The Age of Loss
It was an age of loss.
I didn't notice when the world truly started to fall apart. The news had always been chaotic, and the government kept insisting everything was fine. The same faces appeared on TV every day, blabbering away.
"Worst heatwave in recorded history."
"Sea surface temperatures hit all-time high."
"Fourth mega-wildfire this year... long-term suppression efforts anticipated."
"North○, China○, Russia○, U.S.○ escalate nuclear arms race..."
"○○ Nation-○○ Nation border clashes intensify... international community repeats 'regrets'."
"Nationwide ICU occupancy surpasses 90%."
"Hundreds waiting outside ERs... medical staff at breaking point."
"Spike in at-home deaths during wait times, mismanagement controversy."
"Power supply emergency issued, rolling blackouts under review."
"Aging water mains at risk... emergency inspections underway."
The anchor delivered it all with a blank expression.
"Experts warn the Earth can no longer endure."
"But the government maintains the situation is under control."
"This is a time for all of us to pull together."
People heard those words while eating, riding buses and subways, working, and calculating next month's credit card bills. I did the same. Even as the planet burned, wars raged across the globe, and crimes and accidents piled up daily, my part-time shift tomorrow, rent, and card payments felt more urgent. So I just kept living. Working gigs, cursing, laughing, gaming, hanging with friends, scrolling my phone until dawn before crashing. I didn't truly believe tomorrow would always come, but I'd never seriously considered that it might not.
So even as the world hurtled toward extinction, my life felt peaceful. At least in my delusion.
I worked because I hated home. More precisely, I hated my parents' nagging.
"You need a college diploma."
"Certifications are key to getting hired."
"When are you getting a real job? You can't part-time forever."
It was their way of showing worry, but to me, it always sounded the same: You're doing it wrong. Those words hung in the air like the house's atmosphere, choking me with every breath. So I planned my escape. A modest two-room place would do. Eating alone? Fine by me. Anywhere without someone saying, "Do something, anything, so you can survive."
For that, I waitressed at a restaurant. Grease stench, booze fumes, stale fried rice smell, nightmare customers, peanuts for hourly pay. I endured it all for one phrase: independence fund. As the numbers grew in my bank app, I imagined drifting farther from this house. That kept me going back then.
The first person I knew who died was the girl a year younger than me working the same hall shift. The one with tiny, skinny hands struggling with heavy trays, dragging out an unnecessary "Sorry..." on mistakes. She'd finish college lectures, work the gig, then grumble about heading to an all-night PC bang shift, but light up with "My treat today~!" over a 10,000-won tip.
After closing one evening, during our brief breather, a younger guy from the crew approached.
"Hyung, that noona."
"Yeah."
"She's dead."
The word hit like a slap.
"Fuck, why."
My voice came out lower and colder than I expected. The kid flinched, avoiding my eyes.
"Hospital wouldn't take her... held out at home... just went. Morgues are full, so they sent her to a temp holding facility..."
My stomach churned.
An hour and a half by train. The scenery outside was normal. Apartments, still-open marts, churches, hagwons, street food joints, a franchise cafe with a closure notice. The news horrors—"medical collapse imminent, wars, hyper-accelerated warming, nuclear war"—stayed outside the window. Only hospitals and funeral systems had buckled first, it seemed. Things always crumble from the weakest points first, I thought.
People in the car dozed, earbuds in, sipping coffee. Strangely, even that air felt a bit peaceful. It made my skin crawl more.
The temp holding was a massive gym. Entrance plastered with notices.
[Morgues Overflow: Temp Holding Facility]
[Confirm Body by Number Ticket]
[No Candles, Food, Wreaths Allowed]
Inside hit with chill, disinfectant, sweat, sobs, and the stench of corpses—my first time smelling it. Stretchers draped in white sheets lined the auditorium floor without gaps, each tagged with a number. People clutched tickets, standing; from somewhere came sniffles, curses, prayers, screams, "Yes, that's my kid..."
A staffer checked the list and said before me, "Here."
Lifted the sheet slightly. It was her. Face frozen like she'd just dozed off from exhaustion. No dragged-out "Sorry...", no mistake-grin. Just lying there, tired-faced.
"Ah..."
The breath escaped, then caught in my throat. Humans can die any time—now, tomorrow, whenever. I'd always known that in my head. But knowing and seeing were different. The girl laughing beside me days ago, now just a corpse number in line. The world where this was possible sank in fully now. Something deep in my chest cracked.
