Black History (2)
The trigger for this black history was something incredibly trivial.
Once a month, I was forced to write an update letter just to receive the sponsorship money. Since I couldn’t read or write, all I could manage was to copy the text the orphanage director had prepared in advance, my handwriting crooked and clumsy. I was growing thoroughly sick of that tedious chore when it happened.
I sat cross-legged at the desk, pencil in hand, face twisted in a deep frown. The director, who normally would have simply watched my miserable state from afar, suddenly spoke to me. He asked if I wanted to play a prank on our sponsor.
Before I could even voice my suspicion at his abrupt suggestion—his true intentions were impossible to read—he continued with a distinctly mischievous smile.
“Let’s write and ask for a storybook.”
It was so ridiculous that a snort of laughter slipped out before I could stop it.
A storybook. The collective term for volumes recording the life stories of past Heroes or the various legends connected to them. The golden history inscribed on neither ordinary paper nor low-grade monster hide—strictly forbidden by the Holy See—was something that could justly be called the pride of the Capital and the glory of all humanity.
Therefore, the fact that storybooks were absurdly expensive was common knowledge, the sort of basic common sense that even a child in the Capital who knew nothing of the world would understand. Since neither paper nor monster hide could be used, parchment was required by necessity. And parchment was the king of luxury goods, demanding the slaughter of dozens of young lambs for a single volume. The price of a storybook born from such an extravagant process needed no explanation.
They said a storybook recording rare history could be traded for the price of an entire house.
No matter how filthy rich the sponsor was, it was a burdensome gift to hand over to a complete stranger. Indeed, it was the perfect item for messing with someone who lived for showing off their wealth to others. It was a proposal no decent person would ever suggest or accept.
But at the time I was a foolish child whose personality had twisted as far as it possibly could. In the end, I scribbled with the pencil exactly as the director schemed.
Did I write that I wanted a birthday present? Or that it was my final wish in life? I don’t remember clearly. I was too busy cackling while imagining the frown that was sure to appear on his face.
But a few days later, a gift arrived for me.
It was a storybook. A genuine one, with large, delicate lettering embroidered across expensive parchment and sparse illustrations scattered throughout. The hero’s tale I had only heard in fragments from third-rate bards filled my eyes as I turned each page.
The cover showed a majestic man raising a sword high toward the heavens. I still couldn’t read the words, but even an idiot like me could tell that he was the so-called Hero and that this book described his adventures.
The director’s excited voice as he grabbed my shoulders and shook me didn’t even register. My gaze was locked completely on that short note placed atop the storybook’s cover.
It was the first birthday greeting I had ever received in my life. A celebratory gift.
I had never once received a birthday present, not even from my one and only blood-related younger sibling. It couldn’t be helped. Even I didn’t know when my own birthday was.
There were only hungry days and slightly less hungry days. We who possessed nothing had neither the leisure nor the motivation to make any single day special. The strength to bless or affirm our own births had faded long ago.
I still vaguely remember how I unconsciously gripped the priceless object with too much force and hugged the storybook to my chest.
This happened a little later, but that day eventually became my birthday. Thanks to my petty prank and someone else’s misunderstanding of it, the day I had been born into this world was decided.
Responding to the director’s sly suggestion—now that he realized expensive gifts might come depending on the letter’s contents—was quite an unpleasant affair. Fortunately, it wasn’t all bad. At least from that day forward, I was able to be reborn.
“Hero…”
That was my second memory.
Change is not always dramatic.
I began to truly feel that I had changed around the time the monthly family photo ritual entered its fourth year.
It was the moment I looked at my younger brother, who was staring at me with an annoyed expression while I seriously debated which clothes to wear and what pose to strike.
“Hey! Victim! Which of these do you think looks better on me?!”
“Just wear anything. The one from last time…”
“No way! If we wear the same clothes we wore last month again, what will Mister think of us? He’ll assume we’re dirty kids who only wear the same outfit for an entire month! Victim, you stop thinking about throwing on the same clothes as last time and choose carefully too!”
