Kim Hae-rin - Home (2)
"Ugh, what?!"
Had that come out too sharp? I knew I was snapping at Mom emotionally, but the words were already out.
"It's been almost a year now, you know. Want me to book the hospital appointment?"
A fastball, right over the plate. That's my mom for you—she has never once in her life learned how to circle around a subject.
I straightened up in my chair and hurriedly wiped myself down with wet wipes, cock and thighs alike. Even that light contact stung against flesh still raw and oversensitive from coming, and I grimaced.
"What do you mean, 'that'? God, seriously, have some tact."
"How else am I supposed to say it? You do need to go to the hospital."
"I told you I'd handle it myself."
"You said you'd handle it in the summer. You said it again at Chuseok."
Beyond the door, her voice dropped lower. Quieter than her usual nagging—pressed down, careful.
I stopped halfway through pulling my panties up. My cock was still damp from the half-finished wipe-down, and the thought of it sticking to the fabric was gross enough that I pulled out another wet wipe and wrapped it around me, haphazard.
"I looked it up, and if the bookings are backed up you could be waiting weeks. And for cases left alone as long as yours, they said treatment might not even work right away."
"Who's been leaving it alone? I was just… observing it."
Even as the words left my mouth, I couldn't take myself seriously. I was hardly a researcher. What kind of "observation" involves holing up in the corner of your room with an onahole in one hand and doujinshi in the other?
A short silence from the other side of the door.
"Hae-rin."
When she calls my name that gently, it's worse than when she yells.
"Open the door for me."
"No."
"Come on, let's talk."
"Can't. My room's a mess right now."
"I've known your room was a disaster since the day you were born."
"Ugh, seriously!"
I tried to bolt up out of the chair, but my legs buckled and dumped me right back into it.
Goddamn cock.
"I'm busy."
"Busy with what?"
"Just… computer work."
"Name one thing you do on that computer these days besides games and cartoons."
Mom knew far too much.
I glanced at the monitor. On the screen, a mesugaki character was sobbing her eyes out. I snatched the mouse and killed the window.
"Ha. Are you seriously surveilling me?"
"I don't need surveillance to know. You never come out of your room."
"And do what out there? The second I step outside, people stare."
The words were out before I could stop them, and my mouth snapped shut.
Outside the door had gone quiet too.
People staring. People whispering behind their hands. That was the thing I feared most in the world. Sure, it was small enough to go unnoticed, but I couldn't stop imagining being found out anyway—some thread popping up on the boards titled "Futa Spotted in My Neighborhood."
Mom spoke through the door. "That's exactly why I'm saying we go to the hospital."
"People will stare at me there, too."
"It's a hospital for treating exactly that."
"That's the part I hate most! A building full of people like that means I'm actually one of them!"
The endless badgering about the hospital finally grated me over the edge, and I shrieked it.
Futakomori
A woman who seals herself inside her room and touches nothing but her own cock.
The first time I saw that word on the community boards, I laughed. "Ha, the naming sense on that thing is hideous. Who even came up with it?"
And then I couldn't laugh anymore. Because that word was me.
"Hae-rin, you're already a patient."
Mom's quiet voice pulled me out of my spiral.
"I'm not saying it's your fault. It's just a sickness. You're ill, so you go to the hospital and get treated—that's all."
When I still couldn't get a single word out, she kept going. "I'll call today and ask if we can get you in tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? Are you insane? I'm nowhere near ready!"
"Ready for what?"
"Mentally!"
"You've had a year."
"Since when does that count as being ready?!"
I snatched tissues off the desk and draped them over the onahole, but the shape was far too suspicious, so I dragged an empty delivery box over and shoved the thing inside.
"Ugh, seriously… I'm not in a good state right now. Tomorrow's out."
"Then when?"
"I don't know. I'll handle—"
"That phrase is banned."
Mom cut me off flat.
"As of today, 'I'll handle it' is banned."
My mouth snapped shut. It had been a long time since she came out this immovable. Normally when I threw a fit, she'd back off a step with a fine, we'll talk about it later.
"I'm making the appointment."
"I said no."
"You're going even if you hate it."
"I'm an adult. I said I'm fine."
Her voice paused for a beat on the other side of the door.
"But Hae-rin—if you keep this up and it ever comes to actual surgery, when that day comes, I can't be the one who hurts in your place."
It was the one answer I couldn't argue with. Mom kept going.
"I know you're embarrassed right now. I know you're scared. But digging in and refusing to go to the hospital isn't you winning."
"…"
"I'll only book the appointment. If you honestly can't bring yourself to go, tell me tomorrow. Then we'll cancel it or push the date back, whatever you want."
I dragged a hand down my face. My hair was greasy, clinging to my fingertips. When had I last washed it? Yesterday? The day before? No telling.
If I was going to the hospital, I'd need a shower. Should I shave too? Down there? Apparently all the patients showed up like that anyway—so why was I agonizing over this?