I wanted to curse the world. Government, hospitals, the era, luck, everyone here—all of it. But cursing or blaming wouldn't make her breathe again. It was over. I swallowed the rage. Didn't collapse sobbing, punch the floor, grab anyone yelling why. Just stood quietly. Breath shallow, mind blank. Spring or summer, her first day at the shop flashed— so bright then. Ah. Tears pricked. But if I broke now, I wouldn't face the tragedies ahead. So I swallowed. Head and gut twisting, but held it down. Bowed briefly and turned away.
On the train back, staring out the window, it hit: This world really is ending. Her lying face lingered. Strangely, desire rose with it. Then I want to live more. Clutching grief, guilt, and survival urge, I went home.
After that, deaths around me normalized death, numbed me more. Like the world had always been this way.
First friend. Gaming buddy, meme sharer, "Life's fucked rn," "fr lol." Always quick replies. Then a day, two, three, a week silent. Asked another friend.
"Oh him? Infected, no hospital bed... croaked at home. Lots like that lately."
Somewhere in those numbers, him. Group chat: one photo, a few "Can't believe it," copy-paste condolences. I set the phone down, sat long. No tears. Instead, muttered inwardly: People really die this casually. Guilt clawed up. If I'd messaged once more? Gone to his place somehow? But the next thought shoved it: Not my fault. Nothing I could've done. I knew it was cowardly self-excuse. But without it, I couldn't cope.
Second friend. Closer—distance, bond. We'd meet often, drink, bullshit, curse the world together to endure. "This world's such shit." "Hang in there long enough, it'll work out." That guy.
Day we planned to meet, no contact. Calls ignored, messages unread. Irritation first: Drunk off his ass again? Then white-sheet girl, dead friends overlapped. Unease hit; I ran to his place. Door unlocked. Kicked off shoes, entered—stale air clung. Meds, sweat, rot layered thin. Him slumped dead on living room couch. Eyes half-open, mouth dry, pill bottles scattered, stale water, crumpled script, half-scribbled "Let's hold on."
Stopped short. One more step, I'd have to accept it. Stood frozen. Cold sweat everywhere, bugs crawling under skin. Approached slowly. Room silent, but my heartbeat thundered—like the house heard only that. Dead friend sat cold, eyes unsealed. What thought stopped him here? ...I reached, gently closed those eyes. Left. Told no one. Why'd you die? Even if it's hell... Words circled throat, stuck. On the way back, nausea. Wanted to cry, no tears. Broken, huh. My heart. Or maybe in this world, normal grief gets you killed quick. Knew it was cowardice.
Third friend. Same-job joker, "let's tough it out" type. As the city roughened, we cracked beers outside a convenience store.
"This country's fucked."
"Still better off than others."
Rationing started; he said, "You won't last the line. I'll grab yours. Hold spot. Ration ticket."
Crowd surged. Blazing sun blinded, lines tangled, curses flew.
"Don't push!"
"Back off, back!"
"Don't cut, fucker!"
Someone front fell. No one caught proper. Rear pushed harder. Pile collapsed instant. Screams, curses, sobs, pleas mixed. I was center. Breath crushed, body tilting, shoulders/back/flanks layered with weight. Instinct: elbowed, wormed out. Escaped, looked back—familiar tee amid crushed. That stupid print from work. Friend. Head twisted wrong, eyes wide, staring/not at me, frozen. People trampled over, stepping on him. Froze. Close enough to reach, feet wouldn't. Step forward, join the pile. Crowd cleared somewhat, vague "rescue" started. White sheet covered his face. That was his end.
Why do people die so easy? Evening news:
His name on the list. Stared blankly, killed TV with remote. Chest hollowed out. Why only people I know? No. Everyone's dying. Same conclusion. Blame changes nothing. Swallowed curses. Rage lingered. Grief. Irritation. Helplessness. But no expression. Pointless to show now. It hurt.
Gas spiked, power flickered out, water dwindled. News screamed "emergency"; reality plunged deeper into abyss daily. City crumbled slow. People broke fast. I went quiet. Not no grief—just capped it thick, coldly calculating "survival" atop. As acquaintances, friends died pointlessly one by one, one sentence sharpened inside: I don't want to end like this. I want to live. Selfish, I knew.
