I Don't Need This Crap
I filed it away in my mental list of precautions, underlining it twice: the one thing that could be called her reverse scale — the single trigger she would never forgive — was my running away.
How long had I been crying in her arms? She seemed to be coming down from it herself, because she slowly began to soothe me.
"...I'm sorry, unnie. It hurts a lot, doesn't it..."
"It hurts... hhngh... it huuurts..."
I'd thought I had finally calmed down. I'd thought I had no tears left to shed. And then a single word of comfort from her, and they came spilling out all over again. She was the one who had given me the disease, and now she was handing me the medicine. I had no reason whatsoever to feel grateful, and I hated the part of myself that went warm and tight in my chest anyway.
"...I'm only doing this because I love you, unnie, so I hope you won't hate me too much. Even if it feels too forceful, please try to understand. That's how much I love you. It hurts me too... When you're in pain, it feels like my heart is being torn to shreds..."
"Hh... hhngh... o-okay... hhk..."
If she had said she hated me — if she had said that was why she tormented me — it would have hurt less. It would have been less confusing, less agonizing. What I felt in her words was sincerity, thick and unmistakable. She loved me more than anything in the world, and that was precisely why she was so strict, so coercive.
She was doing this because she loved me too much. What was I supposed to say to that? That this kind of love was wrong?
Wasn't it already far too late to start saying things like that... Changing her would take longer than changing myself to suit her tastes. That much was obvious.
The longing to escape, the passion, the hope — all of it was growing fainter by the hour. Never mind that I no longer even had a proper identity. Wrists, ankles — there wasn't a single part of me left intact. What kind of life was I supposed to live out there?
There would still be people willing to buy me, I supposed. The world was overflowing with rich men who would gladly pay as long as the face was pretty. But if that was how I was going to spend every day, what would have been the point of escaping? I'd be lucky if I didn't end up in something even worse.
Just like she'd said.
Was I really just throwing a tantrum? Who did I think I was? Escaping wouldn't magically guarantee me some wonderful life. So why was I still so desperate to get out?
The moment my thoughts veered into self-loathing, I tucked that grotesquely bent, hideous hand behind my back, hiding it from her as naturally as breathing.
Because if she threw me away, I truly had nowhere to go.
My parents?
By now they would have filed a missing person report. As if things weren't chaotic enough — if I showed up looking like this and tried to claim I was their son, I'd be lucky to get away with a slap across the face.
My father was a patriarchal relic who didn't belong in this century; he wouldn't so much as hear a woman's words. My mother was stubborn as iron. Persuasion wouldn't even make a dent.
If I got thrown out of here, where was I supposed to go...
"Hh... hwaaaah..."
The crying wouldn't stop. Every time it seemed about to taper off, some other bleak subject came hunting for me and started tearing me apart all over again.
"...It's okay. No matter what you look like, I love you, unnie..."
Whenever I was at my mental limit, the one who soothed me was always her. Of course it was — she was the only person around who could. But when I was this far gone, her comfort felt genuinely warm.
For now, at least, I wanted to stop thinking about how she was the one who'd made me sick and the one handing me the cure...
...I was just so tired. I wanted anyone at all to hold me for a little while and tell me it was okay...
How long had I been shaking in her arms, sobbing so hard my whole body heaved? I'd buried my face in her chest and let it all out, and judging by how soaked her front was with my tears and snot, it hadn't been a short time.
"All done crying now, unnie?"
"...Yeah..."
The tantrum was over. I had never cried like that in my entire life, and strangely, it didn't feel bad. It felt like every knot that had been tangled up in my chest had come undone. The way she kept stroking my hair was something I could have gotten used to — but this was where it had to stop.
I had to push her away before I started liking her even more. Once I'd cried every last negative feeling out of my system, reason came flooding back, and I could think clearly again. Getting any closer to her was dangerous.
She was the root of all my misery. I had to push her away. And even if I couldn't manage that, I would not — could not — let myself get any closer.
