The Exposed Secret -4- The Lady Was Crying
The lady was crying. Thick tears fell from her large eyes like a late summer rain, plopping onto the closet floor.
"It's not... It's not from tripping...!"
Huddled in the tiny closet, she cried pitifully like a rain-soaked mouse. I wanted to say something, but my lips wouldn't move. If I opened my mouth now, I'd just spit out the same lie as before.
The lady spoke to me as I stood there awkwardly.
"How could anyone think this looks like a wound from tripping...!"
Her suspicions poured out like an accusation, matched by endless chicken-shit tears that wouldn't stop. She wiped them away with her sleeve, but more kept coming, annoying her so much that she rubbed her eyes irritably. Snot smeared on her hands, tears too—she didn't care, just poured out her resentment at me in that wretched state. She showed no sign of stopping.
The lady said to me once more.
"I'm not an idiot... There's no way I'd fall for that..."
I knew it too. There was no way she'd buy such a lame lie. It was a knee-jerk excuse born of shock, one even I wouldn't believe. But one thing was certain: she'd discovered the scar I'd hidden from her for the past year, and my lie hadn't fooled her.
"You said it was a tattoo... A tattoo like tree bark...!"
"If you look closely here, it does kind of resemble a tattoo."
"Where does it look like a tattoo?! How could anyone call that a tattoo?!"
A blatant scar sat where I'd claimed there was a tattoo—who'd believe it was from a fall? I couldn't lift my head at the sight of her crying under that shiny conical hat.
No excuses came to mind. I hadn't expected to get caught like this. I didn't want to get caught.
If we'd had just a month more, until my black magic resistance rose and the scar on my right hand faded a bit more, she might not have been so shocked. A pointless complaint, but I couldn't help regretting that it hadn't been a little later.
The lady reached toward my scarred right hand, her fingers trembling like aspen leaves in the wind. She'd thrown her favorite chocolate cake on the floor to do it.
"I told you not to lie... How could this be from tripping..."
I carefully dodged her approaching hand. Our eyes met as her hand hovered uncertainly.
"Why... are you dodging?"
Her trembling voice carried worry—had she made a mistake? Hurt me? I awkwardly hid my hand behind my back and shook my head.
"It's nothing."
"Then why dodge...?"
"I trained on the dirt floor all half-day and didn't wash my hands. Haha..."
Sniff. Her eyes quivered widely.
"You... hate me?"
"No, that's not it."
I just don't want you to see it. My hands were filthy from training, and if she remembered that day from seeing the wound, I'd have nothing to say to her then. So I brushed it off with a clumsy smile.
"Why are you smiling...!"
The lady shouted, her voice thick with frustration. Her anger wasn't scary—the tassel on her conical hat shook with every outburst—but her trembling fists showed how hurt she was.
The lady said,
"You said it was a tattoo."
"..."
"You said it was a tattoo..."
Her voice trailed off.
"You said it was a tattoo, so... why lie to me?"
I told her flatly,
"It doesn't hurt."
"That's a lie."
She huffed, clearly not buying it. Frustrated, she clenched her fists tight. It was almost funny, someone telling me not to hurt clenching their own fists like that.
As the mood lightened like a joke, she bit her lip hard and said firmly,
"Give it."
"No."
"Give me your hand."
Her eyes screamed she wouldn't back down, but this time, I couldn't play along.
Her brows furrowed. She puffed her cheeks like she was truly furious, glaring at me—but her reddening eyes made her look anything but angry.
"I mean it, it's really nothing."
I heard her teeth grind.
"I told you not to lie."
"I'm just stating the facts."
Squeeze. Her hands paled as she gripped her dress.
"Ricardo. If you keep this up, I really can't handle it. For real... I can't take it."
She shook her head side to side. Like a kid throwing a tantrum in a department store for a toy, begging me not to lie. And yet, I couldn't grant her wish.
"Please... please..."
Frustrated, she pounded her chest with her fist—not angry at my lies, but at herself for making me lie.
Olivia didn't want sweet words. Not "it's not your fault" or "it's unrelated to you"—she wanted the harsh truth, even if it stung. And yet, she hated Ricardo for dodging her hand again.
