Stitches for a Hero's Scar
Surgical thread? No way that existed in the Joseon era. So the gash on my forehead got stitched up with my mom's hair. Of course, I disinfected it first with high-proof alcohol.
"Hngh…."
"Aaah! Ow! It hurts! Go easy! You're gonna make it bleed again!"
"You're such a drama queen."
Drama queen my ass! It hurt like hell when she was sewing me up—like I was gonna die! Way worse than getting slashed by the knife! Having alcohol for disinfection didn't mean I had any anesthetic. Because of that, I had to endure the agony of a needle piercing flesh dozens of times.
"It's fine. No burst spots or anything. Just keep it clean to prevent any poisonous vapors from getting in."
The doctor from Kim Jin-sa's house, who'd come on a house call, examined the wound on my forehead and spoke up. True to his medical academy training, he wore a green hood on his head and a disposable paper mask.
"……."
"……."
Mom and Hong ssi Bu-in watched as I sat on the bedding for the examination. Because Hong ssi Bu-in was the principal wife, Mom was more cautious than usual as she asked,
"Um, Doctor. It won't scar, will it?"
"It will. It has to. No way around it."
"……!"
Surviving a fight with armed thugs was a win in itself, but Mom was making a fuss over a little scar on her son's forehead. Even if it was only as big as a finger.
"Aw, Mom. It's okay. A man's scars are his badges of honor."
"Hic…!"
"No, Mom, don't cry. Seeing you cry hurts my heart more than my head does. My heart."
"Good job. You're handling it well."
Hong ssi Bu-in glared at Mom with her usual displeasure, scanning her up and down as if searching for the tiniest flaw to pounce on.
"What kind of mother lets her son get hurt like that? This is exactly why you shouldn't take in lowborn trash! Leaving a big ugly scar on a noble son of the Pingan Kim clan!"
"I-I'm sorry, Ma'am…!"
"Sorry to me? Who cares about that? You should be sorry to your son!"
"S-Sorry, son…!"
No way. Look at this old hag's attitude. Since when did she ever care about me to talk like that? I'm your husband's bastard. A bastard from your husband messing with a girl half his age. Anyone would think she was my real grandma.
"Ma'am."
I called her politely, despite my seething resentment, without turning my head since I was showing the wound to the doctor.
"It's only natural for a son to protect his mother. That's what makes him filial—not running off and abandoning her."
"Hmph! Look at you! Playing the filial son again, and you'll end up needing us to cart off your corpse!"
Oh? No particular order to dying, huh? Picking a fight? Fine. Think I can't handle a woman? Think I'll go easy 'cause you're a lady?
"But how long are you gonna keep staring at that wound? It'll get infected at this rate!"
Hong ssi Bu-in, who'd been eyeing Mom and me with distaste, turned her attention to the doctor. Naturally, her tone was polite. She'd even used formal speech with a lowly kid like me, but he was an official on the payroll. Graduates from the Crown Prince's academy—over half got posted to local districts like this one. There, they handled public health and medicine like a sort of health department. They didn't clash with the traditional herbalists or shamans, though. Internal medicine went to the herbalists, mental health to the shamans, and surgery to the academy-trained docs. Everyone stuck to their lanes.
"It's fine. I'm disinfecting it now. No infection."
Disinfectants here weren't just alcohol. Somehow, the Crown Prince had developed that famous red stuff.
"Aah! Hiss! This hurts too much!"
But it seemed harsher than the modern red antiseptic. Every time the alcohol-soaked cotton touched the wound, it stung so bad my eyes watered.
"Bitter medicine does the body good, right? The worse it hurts, the faster the poisonous vapors flee."
Poisonous vapors. That's what they called microbes like bacteria here. The Crown Prince had named them that, and somehow he'd even invented a microscope to show Joseon folks they existed.
"Aah!"
But if he could make a microscope, why not a milder disinfectant? This shit hurts too much!
"There. All done."
Finally finishing the disinfection, the doctor set down the tweezers—what they called small tongs here. He didn't even wrap a bandage before giving Mom and Hong ssi Bu-in the care instructions.
"Just disinfect it well, and it'll be fine. Three times a day: once when you wake, once at noon, once before bed. And no sweat, no water, no touching it with anything. Got it?"
"Yes, Doctor."
"Understood. We'll do that."
"Good."
The doctor nodded curtly along with them, then removed the mask he'd worn throughout and revealed a face in his mid-twenties. Switching to casual speech for this personal chat, he said to me,
"By the way, that really you? Who beat the crap outta those guys?"
"Yeah. Pretty sure."
