Ugly Sixteen
I often have dreams. Even though sixteen years have already passed, people from my previous life and that old world creep into my dreams now and then. I dream of them calling my faded names, grasping my hand and refusing to let go.
To put it simply, I hated the hillside slum. I hated the sweat trickling down as I dragged myself up that steep hill after a long day. Those sweat drops gathered and fell with a plop, leaving fresh stains on the ground. I hated the musty smell soaked into the countless residents' sweat. Frowning like that, I'd finally crest the hill and spot our house, panting raggedly as I turned to look back at the view—and even that didn't sit right with me.
In the distance stood towering skyscrapers I could never aspire to. But lower your gaze just a bit, and you'd spot rats scurrying about, gnawing on cockroaches with their crunch crunch. It was a reality of jarringly disjointed, mismatched scenes crossing paths. That's what I hated, and I vowed to escape it someday.
I longed to break free from that abnormal life into something utterly ordinary, plain and simple.
But.
To put it simply, I loved the hillside slum. I might've hated the stench of sweat from its countless residents, but the people themselves? I liked them plenty. They'd hand me candy or snacks, cooing about how cute I was as I huffed up the hill. I liked the rough hands that tousled my hair so gruffly.
I thought the blue sky visible from our rickety house atop that high hill was beautiful. Our shabby home might not match those distant skyscrapers, but it was just as elevated. Once the rats and roaches were blocked by the window frame, the view was no different from one up high in a building. I liked that.
And I loved my father and mother, who always cherished me. They occupied the biggest part of my life. For someone like me who'd never known romantic love, they were the only ones who poured out unconditional affection.
I remember the crumpled pocket money. The memories of them digging it out to buy my middle school and high school uniforms. The smiles blooming on their wrinkled faces. The sight of us dancing for joy in that rundown house when I got into college. The warmth of their embraces. The tenderness when I brought home my first paycheck and gifted them something small, their eyes welling with tears as they hugged me.
All those things appear in my dreams now and then, sharpening my blurred memories before fading away.
So.
As a child, it made me a little sad. Were the slum residents still living the same lives? Was the grandfather who patted my head still around? Were Mom and Dad doing well, or were they grieving my death? That bitterness bubbling up as so-called memories—it was a sad thing for me.
Maybe that's why I threw myself into the single goal of traveling: to shove those melancholic feelings deep down. Maybe that's why I pitied the young gray witch—her pitiful state faintly overlapped with the scenery of that rundown slum from my memories.
Maybe.
Maybe that's why I'd treated my current parents like novel characters for so long. The two from my past life kept flickering in my mind, so I desperately denied this reality. If I truly accepted them as my parents... it felt like the ones who'd loved me before would stop coming to me in dreams, saying they were fine now. Like the dreams that revived my fading memories would vanish, and I'd drift away forever.
Foolishly, I trapped myself in dreams, denying reality.
And.
"Son."
A voice called to me.
"Time to get up."
It was the voice pulling me from the dream's grasp.
I opened my eyes and looked toward it. There was a sight before me.
"Slept in, huh, son?"
A gentle smile, unchanged from my childhood till now.
"...Yeah, I should get up."
"Good, come eat breakfast."
A woman grabbed my hand and yanked me up with a whoosh. Her name was Rain, my mother. And just like that, the dreamscape faded bit by bit.
Leaving the past I called memories behind.
Moving forward.
If someone asked what I was doing now?
"Son, do you need this?"
"Hm... Do you really think a teacup's necessary on a trip?"
I'd say I was packing at home with Mom.
But.
Now that departure was imminent, Mom's worries and anxiety had ballooned exponentially. More luggage than I'd planned kept piling up by the front door.
"What if you run into some nobleman? Might need it then."
"So, you're saying I might bump into a noble in the middle of a dusty travel road?"
"Yeah. Who knows if some eccentric noble like you ditched everything on a whim to travel?"
"..."
I could kinda get the pillow and blanket, but how did it escalate to teatime with nobility?
To correct Mom a bit: the trip wasn't whimsical, nor was I ditching everything.
"Hm, better pack it, right?"
Still holding the teacup, I finally spoke to my pondering mother.
"Put away that ridiculously ornate teacup."
"So mean, son!"
"...It looks like it'll shatter first thing on the trip. Seriously, why pack that?"
"But what if you get your first teatime with a noble? Don't wanna pack it?"
"Haa... Fine, gimme it. I'll pack it."