I evaded her hand demanding the truth and hid my right hand behind my back. With a faint smile, I said,
"It's really nothing."
As I picked up the fallen shirt from the floor, I thought of my next line. Something a bit more believable...
Ah. 'No matter how I think, nothing comes to mind.'
Wrong start. Better than "I tripped," but if I'd begun with a groan like "Aigoo, I'm dying," the mood might've been lighter.
The lady clenched her fists and said,
"Liar."
I replied,
"I have this disease where my nose grows when I lie."
"No such disease."
"There is."
"Don't joke. If it existed, your nose would've grown this long by now."
She spread her hands wide.
This long. How many lies had I been caught in for her to say that? As a self-proclaimed pro liar, my pride stung, and I shot back,
"Not that bad. How pure do you think I am?"
"That's a lie too. You lied about the tattoo, and last time you promised a mountain of chocolate but didn't bring any."
"I never made that promise."
She hesitated, but quickly recalled my rap sheet and countered,
"The letter from Mikhail asking if you're doing well."
"..."
"You wrote that."
"Busted? I thought I copied his handwriting perfectly."
"Mikhail's writing doesn't squirm like worms!"
"As long as it's legible, right?!"
"I couldn't read it. You had to interpret it for me!"
Her pent-up rage burst; she clenched her fists. Tears streamed down her cheeks, soaking the closet floor, and her grief-filled eyes trembled every time they glanced at my hidden right hand.
I realized I had no talent for lying.
"So, Ricardo. Why?"
To her worried question, I smiled brightly.
"Someone hit me."
Thud. I swear I heard her heart drop. Her face paled instantly, hands shaking.
Stammering, she asked,
"Wh-who... who hit you?"
"Hmm..."
I rubbed my chin, pretending to think. Her clenching and unclenching fists were cute, and the loosening mood eased my tension.
"Who knows. If you find out, will you scold them for me, miss?"
She nodded awkwardly. Fists balled, vowing revenge. I chuckled at the sight.
"You, miss."
"Huh...?"
"You hit me."
"..."
The mood froze; I panicked. It was a joke, but she deflated, head down, unclenching her fists dejectedly.
"You really believe that?"
"It's true."
"It's a lie."
She looked at me.
"Your nose didn't grow."
"I don't have that disease."
"You said you did."
"..."
I bent down to meet her eyes.
"Miss, if you stay this naive, you'll get fleeced—liver, gallbladder, and all."
"Liver? Gallbladder?"
"Important organs."
Sniffling, she looked up at me. Her eyes were so puffy, tomorrow she'd wake up sounding like "Cheong-ah... Cheong-ah, Sim Cheong-ah" instead of an air raid siren. If she cried more, she'd turn into Shim Bong-sa for real, so I grabbed her cheeks and stretched them.
"Even if it was you, what can we do? Tough luck, right?"
"Still..."
"You did something scold-worthy, so you got scolded."
She bit her lip. Avoiding my eyes like a kid caught sneaking cookies, holding back sobs.
I squished her cheeks like a goldfish.
"Whatcha doin'! (What are you doing!)"
"This looks ugly."
She balled her fists. Finally back to her usual self, I felt relieved.
"Hey, miss."
I spoke softly, calmly.
"I'm a huge baby when it hurts. Seriously."
"When I was little, I tried catching fish barehanded in a stream, tripped on gravel, skinned my knee. Know what I did?"
"What?"
"Wailed all night."
"Last time I swung a wooden sword, got a thorn stuck, whined to you all day, right?"
She nodded, teary-eyed.
"See? I endure anything but pain. Even a tiny scratch and I whine. Do you think I'd hide something like this from you?"
I smiled reassuringly at her hopeful eyes.
"If it hurts, I'll say so."
She nodded.
"Okay."
Then added,
"But this... doesn't seem right."
She bowed her head deeply.
"This isn't."
Like a sinner, shaking her head, rubbing her eyes with her sleeve.
I handed her my handkerchief from my pocket.
"Why cry again, miss."
Sniff. Snort. "It's not... This isn't it..."
Insisting it wasn't, she poured out more tears.
The lady said,
"You shouldn't hurt..."
Staring blankly into space, unfocused eyes.
"If it hurts... it really shouldn't..."
Her hand was touching the scar on my body.