The Boy with a Womb
My hospital life after becoming the boy with a womb wasn't anything special. With nothing to do but fiddle with my smartphone, I naturally fell into a smartphone trance.
At first, I searched for articles about myself. It seemed I'd been quite the hot topic until recently—plenty of pieces popped up. But most didn't stray far from the first one Ham Ye-jin had shown me. The only differences were interviews with old classmates from my university days. And those were packed with trash-talking me.
People called me arrogant and selfish, said I tossed out offensive comments without a care, acted like I hated women, went out of my way to insult people during critiques. That kind of crap.
There were articles about my novels too. Specifically, my debut and signature work, The Boy's Womb. Maybe I should take a moment to talk about it.
The Boy's Womb was the story of a boy who endured constant abuse from his mother, growing up to encounter various women. It wasn't some heartwarming tale of healing wounds. The boy kept getting hurt by these women and pressed on, scarred as ever. What he truly craved was the warm embrace of a mother's arms.
But the women demanded things from him—money, love, sex. The moment he failed to satisfy them, they discarded him. And so the boy realizes: what he needed wasn't his mother's womb after all. No matter how desperately he longed for it, it could never be filled.
Instead of filling it, the boy chooses to empty himself. He voids his greed, desires, lust, materialism—all of it. Then he meets his mother again. After abandoning him, she'd found success, marrying a kind, hardworking man. Only then does she recognize her sins, realizing the horrors she'd inflicted on her son.
Her new husband is so noble and patient that he welcomes his wife's child from her previous marriage. To atone, the mother searches for the boy and reunites with him. But it's too late. He's emptied himself so thoroughly that what's left isn't a boy anymore—not a child who needs a mother.
The boy leaves his tearful, apologizing mother behind and seeks out the women he'd known. Some apologize; others resent him. He realizes anew: they were all his mothers. The women have grown into adults, but the boy who emptied everything remains a boy forever, harboring no desires left to grow from. He can't even envy them anymore—he'd already cast that aside too.
In the end, the boy rips open his belly and fashions a womb there. Unembraced by anyone, he embraces himself. Curling up like a fetus, he slowly awaits death.
I'd written it like piecing together an idea I'd mulled over since my college days. The Boy's Womb won top prize in a decent publishing contest, launching my career. It sold well, even cracking the bestseller list briefly. Back then, I drew big attention from the literary world and the public alike—which isn't saying much, since readers of modern literature like that are few and far between.
Anyway, that attention was turning into poison now. Journalists cited my novel to point out its misogynistic tendencies.
Ha, what a joke. I'd never called it misogyny. It was justified hatred. If women were sinners, their first sin was being born female. The byline on this article screamed female name too. Was that why the intelligence was so low—explaining this garbage?
Forcing down my disgust, I scrolled to the end. And there it was:
I nearly hurled the phone across the room but held back. Money was tight enough without shelling out for a new one.
Divine punishment? Heaven's wrath? What a pathetic word. If God really existed, he wouldn't have made me like this from the start. With orphanages in the world, how could anyone believe in a fucking god? My very existence proved there was none.
Of course, it was ironic coming from someone who'd cursed and begged God just days ago. But now, all I wanted was to deny any god outright.
After that, I spiraled into egosurfing like a paranoid freak, scouring everything about myself—even SNS platforms I knew. The internet was viler and more repulsive than I'd imagined. Digging deeper, sexual harassment was baseline, laced with every slur and insult imaginable. Half the terms I didn't even get at first, so I looked them up. Shocking didn't cover it.
The content was lowbrow and nauseating across the board, but the worst were the ones trashing my novels, calling them trash. Mockery about The Boy's Womb giving me what I craved, labeling it kindling from my own trauma, tying it to being abandoned by my parents.
Stop. That's not for scum like you to judge.
Hearing my writing insulted hurt worse than the personal attacks. Most of those spewing hate probably hadn't even read it. But that meant some had—and still said it. Denying my novels was denying my life. I'd already lost the biggest part of me; losing this left nothing.
More egosurfing unearthed slurs about the disease too.
Switching sites ramped up the sexual harassment and weird rants.
In one day, I'd combed half the internet. Not a single ally in sight. The whole world seemed arrayed against me. And this story had spread far and wide. Plus, my hair was now stark white. Step outside, and everyone would know it was me.
Chills ran down my spine. Could I even live normally in this country anymore? Maybe I was overthinking it too soon. But staring at this poison all day made negativity inevitable. Garbage in, garbage out.
I set the phone down. First thing outside: dye this hair. Ham Ye-jin had mentioned it too, so it should be doable.
But the next day's doctor visit crushed that.
"Here are the precautions to follow after discharge."
The handout wasn't too long—two pages tops? Nothing major: my body was frailer than expected, prone to minor ailments, so take care. Basic stuff.
But the last line made me ask, "Doc, what's this about no dyeing?"
"Dye's more toxic than you'd think. Maybe years from now when your body's stabilized, but now? Allergy risk could make you seriously ill."
"But the NIS said dyeing was fine…!"
"Previous cases in Korea handled it, but your constitution's too weak. Can't risk it."
"So I wander around with this hair while the whole country knows me?"
"For now… wig or hat to cover. Or shave it all—though…"
Stress piled on. Fine, hit a salon first and buzz this mess. No point keeping it.
But the doctor continued, plunging me into despair. "Even shaved, your condition means it'll grow back fast. It's already over 10cm since admission. Hormonal imbalance, probably—no fix for now."
"What… did you say?"