“Ehh…”
“Like always, we only have one magic-stone film this time! We only get one chance! Don’t just rinse with water—scrub every inch with soap! Put on hair oil too!”
“Why would I put on hair oil for a photo…”
“Don’t talk back! Just do what I say!”
Photo day was always a battlefield. Victim had grown noticeably cheeky lately, so coaxing and soothing him every time I needed him to do something was no small task.
Perhaps because his life no longer lacked anything, Victim had developed clear hobbies and preferences. He had favorite games and foods he refused to eat. I was quite surprised when I realized he liked playing ball and hated fish.
After all, Victim used to be the kind of child who spent half his day sleeping and gratefully ate whatever was given to him.
Yet for some reason, his increasingly childish behavior didn’t feel unpleasant at all.
“You used to tell me not to give my heart away. Now you can’t even live without Mister…”
“W-what are you talking about! When did I ever!”
His impertinent tone is still quite irritating even now.
“It’s a strategy! Yes! This is all part of the plan! We make him think we’ve opened our hearts to him, then guide him into sending even more money! That’s the strategy!”
“For a strategy, it seems pretty sincere… You even checked what I wrote in the letters beforehand the other day…”
“Hey! That’s only because you wrote useless stuff like how I wanted to see Mister’s face or was curious about his name! It’s not true! If I had really fallen for him, would I have sold the storybook he sent me as a gift?!”
“Fine, fine. I get it.”
It was a lie. By then I had already been prepared to offer him my liver and lungs, even though I didn’t know his face or name.
The comfortable space where I no longer had to worry about survival was something I had experienced for the first time since birth. The peaceful daily life where my younger brother and I—who had never known leisure—now had enough peace of mind to argue over trivial things. The indescribable comfort that all of it came from someone’s care and attention was sweet and addictive.
It was true that I had sold the gifted storybook. But if not for the practical reason that I couldn’t leave such an expensive item in a place with no proper security—where it might be stolen at any moment—I would never have handed it over, even if someone offered me a fortune.
An expensive storybook owned by a powerless pair of siblings living in an orphanage. To thugs looking for a quick score, there could be no more tempting prey.
That was why, on the day I had no choice but to hand the book over to the director to sell, I secretly cried my eyes out where my brother couldn’t see.
“Hey, but this says it belongs to the Academy library… Is this really okay…?”
“The kids must have scribbled that. Don’t worry about it.”
I sobbed so hard I couldn’t even hear the conversation between the adults who took the book from me.
That was why I secretly tore out one illustration from the storybook and kept the short memo containing the birthday greeting. I used those small anchors as comfort, constantly recalling and cherishing the joy of that day.
It was the moment I came to understand, at least a little, why those who called themselves clergy blindly believed in and followed a god whose face they had never seen.
To me back then, Mister was the only pillar I could lean my heart against. He was no different from my hero.
“Even if you can’t come meet us, you could at least reply to the letters… Are you that shy…?”
In truth, I had no way of knowing whether he was a man or a woman, a young man or an old man. Perhaps my usual longing for a dependable father had seeped out unconsciously, but by the time I realized it, I was already calling him Mister.
I often had the embarrassing thought that someday Mister might appear with us in those monthly family photos.
Our birth parents had abandoned us without hesitation, but I believed Mister would never abandon us siblings.
“Hey! Victim! Noona told you to wash properly!”
“Huh? I washed thoroughly with soap like Noona said?”
“Don’t lie! There are still black stains on your neck! Honestly!”
“Huh? That’s strange…”
Before long, Victim contracted an unknown illness and curse. While I nursed him, I too could not escape that black demonic energy.
Even the most renowned healers could not improve our condition. In desperation, I sent several letters to Mister asking for help, but as always, no replies came.
It was around that time that the monthly sponsorship money suddenly stopped.
Unable to accept it, I poured every coin that should have been used for medicine into paper and ink, writing even more letters to Mister.
But there was no reply.
As always.
Like always.
Just as usual.
Mister said nothing to us at all.