"Haha, I knew you were a wild one, but damn, didn't know you were that tough. Could've gone a bit easier, though? Two with crippled arms, one with a busted leg, and another doomed to half-paralysis for life."
"Psh. Who told 'em to threaten me with knives to become bandits? All self-inflicted."
"Still, dude. You kept me up all night 'cause of this. Dawn: check on you. Morning: patch up the guys you wrecked. Afternoon: back to you. Exhausting."
Like a school nurse didn't just treat injuries, this doc occasionally came to the village school to teach hygiene or sex ed. That's how we'd gotten chummy enough for banter.
"Don't scratch it even if it itches. Wash your hands often. Sleep well, eat well. Change the bandage once a day. Don't reuse it without clean washing. Got it?"
"Yes, Doctor. Eat well, sleep well, shit well, right?"
"Sigh. I'm worried. So worried."
As he gave me the rundown, he wrapped my head in bandage. Like a pro trained for years at the medical academy, he finished in seconds.
"There. Done. I'll write up the details on paper. You know Hangul, right? I'll use that. Way easier than Hanja."
The doctor pulled a stack of paper from his house-call bag. As he took out brush and inkstone, Hong ssi Bu-in stopped him.
"Wait. I'll get a desk. Hey! Bring a writing desk for the doctor!"
Moments later, Dol-soe, the house servant, brought in a low-legged desk. The doctor waited for it to be placed before him, then wrote the diagnosis.
"…There. Take a look."
He quickly jotted the wound description and instructions, then handed it to Hong ssi Bu-in. Mom peeked over her shoulder, too timid to grab it outright.
"Once you've read it, sign here. I need to keep the original on file, so make it legible for anyone."
"You write it."
"Yes, Ma'am."
Hong ssi Bu-in passed the read diagnosis to Mom. The doctor slid over the desk with brush and paper, and Mom diligently copied it out.
"Ahem! Hm!"
A fake cough came from beyond the paper screen. It was Hyeong-bang, who'd come with the doctor.
"Uh, may I enter?"
He'd waited for the exam to end before asking from outside the closed screen. With the doctor's okay, Hong ssi Bu-in replied,
"Come in."
"Then, pardon the intrusion."
He slid open the screen, removed his hat, and bowed to Hong ssi Bu-in. Then he sat in front of me, taking the doctor's spot.
"Si-jin. You okay?"
"Yes, Investigator sir. Thanks to your concern, I'm unscathed."
"Whew, lucky break. Thought you'd die before even trying the job."
Like you'd ever let me have the job anyway.
"Anyway, here to ask about the incident. You really did it?"
Everyone asked the same thing. Did a 10-year-old really take out five guys?
Honestly, if I weren't the one who did it, I wouldn't believe it either. A third-grader wiping out half a gang of five home invaders.
"Yes. I did it."
Undeniable fact.
"For real? They claimed they fought among themselves."
"Embarrassed, duh. Who'd admit losing to a kid? To five of 'em? I'd bite my tongue and die first."
"Hahaha. Me too."
He slapped his knee, laughing in agreement. Then, turning serious, Hyeong-bang asked,
"So, what do you want done with them? I'll pass it to the magistrate."
"Leave the punishment to the wise elders."
"Hm. Injuries but no deaths, leader aside none over 16. Probably hard labor for the ringleader, flogging for the rest."
Hard labor meant mines or roadwork. Flogging was the switch. I nodded, imagining them suffering or beaten bloody.
"Hey, Mom. What do you think?"
Before answering, I turned to Mom. She'd taken the biggest shock, pausing her copying to look up, teeth gritted, eyes flashing as she asked Hyeong-bang,
"Death penalty impossible? I'd chew 'em up and spit 'em out myself."
"Haha. I get it, but no dice on execution. Better for them, really—hard labor or flogging, they'll wish for death."
"And the one who scarred my boy's forehead?"
"He's the ringleader. Turns 16 this year—hard labor. He'll die paving roads or buried in a mine."
"That satisfies me."
"Got it. I'll tell the magistrate."
I liked how Joseon dished out real punishment. No modern judges going soft or crooks chilling in prison. Though it could frame innocents like my "father's" era.
"Ho ho. A 10-year-old boy threw five grown men and saved his mother? Unbelievable."
"That's what the report says, Your Highness."
"What do you think, Crown Prince?"
"Verify the report first, but if true, we should reward the child for his selfless filial piety."
"Well said. Send him the new sweets, and since he's injured, include medicine too."
"Your benevolence is boundless, Your Highness."
What the hell is this Kim Si-jin kid? A 10-year-old tossing five dudes? Get him into the military academy when he grows up. Stick him in Manchuria or Tsushima as an officer. But no record like this in early Joseon history? Butterfly effect from us?