I knew no such thing would happen, but her pouty lips made me cave on the teacup too.
That was the scene at home the day before departure.
And.
To put it simply, Mom's fretting didn't end as time passed.
"Son, what about this?"
"What's with the doll?"
"You gotta hug it if you're scared at night."
Any tiny excuse, and she'd fetch something from my room to shove at me.
"Mom... sorry, but I'm an adult now."
"To me, you're still a kid. Teacup's debatable, but the doll's a must."
"No. Put that useless doll back too."
Even as she teased, her eyes brimmed with worry, seeing me as her little boy.
"So mean! You carried it everywhere as a kid!"
"I didn't wanna—it was you saying it was cute and forcing me."
"Then I'll force you now like back then! Take it!"
"Argh, fine, gimme it. I'll pack it."
"Yay!"
I lost to her needless worry again.
But.
Mom's love could be intense, and yielding didn't solve everything.
"Oh, son. You have to take this!"
"No."
That's why, even as evening fell, I had to shut her down flat.
"But seriously..."
"Sorry, but there's no space left for me in the carriage."
Simply put, piling up her items had filled even my seat.
I just opened the carriage door by the house to show her the mess.
"Wha... why's the carriage so packed?"
"...Pillow, blanket, teacup, teapot, table and two chairs, five pots, three kitchen knives, doll, cushion, newspaper bundle, wooden basket, stack of paper and pens, firewood, trash bin, five outfits per season, brazier, and even a doorbell... You wanted it all, so it's like this. How do I cram more?"
Three knives? For some three-sword style? Doorbell for bragging the carriage is my house now?
Leaving the door open to display the chaos, I stared at her. She sneaked a glance back.
"Uh... um."
"Got something to say, Mom?"
"Gotta unpack it all!"
Only at dinnertime did her stubbornness break, admitting she'd gone overboard.
"Ugh, I said none of it was needed."
"Sorry, son! Ahem, I'll help unpack."
Mom and I kept at it till Dad got home from work, stripping out the useless stuff and leaving only essentials.
Now the trip was truly upon me, greeting me right around the corner. Lying in bed that night, one sleep from departure, my pounding heart kept me tossing and turning.
Clear excitement, equal anxiety. Worry for someone, guilt toward another. And it wasn't just for the one bearing gray.
There was Rendo, Yansen, gym master Rini, the mad librarian. Folks from the market streets, customers I'd known for years. All piled up inside me, and only now, on the eve of leaving, did I start reflecting on them one by one.
And.
Of course, my parents.
Hearing my tossing, Mom knocked softly and came in.
"Can't sleep, son?"
"...A bit."
"Then don't go traveling."
She grinned teasingly. Coming to my bedside, she gently placed her hand on my head like when I was little.
"Son."
"Yeah."
"Eat well on your trip, never get sick, and always watch out for people wherever you go."
She spoke plainly.
"I'd be a little happy if you made lots of good friends. You've always been a loner with none."
The kind of quiet words a mother tells her son.
"See all the things you've wanted to see, do everything you've wanted to do."
Her usual playfulness vanished now, replaced by an uncharacteristically serious gaze.
"I wanna tell you not to do anything dangerous... but I know you will, so just moderate it, okay?"
Her voice, heavy with concern, flowed down to ripple on the floor, then filled the bed.
"I don't know how long you'll be gone, but it'd be nice if you sent letters now and then."
It reached my fingertips, and soon I too was steeped in it from the edges inward.
"Work, training, studies—all things you chose. You've worked so hard, son."
To put it simply, it was parental love. Too generous to dismiss as mere novel characters'.
"Have a safe trip. We'll look after that kid you care for."
Breaking free from the forced novel plot, crushing every childhood doubt, becoming the story of people supporting my back.
"I'm sorry I couldn't say this when you were little. Sorry for blocking what you wanted to do. Sorry for not believing in you, denying your choices, son."
Rather, it was I who'd failed to believe—me, the foolish son doubting their full love.
"I love you always, son."
Her hand stroking my cheek filled me with warmth.
The bonds of sixteen years had grown strong enough to pierce my blocked thoughts.
Looking back at my once-pitiful steps with no role assigned, they'd left deep traces. And on the new path I'd wished for, others now followed in my footsteps.
So.
"I love you too, Mom."
I said it, pouring in my true heart.
Now, I no longer dream. The hillside slum I loved and hated settles deep in my chest.