Bloody Seoul by Sonia Patel

Author:Sonia Patel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cinco Puntos Press
Published: 2019-01-16T16:00:00+00:00

20.

I rouse from sleep aware that the sheets feel softer. The light trickles in from my window, a blurry delicate gold. I stretch my limbs, then curl up with the covers to soak up the warmth and comfort. The clock reads 7:00 a.m., but time seems gentle and unhurried, like rolling mist. I yawn big, rub my knuckles into my eyes and wait for a second, holding my breath. No raging rivers. No dead Ha-na. No dead Mom.

Maybe those nightmares are over?

I exhale, cautious, tap my nightstand three times, then push the duvet back. More confident, I swing my feet off the bed, jump up, and head to the living room with only the pleasant flashes and echoes of hanging out with my boys yesterday evening. We spent almost six hours at the noraebang mostly singing but also joking, at each other’s expense of course. Talking about this and that, nothing in particular. All without a drop of soju, whiskey, or beer. All without a single word about school, our gang stuff, or Ha-na. All without a mention about my dad and his machete. Yeah, I told them about it, and we all agreed that what my dad did was beyond brutal, so terrible in fact that it couldn’t be real. We decided that what I’d seen was actually a horror film disguised as a gangster action film that my dad happened to star in. It’s possible. I mean my mom starred in those kinds of films. I’ve seen them. We’ve all seen them.

I count the glowing, warm sun rays that stream in from the windows and sliding glass door. Five. They summon me out. Who am I to disregard their luminous call?

A big yawn and stretch as I ease onto the balcony, looking forward to a peaceful view of Seoul as it wakes up. But the patio’s a mess. My heart scrambles as I tiptoe around soju bottles and half-full beer glasses strewn in an obstacle course on the tiles. There’s an empty bottle of Dad’s premium Irish whiskey on the table. An overflowing ashtray that looks like a basket of french fries. A few bowls of spicy peanuts and smoky bacon chips. I pop a chip in my mouth, perfect salty crunch, then I have to chomp down on exactly two more.

I brush the crumbs off the loveseat cushion and plop down. The sunlight drenches my face, assuaging me. My heart beat slows. The gorgeous panorama calls to me, but my dad’s open cigarette tin catches my eye. There’s one more Marlboro. I reach for it, only because I want to crush it into nothing more than a bunch of grains. My fingers stop short when I see the folded handkerchief next to the tin. My hand changes course, and I lift the soft white cloth. Immediately I recognize its green, single thread border—Mom’s handiwork.

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