The Children I Turned My Back On
Back when I was a student at the Academy, I was dragged along on a volunteer service trip to some run-down monastery. The blind retired veteran I ended up looking after had a saying he repeated like a mantra. Even though he couldn’t see, he could still speak and walk. There were plenty of unfortunate people in the world who couldn’t even manage that much, so he considered himself lucky. He said it so often that the words practically formed scabs on my ears; I can still remember exactly which parts made his voice rise. The nuns all praised him as a rare example of forward-thinking positivity, and my classmates would quote his story whenever they wanted to poke at my own pessimistic nature. His upbeat attitude was practically famous in that monastery.
But back then, I never once thought he was as bright or progressive as everyone claimed. And why would I? Every night he’d sneak drinks past the nurses’ watchful eyes, get absolutely plastered, then grab hold of me and ramble endlessly about how many people in the world were more miserable than he was. That pathetic, disheveled figure was the very picture of a man drowning in despair. He’d start with persecuted demi-humans, move on to those born with disabilities, then orphaned children who’d lost their parents in accidents—clinging to every scrap of misfortune like a man hanging from a cliff grabbing at anything within reach. Those were the truly pitiful ones who needed help, the ones who deserved pity. Not him. I still vaguely remember the desperate, frantic look in his bloodshot blind eyes as he delivered those heated speeches.
Our connection was brief, little more than a passing encounter, yet the words that blind veteran left in the pages of my life story were surprisingly large. Because I learned something from him: knowing there are people more miserable than you proves that where you’re standing isn’t the absolute bottom. It lets you feel the lower limit and find relief. It becomes an excellent escape that lets you ignore your own pathetic state. That’s when it started—when I began making regular donations to some nameless orphanage.
It wasn’t born from any sudden surge of compassionate love for others. It was closer to the pity that makes you toss scraps to a stray cat. It came from a petty sense of superiority, the desire to look down triumphantly at creatures bowing their heads at my feet. Looking back now, it was nothing but childish thinking. If I could erase it from my memory, I would. But at the time, I’d entered the Academy full of dreams and hopes only to achieve nothing because of my lowly status. I was wasting my days and starving for self-respect. Even that flimsy sense of superiority was enough to quench my thirst.
That’s when they caught my eye. Two young siblings abandoned by their parents. The younger one had a chronic illness, and the older sister’s fierce personality meant no suitable guardian would take them. She’d stubbornly refused any arrangement that didn’t include her brother, which had turned them into the orphanage’s biggest headache. I could perfectly picture the director clutching his head in frustration. After all, I’d grown up in an orphanage myself. I could imagine their difficult situation all too clearly.
Raising children costs a fortune. Seasonal clothes, daily necessities, tableware, chairs, food ingredients, textbooks, medicine—the list never ended. The orphanage’s mission to take in children with nowhere else to go was admirable, but unfortunately, noble causes don’t pay the bills. That’s why guardians willing to fund that mission were absolutely essential.
Luckily, while I was still attending the Academy, I had more than enough financial leeway. The pocket change needed to feed two children in a small orphanage was something I could earn just by kissing up to the noble brats buzzing around me. That was also around the time I realized I had a talent for flattering the strong.
When I first sent my formal intention to become their guardian, I made only two demands. First, they must never reveal my identity to the children. Second, the children were to send me monthly letters with photos and updates about their lives. When the orphanage received my written requests, their reply made it clear they found my conditions rather suspicious. Still, they didn’t want to miss the chance to get rid of their biggest problem, so they gladly accepted not long after.
I’d hidden my identity simply because I thought it would be more entertaining that way. The reason I demanded letters and photos was because I wanted to watch—in real time—how their lives grew brighter because of me, thanks to my help, because of what I’d done for them. With the same casual feeling as buying two five-hundred-won chicks in front of the school, I became their guardian.
I still remember how the first letter and photo they sent practically radiated reluctance. I laughed out loud without meaning to. The heavily frowning faces, the crooked handwriting, that chicken-scratch letter—it all left me excited at the thought that I wouldn’t be bored for a while.
For about four years after that, I steadily sent them sponsorship money and received their letters and photos every month. Well, not exactly steadily. On days when I was in a bad mood, I’d sometimes send only part of the promised amount or delay the transfer date, secretly enjoying their flustered reactions. Our relationship had begun not from pure goodwill but from idle curiosity and shallow pity. To me, they were simply pitiful weaklings who soothed my inferiority complex. Fish in a tank that relieved my boredom. Nothing more, nothing less.