Wait a second. The succubi at the hospital were going to see my cock?
"Hm… you're quite small, aren't you, patient?"
Yeah, maybe I should just dive out the window.
"Um… does a guardian have to go in with the patient?"
"You're an adult, so I'd assume you can be seen alone. I'll wait in the lobby."
"I can take a taxi there by myself."
"Oh? So you'll go alone, then?"
Alone?
Absolutely not. I didn't want to go with Mom either, but on my own, I'd never summon the courage to walk through those doors.
"We'll… share the taxi. But stay far away in the lobby."
"Okay."
Mom agreed instantly. She gave in so fast it was almost eerie. I kept grumbling, but the edge had gone out of my voice—she was already reeling me in at her pace.
"I'll forward the confirmation text when it comes. Have you eaten?"
"Not eating."
"I'll warm up some porridge and leave it at your door. Eat it."
"Mom."
"Hmm?"
Should I ask, or let it go?
"That hospital… if I get treated, do I really go back to normal?"
A faint breath came through the door.
"That's what the patient guide says. Apparently it doesn't come back if the treatment takes."
"No scarring?"
"Magic treatment doesn't leave scars, so they say."
"The cli… that goes back too?"
The word caught in my throat. I couldn't force the rest of it out loud.
"That goes back to normal too."
I pulled my knees up onto the chair. With my jeans still tangled around my ankles, the pose must have looked ridiculous.
"And if it doesn't work?"
"We'll ask the doctor that."
"What do you think she'll say? She'll call me out for showing up this late."
"If she does, I'll scold her for you."
"Ha! How is my mom going to scold a doctor at a national hospital?"
"I can glare at her very intimidatingly."
A snort of laughter escaped me despite everything.
"True. You are scary. I'll give you that."
"Then eat something. I'll leave it at your door."
Her footsteps faded from the door, and I stayed where I was for a long while. The only sound left in the room was the whir of the computer fans.
When I finally, sluggishly pulled my jeans back up, my damp panties made my skin crawl. Midway through the zipper I snagged my cock in the fly and jolted.
"Ah, shit…"
It didn't hurt—everything had gone soft—but it sat wedged at an awkward angle inside the denim.
I'd have to get up, wash out the onahole, tidy the room a little. Go to the hospital tomorrow… no, it might not even be tomorrow. Like a national hospital would have an opening the very next day—the waitlist would be long. Which meant I could buy myself a few more days. Days I'd spend jacking off again, probably. That was the thing I hated most: how everything slid toward masturbation as easily as water running downhill.
I turned off the monitor. As the screen went black, my face rose up in the dark glass of the room—long, tangled black hair, dull, unfocused eyes, dark half-moons beneath them. My lips were cracked and dry.
"I look like a total wreck."
Not a wreck—a futakomori.
When that idiotic word somebody invented, from who knows where, popped into my head, a curse came out with it. "Like hell I'm a futakomori. Like I'd answer to a word some internet ghouls made up."
My phone buzzed.
Already?
I looked down at the phone clutched in my hand, and a screenshot of the booking was sitting there on the screen. I had to reply—but with what?
Too short. I deleted it and typed it again.
The moment it sent, I regretted it. And with that, it was settled.
I flung myself onto the bed, and the mattress creaked. Overhead, the ancient fluorescent cover stared down at me, one tiny dead bug stuck to it, date of death unknown. There was no way sleep was coming. My body hung loose and limp in the aftermath while thoughts kept filing past.
I didn't want to go to the hospital. I wanted the treatment even less. But amputation surgery? Even, even less than that. If I got treated, would my old tastes come back? If they asked what I got off to, would I have to lie? I couldn't exactly self-detonate with I'm into mesugaki correction. And what would the doctor say the moment she saw my cock?
"I'm sorry, but this is outside regulation size—treatment may not be possible?"
Sighing, I rolled my head toward the pillow, and my eyes landed on the delivery box on the desk where the onahole was hidden. Should I, one last time for today? The instant the thought formed, my cock gave a small twitch inside my jeans. I slammed my forehead into the pillow.
"Ugh, seriously… failed as a human, passed as a beast."
Clunk. Shuffle, shuffle. I heard porcelain touch down outside the door, then footsteps drawing away. Mom had left the porridge without a word.
Only much later did I get up and peer under the door. A thread of warm steam was drifting in. Plain white porridge. It mixed with the stale smell of my room and became something strange—unnameable, really, but I was hungry.
I tugged my jeans into some kind of order and crawled to the door, cracked it open just far enough to drag the bowl inside. I didn't so much as stick my head out, in case Mom was watching from the living room.
The porridge was still warm. The first spoonful loosened something in my stomach. Swallowing another mouthful, I woke my phone screen back up and typed the hospital's name into the search bar.
Results loaded. My thumb hovered for a long moment before I tapped the first post.
"This is just intel-gathering. Just intel."
Only the excuse hung in the air of the empty room, with no one there to hear it.