The Nude

Woo-yeon rested his forehead in his palm and shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. It felt as if filth had spilled across some part that should have remained pure and untouched. Even love had to be forced into the role of a decorative ornament in a transaction before the ache inside him could finally be eased. His condition had been the same as always, but now the strength to hide the disgust was gone. Sadly, he no longer had the power to keep it buried.

Woo-yeon rose quietly from his seat.

“I understand. I’ll think about it and give you an answer later… Congratulations on your Broadway debut.”

He turned away from the stream of words he was still trying to stop and stepped out into the hallway. The situation was too pitiful to endure, having to hear words like that. Something burned inside his chest. He hurried down to the first floor and flagged a taxi. Even the cold wind might clear his head.

“Take me to the nearest spot where I can feel the wind… the Han River Bridge closest to here, or Mapo Bridge.”

“Senior! Senior! You’re not feeling well—wait a moment!”

Chief Choi rushed after him, but Woo-yeon waved him off with a hand. He was sick of the dangling necklaces, the heavy shackles at his ankles, and the arrows of stares that pinned him from behind. He just wanted to be alone.

He discovered the bracelet on his arm and the anklet on his ankle in the middle of Mapo Bridge. Woo-yeon ripped them off roughly and hurled them into the river. The pain now felt like the thread of his sanity was snapping.

If he refused the proposal?

A soft groan slipped out. Woo-yeon wanted to go back to school so badly, but he could not be sure re-admission would be granted. Age was a factor, and he had dropped out before. On top of his conviction or passion for the priesthood, the situation simply did not favor it. He might end up leaving empty-handed without ever entering.

If he accepted the proposal?

He had never ruled out marriage. From childhood he had envied families packed with love. He had wondered what kind of woman would become his wife. A little of the trembling in his chest at the mere sight of her had been intriguing. How mysterious his tiny lives, his children, would be—lives that would never feel as lonely as he had. They would grow strong, overflowing with love. He had even dreamed of driving a camper van on family trips and staying in a small monastery where he could feel God’s hand reaching every corner of the world.

But in this marriage, could any of that be possible? He did not even want to touch Hyun-mi.

Was the company, its tens of thousands of employees and their families, more important to his life and happiness than anything else?

…He knew nothing.

Woo-yeon gripped the cold railing and closed his eyes. The time to return was drawing near.

In truth, the rational conclusion had been decided the moment the will was made public. There had been no other suitable choice except marriage to Hyun-mi, and no unexpected variables had appeared until the end. He simply had to accept it now and convince himself. If he could not be convinced, he would have to brainwash himself into accepting it.

“…Huu.”

He shook his head and stared back at the path he had come. Cars whipped past beside him in the cold wind, and the end of the bridge felt infinitely far.

The moment he turned back down this road, he could not keep repeating the same thoughts.

The small mercy was that, unlike Hyun-mi, he had no one he genuinely loved. Had such a person existed, he would never have been able to make the same choice Hyun-mi had made.

If he had loved someone truly, given up everything, and chosen love alone, would it not have been less miserable? Less painful? Happier?

…He still could not say. Woo-yeon finally let out a long, broken laugh.

He had never experienced a love that burned like fire. He had guarded against it, and his personality made such feelings seem impossible. His desire and loneliness were never small, but his emotions and instincts had always obeyed reason completely.

And that reason was telling him, now: “Go back. Accept the path that has been given to you.”

But instead of turning around, Woo-yeon stayed in front of the railing for a long time. The river wind had hurt far more than he expected.

“…Hmm?”

How much time had passed? Woo-yeon sensed something hidden in the wind. While the cold air whipped his whole body, a sharp needle-like prick or a small claw scratching beneath his skin appeared. Maybe he was just too tired. He slapped his cheeks with his hands. The sting was almost gone, but the strange feeling kept growing. Frowning, he turned his head.

Aha. At last he knew the cause. There stood a small girl in school uniform, clutching a sketchbook. The moment their eyes met, she flinched and began backing away in terror.

What was she doing now? Was she drawing him?

Why? Why right now? Why here? Why him?

Woo-yeon’s irritation had reached its peak and he could no longer hide the expression on his face.

Why was the girl skipping school to come all the way here just to watch someone suffer? What was she doodling? Did his face look that entertaining?