Lucky or unlucky, family—parents—held out longest. Dad, post-company collapse, spoke less. TV on/off, staring out window: "...Don't quit the gig. In times like this, your earnings... that's your lifeline." Once I'd think nagging again. Now different. Talking my lifeline, not his. Mom checking bank: "Family, cut back more. Then if shit really hits... you'll manage." Speechless. Money I'd saved to flee was, in their hearts, always "for me." Throat closed realizing.
"I'm outta here."
"Gonna live alone."
Childish habits died unspoken then.
Days later, Dad collapsed. Cough, fever, shortness, blood. Hospitals ignored calls dozens of times. Finally connected: "Beds full... monitor at home—" "And if he dies? Fuck, what then? Mom, Dad, everyone I know gone?!" Silence. "In that case... later guidance..." Later. Useless. Hung up. Dad on living room floor, gasping: "...Sorry. Should've earned more... you suffered pointlessly." Knife-twist. No, my fault. Stuck inside. "I'll check hospitals again." Knew nowhere taking. No meds, no one giving even if. Still, had to move. If I didn't for Dad, he'd slip away. Hours? Sun set, neighborhood dark, doors locked; returned empty-handed. Dad eyed me, long exhale: "...Love you, son." Then no more. Mom called his name dozens times. Voice hoarse, still. Then stopped. I stood still. No rush to sob, no CPR. Deep in head: No. No no no no no. What had I done all this time? Dumb shitty answer rising—I cut the thought.
Soon after, Mom collapsed. Barely ate, sipped water sparingly, nightly coughs and delirium. "This time... hospital possible...? Hold on a bit... it'll get better, right...?" Words stabbed, twisted guts. "Mom, situation now..." "Still... ask around..." She knew the state exactly. Knew post-Dad I went silent. Probably just wanted my voice. Breath ragged, she reached, gripped my hand. "Sorry. Mom going first, sorry... But... live to the end. Love you." Last words. Couldn't grip back proper. Stared at our hands as hers cooled. Covered parents with blankets, closed their eyes, shut door. Days, no contacts. None left anyway. House held only me now.
Time passed, smells rose. Sickly sweet through door cracks, foulness, something rotting from floor-wall gap. Decay starting. Mind blanked. Who to call? Who'd come? Knew: no one. High school book flashed—funeral director's essay. Opened door. Parents still somewhat human, eyes closed. Pulled least-worn clothes: faded suit, Mom's favored reformed hanbok. Dressed Dad, combed hair, waxed remnants neat. Combed Mom's, pinned hairpin she once smiled fit her. New corpse reek mixed old perfume, house scent. Gut wrenched. Now what. Dragged big blankets, wrapped each, plastic-lined, taped/knotted tight. Respect or sin? Blurred. Had to. Bury them. I'll handle their end. Near dawn, dragged downstairs. No one emerged. Peepers'd pretend not see. Past complex, abandoned redevelopment lot: rusted fence, bent rebar, broken blocks. Picked exposed dirt. Hoe, old spade from toolbox—not shovel. Hard. Rocks/roots snagged. No clue depth. Knees buckled, palms bled. Dug. Till deep enough for two, self-convinced. Eased them in. Breath caught—like pushing them myself. "Sorry... forgive me..." Ear-ringing or my mouth? Dirt covered. Face gone, shoveled faster. Hands shook. Topped small stones/broken blocks. Trash-pile grave. Stood long, did nothing, turned. Walking back, odd thought: Not me burying them. They left me here.
Entered: living room empty. Parents' echo gone, new void. Collapsed there. Guilt flooded. Did I kill them? Guilt/sin mashed, stone on chest. Somehow, a laugh escaped.
Then emotions fused. Grief. Guilt. Self-loathing. Survival desire. Me whining to flee home, protected no one. Independence cash, parents' bank—worthless paper. Bought no beds, meds, essentials. Blamable: gov, system, disease, era, disaster, luck. But after morgue chill, friend's air, ration blood/dust, burial-night soil—all blame hollowed. Cursing changes zilch. Quit blaming others. All my fault. Vowed: Embrace grief/guilt, live. Seen/lost it all? Survive end—shameful logic. Friends'/acquaintances' pointless deaths, parents' helpless ones fueled my live-urge. Ugly selfishness. Knew, clung anyway.
So I survived. Post-burial days blur. How hid, stole, ignored—fragments. One clear: I fought to live till end. ...And someday, final moment, realized my end no different from theirs. Goosebumps head-to-toe. Plummeting plunge. Face smashing floor, body crumpling. Breathless agony. World crushing me. There, all blacked out. ...Then, light.