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  “Anyway.”

  My answer must’ve worked—Gon didn’t react much. He gazed into the distance and lowered his voice. “I mean, you and me, maybe someday, we might become people we never imagined we’d be.”

  “Probably. For better or worse. That’s life.”

  “Just when I thought you were okay, you had to go and sound like a dick again. We’ve both lived a same number of years, you know.”

  “It’s the same number of years, not a.”

  “Shut up.” Gon pretended to hit me. “Strangely enough, I don’t feel like looking at those old magazines anymore. It’s no fun. It reminds me of how everything beautiful will fade eventually. Not that a dumb-ass like you would understand.”

  “If you say you lost interest in Brooke Shields, maybe I can recommend another book that could help you.”

  “What is it?” he asked nonchalantly.

  I suggested The Art of Loving by a foreign author.* He looked at the title and wore a strange smile. He brought it back a few days later, telling me to cut the bullshit, but I thought the recommendation still made sense.

  43

  The days were slipping by and it was already early May. The unfamiliarity of a new semester fades away by this time. People say that May is the queen of seasons, but I don’t quite agree. The hardest job is transitioning from winter to spring. Frozen ground melting to let sprouts shoot up, colorful flowers blossoming from each dead branch. That’s what tough looks like. As for summer, it simply needs to take a couple more steps forward using the momentum of spring. That’s why I think May is the laziest of all the months. A month that’s overrated. And May was the month that always reminded me I was different from the rest of the world. Everything on the earth glittered, vibrantly. Only me and my bedridden Mom were stiff and gray, like an eternal January.

  I was able to open the bookstore only after school, and naturally, sales were slow. I remembered Granny used to say, “If business isn’t good, just shut it down.” I swept the dust and mopped the floor every day, but for some reason, the space Granny and Mom had left behind seemed to wear down by the day. How much longer would I be able to handle this void?

  One day while I was tidying up, I dropped a dozen books I was carrying, cutting my fingertip. It was not something that often happened in a damp used-book store. I just got unlucky because the book happened to be an encyclopedia with thick, hard paper. Absently, I watched the drops of blood dripping down on the floor like sealing wax.

  “Dude. You’re bleeding.”

  It was Gon. I hadn’t even heard him come in, but he was already next to me. “Doesn’t it hurt?” Eyes widened, Gon quickly grabbed a tissue and handed it to me.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Bullshit. If it bleeds, it hurts. Are you really an idiot?” He sounded angry. The cut must’ve been deeper than I’d thought. The tissue was already soaked red. Gon rolled up another tissue and grabbed my hand. I could feel the pulse from my fingers, beating hard from his tight grip. He put pressure on the cut until the bleeding stopped. “Don’t you know how to take care of yourself?” He raised his voice.

  “It hurt, but it was manageable.”

  “You were gushing blood, you call that manageable? You really are a robot, aren’t you? That’s why you just stood there, huh? Did nothing when your mom and grandma dropped down in front of you. Because you’re a robot. You idiot, it didn’t even occur to you that they were hurt, that you should’ve stopped him, that you should’ve been angry. Because you don’t feel anything.”

  “You’re right. The doctors said I was born this way.”

  Psychopath. That was what kids had called me since elementary school. Mom and Granny would go ballistic over it, but to some extent, I thought they had a point. Maybe I really was a psychopath. I wouldn’t feel guilty or confused, even if I hurt or killed somebody. I was born this way.

  “Born this way?” Gon said. “That’s the shittiest thing people say.”

  44

  A few days later, Gon came to the bookstore holding a clear plastic container. Inside was a butterfly he had somehow gotten his hands on. The box was too small for the butterfly, so it kept banging the sides of the container.

  “What is this?”

  “Empathy training,” Gon said, straight-faced, not even the slightest grin to be seen. So this meant he was serious. He carefully put his hand inside the box and grabbed hold of the butterfly. Its petal-thin wings caught in his hand, struggling helplessly. “How do you think it feels?” Gon asked.