Then, when the sister was eleven and the brother had just turned nine, something changed. Their writing was still clumsy and their handwriting terrible, but the rebellious tone had noticeably softened. The enclosed photos began showing them smiling brightly all the time. They started sending letters several times a month instead of once, asking why I never replied, what my name was, if they could see my face, whether I might visit them on their birthday. It was almost unsettling.
But at the time, I was on the verge of a golden opportunity that could completely reverse my pathetic life. I had neither the leisure nor the will to pay attention to their voices. That was when my holy power began to manifest. Though the full extent was still unknown, the priest who diagnosed my potential told me I should be able to use holy power at least ten times a day. Once my body grew accustomed to it, as long as I didn’t get tangled up in any nasty curses, I would surely be able to perform miracles of similar frequency.
I was overjoyed. The discrimination and hateful looks I’d endured all flipped instantly into reverence and envy, and I was drunk on that thrill. I became addicted to the euphoric sense of superiority that now rose naturally without me having to bow my head toward the ground. Before long, I began sorting out the parts of my life I no longer needed—one by one, carefully.
And right on cue, one particular nuisance that had grown increasingly irritating lately came into view. After all, if I hadn’t helped them, they wouldn’t even be alive now. I’d left the orphanage at about their age. They’d grown enough. I’d done enough. Using those disgusting excuses as justification, I casually severed our connection as if throwing away a toy I’d grown tired of.
About a year later, after various complicated procedures, when I had officially received recognition as a priest from the Cathedral, the memory of those children had already grown so faint in my mind that I could barely make out their shapes anymore. It couldn’t be helped. To me at that time, they had never been anything more than that.
Which is why, even when I visited a small village as part of my priest training and heard the pitiful story about a brother and sister living in an orphanage there who were dying from a curse and plague, I only showed superficial sympathy. Right up until the moment I saw their faces with my own eyes, I never once managed to recall their names. Or perhaps I simply refused to acknowledge that the children I’d known could possibly be these two—filthy clothes, bodies stained black, greasy hair, half their bodies rotting from curse and plague, so weakened that death would have been no surprise.
“Looking at how far the curse has progressed, those two are already done for. First-grade clergy might be able to heal them without much trouble, but if rookies like us try, we’ll just waste our holy power. The only thing we can do for those children now is pray for their peaceful rest. They probably have three to five days left at most…”
My senior, who was guiding me through the local villages and carefully explaining what kinds of patients rookies shouldn’t recklessly attempt to treat, gradually grew quieter. The siblings he’d pointed out as a bad example were being pelted with stones by the village children. Or rather, the older sister was shielding her brother with her entire body, arms spread wide, as stones rained down on him. Even though the left side of her face and half her body were already blackened by the plague and curse.
“Get lost! Go away! I said go away, you plague gods!”
“You bastards! I warned you I wouldn’t let you off if you bothered my brother again!”
“Whoa! The kid who got abandoned by both her parents and her guardian actually knows how to talk! How interesting~!”
“Who said we were abandoned twice! Shut your mouth! Our guardian just had an urgent matter and couldn’t contact us for a while! He sends letters every single day! He’s going to bring priests who’ll heal me and my brother and come here soon!”
“N-noona…”
My memories after that point are rather hazy. But according to my senior who was with me, I stood there staring fixedly at the girl with cloudy eyes that seemed to hold no light as she tearfully shouted that she hadn’t been abandoned. When he advised me not to think strange thoughts, I gave no reply at all. I simply walked ahead of him with heavy steps toward our lodging.
I still feel nothing but guilt toward that senior who worried about me back then. When I came to my senses, I was already sneaking into the isolated room where the children slept in the dead of night. I had my hand on the sleeping boy’s body and was fervently reciting prayers as if possessed. Was it guilt? Or was it confidence that I could manage it without any trouble? There are no answer sheets for the human heart, so even I don’t know why I acted that way that night.
But I remember with painful clarity—clear enough that it still appears in my dreams—how the child’s body temperature felt colder than the bare floor when I touched him, and how I kept muttering “I’m sorry” like a broken doll even while I should have been completely focused on the prayer.
And just as the boy’s healing was nearly complete—
I could recall my cowardly choice to avoid meeting those straight, unwavering eyes as clearly as if it had happened only yesterday.