The Story Where the Age of Humans Begins
I'd had a terrible habit of losing my temper ever since I was a kid. Fuck, the grown-ups called it a bad habit, so it must've been one. Anyway, I was a bad kid with that shitty habit. So bad that when Dad smirked and said Santa wouldn't bring me shit for Christmas, I punched him square in the jaw. Guess that makes me a bad kid after all.
I was only eight, but for landing that cocky punch on Dad's chin, I had to skip dinner and copy the Bible instead of writing a reflection essay. Mom was a devout Christian, so whenever I couldn't hold back my bad habit, she'd force me to sit at the desk and transcribe scripture by hand. They called it the Bible Copy Punishment.
While I muttered "fuck" under my breath—picked up from weekend morning dramas—and slaved over the Bible, Mom would quietly slip into the room and set a warm glass of milk beside me. Then she'd say:
"This is all because Jesus loves you, sweetie. You understand Mommy's heart, right?"
Every time, I couldn't hold back my rage and I'd snap back:
"Where the fuck is Jesus!!!! Santa's the best!!!!!!!!!!"
Of course, that doubled the pages I had to copy. I'd gone up to eight times the amount once. Thanks to that, by the time I started elementary school, my knuckles were thick with calluses.
Did that cure my habit of blowing up all the time? I mean, I was copying pages every damn day, getting my ass chewed out, skipping dinners—had to have fixed me, right?
"Teacher! I don't wanna sit next to Siwoo!"
"I don't wanna sit next to you either, you fat fuck!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"Waaaaaaaaah!"
"Siwoo! Where did you learn such filthy language?!"
That chubby girl, puffed up like a steamed bun from all her baby fat, straight-up rejected me during seat-swap time, calling me a loser in front of everyone. I just fired back. But the teacher dragged me to the front of the class for a public shaming show. She yanked down my pants and whipped my thighs with a switch.
Hold up—how the hell does this kind of barbaric corporal punishment happen in Korea, land of advanced education and child rights? Straight answer: my homeroom teacher was another die-hard Jesus fanboy from Mom's church. The second I got assigned to her class, Mom personally greenlit "freedom to discipline." So I was the only kid in school with parental approval for SM playtime.
Little eight-year-old human Han Siwoo learned the bitter taste of the world right there, shuffling back to my seat amid the class's sneers and finger-pointing. The moment that fake-crying crocodile girl stuck out her tongue, whispered "serves you right," and smirked—I lost it again and threw a punch.
That's how, on my first day of elementary school, I got hauled to the teacher's lounge for breaking one of that precocious bitch's baby teeth. (Precocious bitch—another phrase from morning dramas.) Her precocious parents burst in, yelling at me, while mine bowed and apologized nonstop.
In that suffocating room where no one took my side, just barking at me to apologize quick, my bad habit kicked in naturally.
"What the fuck did I do wrong!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
I screamed, unable to contain the fury, and bolted. In seconds, I was a fugitive squeezing through the hole under the school fence, dodging deadly traffic as I raced into the bustling streets. I ended up at the rusty playground of a rundown apartment complex slated for demolition soon, digging like a maniac into the sandbox.
Why the sandbox? Nothing deep. My fists were too weak to punch anything solid, and sitting still was impossible, so I just tore into the sand like crazy.
"Eeeeeeeeeee!!"
My face swollen like it might burst any second, I must've been face-planted in that sandbox for ages. When my filthy hands finally hit the damp, hard dirt beneath the soft sand, I stopped. Hungry. If I go home, dinner's off the table again, and Bible copying. This time, definitely 500 times. So... what if I just don't go home?
I'm a fucking genius!
"Oh~ Lord Jesus~ Overflowing with love~"
Thanks to Mom dragging me to morning service after weekend dramas, that hymn stuck in my head and spilled out.
"More beautiful than the fragrant flower of love, Jesus~ The Jesus who never lets me eat dinner~ The Jesus who makes me copy pages every day~ The Jesus who always calls just me a bad kid~ Santa's still the best."
Sure, I got called a bad kid my whole life, but Santa always left gifts by my bed without fail. Even at Grandma's, when my cousin and I fought over my toy robot ownership, the supreme judge (Grandpa) always sided with the younger one.
Last Lunar New Year's, the toy I'd lost was the one Santa gave me for my five-year-old Christmas—extra special. So I couldn't hold back and flipped over Grandpa's rice cake soup bowl. That's partly why the Bible copies hit eight times—he got scalded by the hot soup.
But I stood tall. Just like now.
"Jesus heaven, nonbelievers hell~ Jesus is the best~ Powerful Jesus benches 5,000 reps~"
He'd never helped me once in my life, but all the songs I knew were blind-praise hymns for him. No choice. While other kids sang Baby Shark doo-doo-doo-doo, I belted hymns nonstop. Mom shoved me in the church kids' choir to drill them into me.
Still, hunger was one thing I couldn't ignore. The chilly spring got colder as the sky darkened. No home, no scolding, no copying—but then no sneaking to the fridge at night either. To raid the fridge at night, I had to go home!
"I'll forgive you just once this time!"
I shook off my hands and retraced my steps. Smart enough to memorize drama lines, I didn't forget the way back. That's why I could copy the Bible without looking now.
Back home, what greeted me was an empty house. No warmth from Mom prepping dinner in the kitchen. No angry voices snapping at each other about how to raise the kid. Not even the delicious smell of food I'd sneak later—though I never got dinner anyway. Just cold, dark air swirling through the dim emptiness.
Mom and Dad were probably out looking for me by now. Or since they planned to starve me anyway, maybe grabbing eats outside. Thinking that, I headed to my room like always and started on the Bible copies. Better to get ahead so the punishment's lighter later.
And Mom and Dad? A day passed, two days, and they never came home again—not until I graduated elementary school, hopping between relatives' houses.