  “Like it’ll want to move,” I said.

  Gon took out the butterfly and, holding each wing with each hand, started stretching them out little by little. The butterfly’s feelers bent whichever way, its body writhing hard.

  “If you’re doing this to make me feel anything, you should stop it,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because the butterfly looks like it’s hurting.”

  “How do you know? It doesn’t hurt you.”

  “It hurts when someone pulls on your arms. I know it from experience.”

  Gon didn’t stop. The butterfly struggled even harder. Gon was grasping its wings, but he looked away.

  “The butterfly looks like it’s hurting? That’s not enough.”

  “Then?”

  “You should feel like you’re also hurting.”

  “Why? I’m not the butterfly.”

  “Okay. Let’s keep going until you really feel something.”

  Gon stretched the wings farther apart, his eyes still looking elsewhere.

  “Stop. It’s wrong to mess with living things.”

  “Don’t give me some shit you’ve read in a textbook. I said I’ll let go of this if you really feel something.”

  Just then, one wing ripped. Gon let out a short, sharp breath. The butterfly fluttered its remaining wing in vain, spinning on the spot.

  “You don’t feel sorry for it?” Gon asked, fuming.

  “It looks uncomfortable.”

  “No, not uncomfortable, I asked if you feel sorry, goddammit.”

  “Cut it out.”

  “No.” Gon hastily reached for something in his pocket. It was a sewing needle. He held it close to the butterfly, which was still spinning on the floor.

  “What are you doing?”

  “See for yourself.”

  “Stop.”

  “Don’t you take your eyes off it. Or I’ll trash this place. You hear me?”

  I didn’t want my bookstore to be trashed, and I knew Gon was more than capable of making good on his threats. He stood poised over the butterfly as if he were a high priest before a ritual. In a flash, the needle pierced its body. It struggled in silence, desperately flapping as hard as it could.

  Gon glowered at me. Then he gritted his teeth, tearing off the remaining wing. It wasn’t me but Gon whose expression had changed. His eyebrows were visibly twitching, and he was biting down hard on his lip, which moments ago had been curled into a sneer.

  “How about now? Feel anything? Still just uncomfortable? Is that all you got?” he said, his voice cracking.

  “Now I think it hurts, very much. But you look uncomfortable.”

  “Of course, I don’t like this kind of stuff. I’d rather kill it in one go, nice and clean. I fucking hate giving slow torture.”

  “Then why do this. I can’t give you what you want anyway.”

  “Shut up, asshole.”

  Gon’s face was contorted. Just like on the day when he kept stomping me down at the incinerator. He tried to do something more to the butterfly but he couldn’t. A wingless butterfly, spinning around with a needle stuck through its body, was no longer a butterfly. The bug was expressing pain with its entire body. Thrashing back and forth, left and right, fighting for its dear life. Was it pleading with us to stop, or trying its very best to survive? It must be pure instinct. Not emotion, but instinct triggered by the senses.

  “Fuck it. I quit!”

  Thump, thump, thump. Gon hurled t
he butterfly to the floor and stomped on it with all his might.

  45

  A small dot was left on the spot where the butterfly had been. I hoped it’d gone to a safer place. And I wished that I could’ve helped it avoid such discomfort.

  I think what happened that day with the butterfly was kind of like a staring contest. A simple game. If you close your eyes first, you lose. I always won in these kinds of games. Other people struggled to keep their eyes open, when I just didn’t know how to close my eyes in the first place.

  It had been days since Gon last visited me. Why was he angry at me after doing such a thing to the butterfly? Because I didn’t react? Because I didn’t stop him? Or was he mad at himself for doing what he did? There was only one person I could ask about these questions.

  * * *

  Dr. Shim always tried his best to answer my questions. He was also the only one who listened to me talk about my special relationship with Gon without any prejudice.

