The Falling Cross
I woke up with dry lips and a scratchy throat. The room was pitch black—I hadn't turned on the lights, and I'd pulled down every blind. Fumbling around, I grabbed my smartphone and unlocked it out of habit.
Ah, right—today I threw my resignation letter at them and bailed, dumping all my work in the process. But they didn't tell me to stick around for handover, and even if I'd stubbornly insisted on doing one, they would've shot it down first. So no matter how much the clients bitch, it's not my fault. The big shots I was handling must be pissed—their rep suddenly swapped out, deals going sideways. No one else pulled overtime and schmoozed like I did, so yeah, the office probably flipped upside down in a day. Whatever. I'd just kick back as a NEET, savoring unemployment until my severance and final paycheck roll in.
Flipping on the lights finally revealed the crusted blood on my palms. Whenever anger surges, I clench my fists so hard my nails dig in—scabs were a constant. I rinsed them at the sink, grabbed sterilized bandages from the first-aid kit, and wrapped them tight. Routine as hell; I always stocked bandages even if we were out of ramen.
"No ramen either, huh..."
My stomach had been screaming for two straight days. Food first, I thought—but the cupboard was barren. A few canned tunas and canola oil from company Chuseok gifts, but that wouldn't fill me up. Not even microwave rice packs. I'd barely done anything but shower and crash lately, so no grocery runs in forever.
September 9, 2025, 9:09 PM. Early autumn after August's swelter. That eerie date and time nagged at me as I pocketed my wallet. Ever since age eight, when I lost everything, I'd hoarded cash like a dragon. Pocket money from relatives went straight to my account in school; part-time gigs, same deal. Unless it was bare essentials, my balance barely budged. That habit stuck post-graduation, so three years in, I'd saved a decent chunk. Low fixed costs helped—cheap rent in government-subsidized Youth Rental Housing.
Might as well spend some now that I'm off the clock?
Hobbies? Pointless PC games to kill rare days off efficiently. Fishing and golf from client schmoozing sounded adult-male perfect... but no one to play with. And no car anyway.
Can't even do what I know how to.
Grumbling inwardly, I wandered to the neighborhood midsize mart. Late night—no housewives grabbing dinner fixings. Veggies and meat fly off shelves early; housewives compete hard, I'd heard. The booze-and-snacks corner in the back sat deserted, waiting for broke single dudes like me to drown sorrows. Couldn't ignore 'em: a can of beer, soju bottle to mix, spicy-salty beef jerky for the beer-soju combo. Salted peanuts tempted, but too skimpy. Next, snack aisle—tossed in potato chips. Then ramen and rice packs by the armful.
This flow felt like a red carpet for single guys—a pathetic photogenic parade of self-neglect. Early evening? Pity stares from housewives. Morning? Glare from stock clerks. Any time, any solo dude looping this aisle gets side-eye.
Who cares? Overwork stress needs this petty rebellion. Late-night ramen, booze, smirking at the dark future—that's universal for guys like me. Folks preach gym, socializing, health. Sure, I'd tried. Three years without wrecking my body? Thanks to that discipline. But now? Fuck it. Machine at work, machine at gym—soul-crushing. One machine life was enough; gym membership axed.
"36,200 won."
"Card. No receipt."
Card beeped; 36,200 won of indulgence mine. Heavy plastic bag in hand, back into the night.
Passed a school thick with someone's youth, nearing the quiet church slumbering with faith.
...Giggle.
"!"
Street empty but for me—faint weird laugh halted my steps. Right then.
Something massive thudded down before me.
BOOM!
"......"
Less than 3 meters away: massive metal pillar gouging asphalt, upright. Church steeple's cross—inverted.
Typhoons, quakes—it'd stood firm. Now, zero warning, plummeting at me.
Craned neck: neon sign snapped, spark! crackle! In the flash—a small crow. Then breaker tripped; sparks gone, crow vanished. Like no black bird ever pierced the dark night.
"Fucking ominous..."
Knew better, but impulse boiled—kicked the cross hard. Job gone, NEET life ahead; kicking near-death trash felt fair. Pastor'd weep at dawn prayer—inverted cross marring the facade, repair bills skyrocketing.
Misfortune meant for me shifting elsewhere? Rage eased. Always me bearing it, swallowing fury. Free from society's grind, world looked different.
Couldn't feel bad.
Straight home: pot on stove, soju first. Big glass: chilled beer-soju mix, perfect ratio. Folks chug pitchers; I liked measured. Like it matched my "balanced" life—self-delusion.
Boiling water: ramen in. Microwave: frozen dumplings. Living room setup—late dinner booze board.
Slurped chewy noodles, crunched steaming dumplings. Somae chaser—heaven.
Yeah, world a shithole hellish as any—but this moment, this spot? Matched zealots' dreamed paradise.
They'd sneer it's my choice. I'd fire back: Easy for you—fair choices for all? Lost parents at eight, bounced relatives—not my pick. Bullies trash-talking parents right in front of me—not my pick. Always forced into bullshit, victim swallowing it.
How many solo hours laughing drunk to myself? Hiccuping back to bed.
Austere room with that cross. Blinds down, door shut—like solitary cell. Freshly awake, flopped on mattress.
Always: eyes hit wall cross. Church one fell—why this puny knockoff still hung straight? Fling phone—nailed it. Inverted perfectly; head craned max, invisible.
Finally, satisfied sleep.