She looked a little disappointed, but she didn't fight me when I pulled back.
"...Well, it's a bit of a shame, but you need treatment now anyway. Just a moment."
She'd said she loved even my hideous hands — but thankfully, it seemed she at least intended to have them treated.
Her hand went to the back pocket of her pants, fishing for something. What she pulled out was a phone.
"Hah, haahk... hh... hhngh..."
The instant I saw that phone — the thing I had wanted so desperately — my breath seized in my throat. It was like the nightmare from minutes ago was playing itself out all over again. The pain still screaming through my wrist surged even hotter. It felt like the joint was about to snap clean off.
"...Do you still want a phone, unnie?"
"I-I don't need it..."
She asked even though she already knew the answer. I shook my head hard, refusing, and she pressed her phone into my uninjured left hand anyway.
Those dead, blackened eyes of hers. That body two heads taller than mine. That searing, unforgettable pain. The nightmare from moments ago came hammering against my heart all over again.
"I-I said I don't need it! Get it away! Get it away from me! Get this thing out of my face!"
I threw the phone with every ounce of strength I had. My muscles were weaker than I could have imagined, but it was enough — the phone shattered. The screen was completely destroyed; even a simple tap would have been impossible.
"Y-you didn't even listen to me first! Y-you just shoved it at me!"
"Ah, I understand. I'm sorry. Please forgive me, unnie."
She had every right to be angry, but she didn't get angry at all. She apologized to me instead. I'd expected that, honestly. I already knew that this kind of behavior from me made her happy.
The shocking part wasn't that she'd apologized. It was that throwing the phone hadn't been a calculated move to score points with her — my body had just done it on its own.
It was as natural as snatching your hand back from something hot, and that was what made it so unbearable. I hadn't even been living with her for a week, and I was already being reshaped to her tastes.
My personality, my values — everything was changing.
"...Haa..."
".........."
I was currently on the bed, alone with the doctor.
The moment I'd thrown the phone, Heejin had used the intercom to call the doctor, and then she'd left the room. She hadn't looked particularly pleased about it. I suspected she couldn't stand the sight of me with another woman.
Or maybe she just trusted the doctor enough to walk out without a second thought.
"How did you end up like this again?"
She had the kind of face that wouldn't so much as twitch if someone died in front of her, but apparently my injuries were the exception, because she actually asked.
"...That's none of your business."
I had no obligation to answer her politely, so I didn't. There was no reason for me to feel grateful toward her. She wasn't treating me out of the goodness of her heart. She was being paid. I didn't owe her a thing.
"I'll administer the anesthetic, miss."
Apparently her question had been a courtesy and nothing more, because the moment I snapped at her, she dropped it and went straight to her job. She slid the needle into a vein in my wrist. The clear liquid inside vanished into me in an instant.
I stared down at my wrist, blank, and she asked me something.
"Does it hurt at all?"
"No."
"...This anesthetic temporarily kills the nerves in the arm. It should be quite painful."
"I'm telling you, it doesn't hurt even a little."
"...That... can't be right..."
She muttered it like she couldn't believe me. Anyone listening would have thought I was lying.
The doctor must have spent her career dealing with patients who made a production out of everything. I genuinely couldn't feel a thing. Why would this hurt?
Maybe rich people used expensive needles too, because I didn't feel even a pinprick. Not even a sting.
I kept insisting it didn't hurt. She didn't look like she believed a word of it.
"...Get some sleep. It'll all be finished by the time you wake up."
She must have given me a sedative, because drowsiness started pulling at me — the kind no amount of willpower could fight. Not that I particularly wanted to fight it. I closed my eyes and let myself drift. Maybe it was because I was so drained, body and mind, but the moment my lids shut, it felt like my consciousness was being sucked somewhere else entirely.
"...At least get some proper rest..."
The last thing I saw was the doctor's face — a bitter, weary expression that didn't belong on a doctor at all — looking down at me.
...Since when could you make a face like that...?