The urge to snatch the sketchbook and tear his own drawing to shreds seized him. The child fled in terror so suddenly she dropped the notebook. She stood there, face drained of color, unable to pick it up and trembling violently.

Was his expression really that ugly? Why was she so scared?

Startled, Woo-yeon stepped closer but held out his hand to calm her. The girl stopped her retreat and he finally bent to pick up the sketchbook. The child’s terrified face as she covered her mouth with both hands was visible, but he forced it open anyway.

For a moment, the things crowding his mind vanished into white light.

#3. The Drawing That Caused Hatred

Drawing had always been good. From childhood he had known how to copy objects exactly. Even without attending art academy, people often praised his compositions and how well he captured forms. He was also constantly called bold and sensual. The process of observing things or people and capturing their essence had been especially fun.

While watching his friends, he realized one day that words spoken with the mouth and movements of the body were completely different. The tiny wrinkles at the corners of the eyes, the tremor of eyebrows, the shifting of pupils, the subtle movements at the lips, the way fingers and hands moved, the angle of shoulders, the tilt of the body, the sway of legs—by combining those small clues he could read what the body was saying without difficulty. They usually revealed the person’s true inner feelings. It had been interesting.

He should have stopped there. But the mistake had been going just a little further. The more he focused, the more strange phenomena began to appear.

The scene in front of him would detach from reality and float upward like something dissolving in a mist. The place looked familiar, the friends he knew, yet it felt as if he had fallen into another world.

Conversely, the outlines and colors of objects would sometimes grow so sharp that his eyes hurt. Colors would bubble and brighten like boiling, and the edges of things would become razor-like. Droplets of water sliding down a cup, fuzzy pills clinging like dew on an old sweater sleeve, sweat beads seeping from a friend’s face, fine hairs on a cheek, shadows on eyebrows, and floating dust particles in sunlight—all of it would imprint so vividly that his eyes would sting.

Click.

At that instant the scene would slam into his brain like a photograph.

His mind began stacking these stored photos one after another. Later he learned that most people had no such memory. It was not something to be proud of; it was terrifying.

Se-kyeong would draw by recalling the stored scenes. He thought everyone would be amazed and pleased by how exactly he could replicate them. But the pitiful effort always ended in failure. The friends who pretended to draw would suddenly accuse him of lying. They claimed the picture was tracing.

Yet Se-kyeong could never prove it. When friends surrounded him shouting “Draw it right now! Draw it in front of our eyes!” his vision would turn white and he could not move a single finger.

All he could do was go home, cry buckets, and tear apart the portraits he had made of his lying friends in rage. He had even cut them with scissors when he was too angry. The guilt that came with destroying bad things did not stop him; the tightness in his chest felt a little looser. The torn drawings gradually became portraits of his mother, father, and the teacher he had hated most.

With his descriptive skills improving, Se-kyeong found a higher-level method. Instead of carving the portrait himself, he would tear or cut it in his head and then transfer the result onto paper. The new revenge felt less guilty and somehow more permanent and refined.

“You’re crazy! What the hell is wrong with your mind?!”

Mother screamed at the top of her lungs when she discovered the hidden pile of sketchbooks.

“What is this drawing?! Did you cut it with the scissors you use on your mother and father’s photos? Are you even a human being?!”

“No, Mom. I didn’t cut it. I didn’t tear it either. It just… when I imagine it this way and that in my head, it looks like this…”

“That’s a hallucination!”

Another scream tore from Mother’s throat as Se-kyeong’s words were cut short.

“Ah, hallucination? I’m going to die from you. Not only did you torment me until now, now you’re a schizophrenic? What kind of things are you doing! What kind of things! What am I going to do?!”

“Schizophrenic?”

“Seeing things that aren’t there clearly, and normal things looking twisted—that’s hallucination! Those are unmistakable schizophrenic symptoms! Soon you’ll start hearing strange voices, take a knife, cut your own ears, and kill others!”

Mother ripped the drawing apart while shouting with a sharp edge in her voice.

“Se-kyeong, stop drawing right now! There are some crazy people who draw until they go insane! Do you want to end up in a mental hospital too? If you keep drawing, I’ll cut your mouth and nose off!”