loved pacing as she watched.
I really loved her. Even the fact that she was an unwed mother with a child didn't matter...
The woman I'd loved shoved me out of the family fold without a shred of hesitation. When she appeared behind the factory owner who'd pushed me off this cliff, it felt like betrayal from everything I'd believed in.
It was like being abandoned by the lakeside, with no one who loved me, shoved into the cold waters—suffocating, breathless.
The suffocation and despair made it impossible to look away from her, more than the man who'd shoved me over.
Hatred? Resentment? Or disappointment in myself?
Did my little brother feel like this? Betrayed by the brother he trusted, abandoned at the orphanage? If so, I'd committed a sin I couldn't erase even in death.
Was that why I'd driven myself to exhaustion, excusing it as "life's too hard" or "I'm too busy"? Any brief respite would bring back the idiot me who'd let go of my brother's hand without regret. That choice had festered deep in my heart, so I'd kept frantically busy to avoid thinking about it.
Chewing over that guilt even now, I wondered:
Even in this moment, do I still want to live?
Call me selfish. Call me pathetic. I just wanted to live. Like a human. To live humanely.
Gathering my last strength, I lunged for another branch on the cliff. The instant I let go—
My spent body betrayed my will and began plummeting.
Is this the end?
As my mind blurred, I stood in a place I'd never seen.
Clear valley waters flowed as if immortals might frolic there. A picture-perfect cabin stood before it, and in front hunched a red-skinned elder with a flowing white beard, beckoning me with a gesture.
The babbling brook cleansed body and soul.
Did I die? Has a grim reaper come for me?
I didn't want to accept death, wanted to back away. But I only thought it—my body wouldn't move. For reasons unknown, I was drawn forcibly toward the gesturing elder.
The distance seemed vast, but three steps brought me nose-to-nose with him.
Up close, his face strained with exhaustion as he opened his mouth. Even at this range, his voice didn't reach me. Focusing on his beard-shrouded lips, I strained my eyes.
Concentrating, I pieced together his words.
"Dae... Dae... Baek... Gong?"
As if I'd guessed right, he nodded with a weary but smiling expression—then, in a blur too fast to track, he snatched the branch from my memory and began thrashing my head with it.
Unlike his fatigued look, the blows were swift and ferocious.
"Aaaagh!"
Screaming, I clutched my head. It spun wildly; pain mingled with a minty chill like chewing balm spread through me, tears gushing uncontrollably.
As I wailed senselessly, murmurs arose.
"He's so young. Breaks my heart to see."
"Yeah, losing the family breadwinner to an accident like this at his prime—tragic."
"Heard the deceased was from the north?"
"North? Nah, a refugee."
"Same difference."
This place...
It was the funeral home after Father's death. I stood dazed, unable to speak.
They assumed I'd cried myself out and stood stunned—a child shouldn't hear such talk, yet they blurted it carelessly.
"Doesn't he have a little brother still young?"
"Yeah, but a woman alone with two kids in this mess... might manage?"
"Watch your words—words plant seeds."
"Just stating facts."
"His wife was from a decent family, right?"
"Then why this cheap funeral hall?"
"You're behind... Yeah, but they're basically disowned."
"That's why..."
"Still, all these people—everyone wants something."
No sooner had the words ended than a group in black suits entered the cramped hall. They signed the guestbook, approached Mother, and said firmly,
"A moment of your time, please."
"Not now..."
I froze at the sight of Mother—so alive, so beautiful.
Mother?
Recognizing her, I ran and clung without thinking. I barely knew what I was saying. Tears just wouldn't stop.
Even if it's a dream, Mother, I'm sorry. I missed you so much.
As I sobbed, something cool and warm cradled my tear-streaked eyes.
The suited men, pulling sharply creased documents from their briefcases, faltered and stepped back at our scene.
"I have no ties to Kyunghyang, so please leave today."
"We need a settlement by today."
"Demanding it now, in this situation..."
"We're here specially to apologize and—"
This?
I recalled Mother once wistfully mentioning her regrets from childhood. Furious at these rude suits shoving settlements at a funeral, but exhausted from putting child-me as chief mourner, she'd signed whatever they demanded.
"Mom."
She'd been dealing with the suits but stopped instantly at "Mom" from my tearful lips, focusing all her love on me.
Shed loved me like this. Yet I'd resented my brother for stealing her affection, hating him. Regret flooded me.
"Mom, who are these guys? Why are they here?"
"Well..."
How could she tell her young son that these men—responsible for Father's death—were here with paltry compensation to force a settlement reducing their legal liability?
Mother just stroked my head with a troubled look. Back then, I'd hidden behind her, using my age as an excuse.
Not this time!
"Mom, who are these people? Dad's friends? If you're visiting a funeral, sign the book and offer condolence money first!"
Stepping in front of her, I prodded the suits toward the guestbook.
Uncomfortable with the record, they ignored me and conferred among themselves. Spotting the funeral director who'd been watching warily from behind, I called him out.
"You're the manager here, right? These outsiders blocking the entrance aren't mourners. Call the police for business obstruction?"
At "police," the suits glared, then fled through the startled crowd amid the sudden uproar.
As they retreated at my words, the director—who'd watched the bullying idly—jumped, startled, and pulled Mother aside.
He'd known they were outsiders from the start but only acted now. Rage boiled, but as a child venting would just get me scolded for talking back to adults.
Venting that anger, I saw them comp drinks to mourners—costs we hadn't prepped. Mother's sorrowful face weighed heavy on my heart.