  “Will I live like this my entire life, feeling nothing at all?” I asked after slurping down a bowl of udon. Dr. Shim bought me meals occasionally, and he seemed to like noodles. It was either bread or noodles. He swallowed the remaining pickled radish in his mouth and wiped his lips.

  “That’s a hard question. But I’ll say this, the fact that you asked that question in the first place is in itself a big step. So let’s keep trying.”

  “Trying what? You said there was an inherent problem with my brain. Mom fed me almonds every day, but it didn’t work.”

  “Well, instead of eating almonds, I was thinking external stimulation might be worth a try. The human brain is actually dumber than you think it is.”

  Dr. Shim said if I kept making up emotions, even if they were fake, my brain’s little almonds might perceive them as real, which might affect the size or activity of my amygdalae. Then maybe I would be able to read other people’s emotions a little easier.

  “My brain has been still for the last fifteen years. How can it suddenly change now?”

  “Let me give you an example. A person who has no talent for skating will probably not become the best skater even after practicing for months. A tone-deaf person won’t ever sing a perfect aria and get applause either. But with practice, you can at least stumble a step forward on the ice or manage to sing a measure of a song. That’s what practice can offer—miracles and also limitations.”

  I slowly nodded. I understood him but I wasn’t convinced. Could that work even for me?

  “When did you start asking yourself these questions?” he asked.

  “A couple days ago.”

  “Was there a specific reason or incident?”

  “Well, no, I was thinking, like I hadn’t watched a movie that everybody else had watched. Of course I don’t mind, but if I watched that movie, then I’d have a few more things to talk about with people.”

  “What an improvement! What you just said implies your willingness to communicate with others.”

  “Maybe it’s a puberty thing.”

  Dr. Shim laughed.

  “While you’re at it, practice your emotions with something fun. You’re basically a blank canvas. Better to fill it up with good things rather than bad things.”

  “I’ll try. I don’t know how but it’s better to try than do nothing.”

  “It’s not always great when you understand emotions that you were once unaware of. Emotions are tricky business. You’ll suddenly see the world in a completely new light. Every little thing around you might feel like sharp weapons. A subtle expression or a few words could sting you. Think of a rock on the street. It doesn’t feel anything, and it never gets hurt either. A rock has no idea when people are kicking it. But imagine if it felt how many times it got kicked, stomped on, rolled, and worn down every day, how would it cope? I’m not sure if this makes any sense to you . . . what I’m trying to say is . . .”

  “Oh, I understand. Mom used to tell me similar things. Though I know she was just trying to make me feel better. She was a very smart person, you know.”

  “Most moms are smart.” Dr. Shim smiled.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I asked after a beat.

  “Of course. What do you want to know about?”

  “Human relationships? I guess.”

  Dr. Shim burst into laughter. He drew up his chair and put his arms on the table. First, I told him about the butterfly incident. As my story went on, Dr. Shim clenched his fists. But once I finished, his expression softened.

  “So what do you want to know exactly? Why he reacted that way? Or what he must have felt?”

  “Well, both, I guess.”

  Dr. Shim nodded.

  “It sounds like Gon wants to be friends with you.”

  “Friends,” I repeated without meaning anything. “Do you tear up a butterfly if you want to become friends?”

  “No, of course not,” he said, clasping his hands, “but it seems that killing the butterfly in front of you has really hurt his pride.”

  “Why would he feel his pride was hurt? He’s the one who killed it.”

  Dr. Shim let out a deep sigh. I quickly added, “I know it’s not easy to help me understand.”

  “No, I was actually thinking about how I could put this more simply. So, it’s like this. Gon is very interested in you. He wants to get to know you, and he wants to feel what you feel. But after hearing your story, it seems like he was always the one initiating contact between you two. How about you initiate once in a while?”

  “How?”

  “There are a hundred answers to one question in this world. So it’s hard for me to give you a correct answer. And the world is even more of a puzzle at your age, when you have to search for answers yourself. But if you still want my advice, let me answer by asking you this: What did Gon do most often to get close to you?”

  “Hit me.”

  Dr. Shim shrugged. “Sorry, I forgot. Let’s leave that one out. What’s the next thing he did most often?”

  “Uhm . . .” I thought for a while. “He visited me.”

  Dr. Shim tapped the table and nodded. “It seems you’ve found one answer.”

  46

  Gon’s housekeeper peeled an apple for me while I waited. A plump woman, she had soft eyes and a mouth that made her look like she was smiling even when she wasn’t. She managed to peel the apple in one long, unbroken spiral. I sat waiting at a dining table in a stranger’s apartment, with the apple before me. By the time the apple turned brown, Gon had arrived. He seemed surprised to see me, but the housekeeper struck up a conversation to make things less awkward.

  “Welcome home, Gon. Your friend’s here to see you. He’s been waiting for half an hour. Your father says he’ll be home late. Did you eat?”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you,” Gon said, wearing an expression I had never seen him wear before. His voice was polite, low and calm. But as soon as she disappeared, Gon was back to his usual, gruff self.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “Nothing, I just came by to see you.”

  Gon pouted. The housekeeper brought two bowls of hot noodle soup. He must’ve been starving actually, since he began to noisily slurp the noodles at once.

  “She comes here twice a week. I like her. At least it’s more comfortable having her around than that guy who calls himself my dad,” Gon muttered. It seemed he still wasn’t getting along with his dad. Their apartment was far away from the school. A clean, luxurious penthouse that overlooked the Han River and almost every landmark in Seoul. But Gon said he didn’t feel like he was living that high up.

  It had been a long time since Gon and his dad last talked. Professor Yun exhausted all his energy in the beginning, trying to connect with Gon, and had soon given up. His classes and seminars gave him a good excuse to spend most of his time outside of the house, and so the gap between father and son remained unbridged.

  “That guy . . . never asked me what my life was like before. Or what I’d been through in juvie, or wh
at kind of kids I hung out with. Never asked what I longed for or what made me despair . . . Do you know the first thing he did after we met? He put me into some stuck-up school in Gangnam. I guess he thought I would behave well there, study hard, and go to a good college. But on my first day, I realized it was not the place for a fuckup like me. I didn’t belong there. It was written on the faces of every kid and teacher. So I raised hell. Of course the school wasn’t having it. They kicked me out after just a few days,” he snorted.

  “Then that guy somehow managed to transfer me to our school. At least it’s a decent humanities school, so he saved face. But basically, all he plans is to pour concrete over my life and construct a new building of his own design. But I’m not that kind of a person . . .” Gon stared down at the floor. “I’m not his son. I’m just some junk that came his way by accident. That’s why he didn’t let me see that woman before she died . . .”

  * * *

  Mom. Whenever the word came up, Gon lapsed into a sudden silence. Whether it was mentioned in a book or movie or by a passing pedestrian, Gon would stop talking as if he were mute.

  Gon remembered only one thing about his mother: her warm and tender hands. He couldn’t picture her face, but he could still remember the moist, soft texture of her hands. He remembered holding those hands to do shadow plays under warm sunlight.

  Whenever life pulled brutal pranks on him, Gon would think that life was like having your mom hold your hands one moment, warm and safe, then suddenly drop them with no explanation. No matter how hard he tried to grab hold, he was always abandoned in the end.

  “Between you and me, who do you think is more miserable? You, who had and lost a mom, or me, who suddenly met a mom I didn’t even remember, only to have her die right after.”

  I didn’t know the answer. Gon lowered his head for a while before he said, “Do you know why I kept coming to see you?”

  “No.”

  “Two reasons. For one, you didn’t judge me the way other kids do, thanks to your special brain. Though, it’s also thanks to that special brain, I killed a butterfly for nothing. My second reason is . . .” He grinned a little before he continued. “I wanted to ask you something. But fuck, I couldn’t bring myself to ask . . .”