The Bad Life

Author: nicotine

I am dreaming.

The back of my neck felt warm. It was as if a gentle warmth enveloped me, like lying with my head resting on someone’s lap. I opened my eyes. A glossy, expensive tie came into view, along with a wrinkled shirt, a slender and straight neck rising above the collar, and above an elegant, sharp jaw, white teeth gleamed through the gap of a smiling, handsome pair of lips. Moving up past the straight bridge of the nose, familiar eyes were sparkling.

It was Jerome. Twenty-year-old Jerome. He was wearing his boarding school uniform. Our eyes met. Seeing him again after growing older, his eyes looked almost comically youthful. Back then, those eyes had seemed consumed by an irreversible madness. But now, meeting young Jerome again in my older age, that madness felt meaningless. The madness of twenty-year-old Jerome was no different from the cruelty of a child tearing the legs off a grasshopper. To Jerome, I was nothing more than a grasshopper he’d caught by chance in a field.

Suddenly, I realized Jerome was stroking my hair. There was no malice in his touch. Had we ever been this peaceful? From the moment we met, I had sensed a strange desire in Jerome, and because of that, I kept my distance from him. Even in dreams, there had never been a moment where I lay with my head on his lap, gazing deeply into each other’s eyes. Yet now, we were looking at each other as if we were the closest of friends, affectionate brothers, or loving partners. The urge to speak to him welled up within me.

I asked.

It was a question that slipped out carelessly. We had hardly ever had such mundane conversations. Asking what time it was, complaining about a math test, suggesting we go swimming, or discussing the lunch menu… those were questions never permitted to us. Suddenly, questions surged up like a spring. As young Jerome glanced at his wristwatch to answer, I poured out more questions.

I asked.

I asked.

<Carl. Do you know where Carl is? I have something important to tell him.>

<Wait, what time did you say it was? I have to…>

Suddenly, Jerome cut me off.

Young Jerome asked, brushing my forehead.

Jerome said softly.

<Oh, Raymond. It’s too late. Carl is dead.>

I looked up at young Jerome. I was still lying with my head on his lap. I touched twenty-year-old Jerome’s cheek. My twenty-five-year-old hand cupped the soft, warm cheek of the boy. Jerome leaned his cheek into my hand. Jerome could tell Carl. I’m dreaming, and you’re twenty, so if you’re twenty, Carl must still be alive. So go tell him. You can do that. Carl is still alive. I told him.

<He’s alive. Go find him. Find him and bring him back.>

With his cheek still pressed against my hand, Jerome let out a sigh. His sighing lips still formed a smooth curve.

<Oh, come on.>

A different voice slipped from Jerome’s lips. It wasn’t young Jerome’s voice. It was…

It was the voice of Jerome, grown older like me.

With every blink, everything changed. First, it was Jerome’s eyes. The boyish eyes transformed into the arrogant eyes of a man. The soft cheeks hardened, and the pale, slender neck became tanned and sturdy, masculine. The school uniform turned into an expensive suit, and the lap I was resting on grew thicker and firmer. As the dream’s veneer peeled away, there was a cruel man stroking my hair, dragging me back into hell.

When had Jerome come here? Since when had I been lying with my head on his lap? Could I really say this wasn’t a dream? Was I still dreaming after all? But it didn’t matter either way. I know now that I’m insane. I know that in the near future, perhaps in a few days, or if I’m lucky, maybe a week, I’ll be killed.

And that’s fine. Because I brutally killed a friend, I too must pay a price just as miserable and painful. So here they are—Jerome has come. Simon has come. The judge, Acacia, they brought with them has come. Reuniting with the boys from the top floor was the foretold fate of judgment.

I withdrew my hand from the grown Jerome. He leaned down and kissed my forehead.

<You’re as disappointing now as you were back then, Raymond.>

Jerome whispered with eyes that still faintly held the trace of his twenty-year-old self.

I didn’t deny it. I didn’t want to. If Jerome decided all of this was a lie and treated me more harshly, that too would be the price I had to pay. Instead of answering, I tried to sit up, but it was futile. I only managed to twist my shoulder slightly; I had no strength to rise. It felt like all the blood in my body had drained away. There was no pain at all. It was just that my senses seemed almost gone. Only the back of my neck, resting on Jerome’s lap, felt warm.

I tried to reach out again, as I had when I touched Jerome’s cheek, but that gesture belonged to the dream—I couldn’t even move a finger. With powerless eyes, I looked at Jerome. He noticed my feeble movements but didn’t help. He found it amusing. Like watching a grasshopper, its legs torn off, writhing ridiculously on the ground, pounding the earth. I wasn’t ashamed of his gaze.

A hoarse, rasping voice hissed.

<That’s promising.>

It was Mr. Acacia’s voice. He was here too. I wanted to see Mr. Acacia, but I couldn’t move. My body felt strangely devoid of strength. It was like dreaming.

<Promising? In this state, you can’t even tell if it’s a lie or not.>

Jerome said, still playful but with a slightly biting tone. I was still struggling to move.

<Simon, what the hell have you been doing all this time?>

Simon was here too. His characteristic blunt, slow voice came through.

<…It’s a fair criticism, but this situation isn’t too far from what we intended.>

<Simon’s right.>

Mr. Acacia said with a chuckle, taking Simon’s side.

<He’s just gone a bit mad faster than we expected.>

Jerome said softly.

Mr. Acacia teased Jerome slyly. Surprisingly, Jerome didn’t get angry. He smiled softly and turned his gaze back to me. Jerome kissed my forehead again.

<I’ll fix it. Go back to sleep, Raymond. When you wake up, things will be a little better.>

He stroked my hair and, absurdly, began singing a lullaby.

<Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop… When the wind blows, the cradle will rock… When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall… And down will come baby, cradle and all…>

Even more absurdly, listening to the lullaby made me drowsy. I fell fast asleep before the lullaby even reached the chorus.

I opened my eyes as a hand shook me. This time, I opened my eyes. Or so it seemed. Jerome was squatting in front of me. I was exhausted beyond belief. My eyes were open only for a moment. I saw Jerome’s face and closed them again. I simply couldn’t keep them open. But as soon as I closed my eyes, Jerome shook me again. It was annoying, but I didn’t have the strength to push him away. I barely opened my eyes again, and Jerome grinned brightly.

<It’s morning already, Raymond. Are you going to sleep all day?>

<…>

Jerome grabbed my arm and forcefully pulled me up. He was startlingly strong. But the moment he let go of my arm, I collapsed like a rag doll. Lying on the mattress, I blinked faintly and closed my eyes again. Just getting up was exhausting and draining. I wanted to see Simon. I wanted to fall asleep in Simon’s arms. Why couldn’t I? Suddenly, the unfairness of it all made me furious. I was Simon’s lover. Jerome had no right to treat me like this.

Jerome shook me again, trying to wake me. I frowned and turned my head. Immediately, an eerily cold hand grabbed my cheek and jaw. It was gentle, but so cold it felt like it snapped me awake. I opened my eyes, and Jerome was looking down at me with a radiant smile. His face was close.

<It’s morning, Raymond.>

Jerome slid his arm behind my neck and slowly lifted my upper body. Unlike usual, his touch was remarkably tender. Leaning on his arm, I sat up and looked around.

It was still that log cabin. Morning sunlight poured through the large, open window frame without glass. There was no one else. Just Jerome and me. He sat me up and waited for a moment. Only after confirming I could sit on my own did he let go.

I sat there blankly, staring at Jerome. He pulled my hand and placed something in it. It took me a few minutes to figure out what it was. It had been so long since I’d seen one.

It was a toothbrush. Holding the toothbrush, I stared blankly at Jerome.

For some reason, Jerome was beaming with excitement as he squeezed toothpaste onto the brush. I just stared at him, holding the toothbrush. Growing impatient, he pulled my arm like he was teaching a child and put the toothbrush in my mouth.

<…>

I stood still with the toothbrush in my mouth.

<…>

<…>

Jerome squatted in front of me and began moving his clenched fist up and down.

I stared at Jerome’s bizarre antics for a while before finally realizing he was mimicking brushing his teeth. I clumsily rubbed the toothbrush against my teeth. The toothpaste squished, spreading a minty scent through my mouth. Jerome stayed squatting in front of me, watching as I awkwardly scrubbed with the toothbrush.

When white foamy toothpaste dripped from my chin, he quickly reached out and wiped it away.

With foam on his fingertips, Jerome stared at me for a moment before suddenly reaching out and smearing the toothpaste foam on my cheek.

<Haha!>

<…>

<Alright, that’s enough. Let’s rinse your mouth.>

I blankly stared at the water cup held out in front of me.

<What, you can’t even rinse your mouth? Simon didn’t rinse your mouth for you, did he?>

<…>

<Hmm. Excuse me for a moment.>

Jerome, now close beside me, wiped the toothpaste foam from my lips. He kindly helped me drink the water. With his assistance, I slowly rinsed my mouth, and we finally sat across from each other to eat. Even during the meal, Jerome teased me endlessly.

Jerome laughed for a while before finally saying.

<Look, like this. This is how you hold it. Have you forgotten how to hold a spoon?>

<…>

<Good. Now, put it in the bowl… and scoop it up.>

I dipped the spoon into the stew bowl. Before I could bring it to my mouth, I spilled it all. The pants I had barely managed to put on over several minutes were now stained with stew.

Jerome didn’t even sigh. Not once, in the hours since I woke up that morning, had he sighed or shown irritation. Even when it took thirty minutes to brush my teeth, or when I sat blankly after being handed clothes, Jerome patiently, like teaching a child, demonstrated each step carefully and helped me along.

At first, I was bewildered, not understanding what was happening, but as time passed, I increasingly longed for Simon. Simon never asked me to do things I didn’t know how to do. No, he didn’t even ask me to do things I did know. He took care of me meticulously, from head to toe. Entrusting myself to his hands felt comfortable and safe. I missed Simon. Even as I reluctantly accepted the handkerchief Jerome offered, I still didn’t know what to do. I just missed Simon.

Jerome mimed wiping my pants. He wasn’t dressed in a suit today. He wore a casual t-shirt and cotton pants, like an ordinary young man. Instead of wiping my pants as he instructed, I just stared blankly at him. I wondered what Jerome wanted. Did he want me to eat, or was there some hidden motive? Maybe I needed to have sex with Jerome. I should take off my pants. Fumbling, I undid my belt buckle.

As I pulled down the zipper, Jerome tilted his head. He sat with his arms around his knees, looking at me intently.

<…>

<…>

<Let’s take it step by step. Pull up the zipper, fasten the buckle, and wipe your pants with the handkerchief.>

I was flustered. Staring blankly at Jerome, he suddenly undid his own pants’ buckle and zipper. Then he slowly pulled the zipper back up. Only after he made me repeat the action dozens of times did I finally pull up my zipper. Jerome grinned widely. Then he fastened his buckle. He made me repeat unfastening and fastening the buckle dozens of times before I finally managed to fasten it.

By then, the stew spilled on my pants had dried and couldn’t be wiped off. Instead, Jerome spread the handkerchief over my lap. He handed me the spoon again. With the same smiling face as when I woke up this morning, he said.

I barely managed to bring the spoon to my mouth a few times. I kept scooping from the stew bowl until it was empty, but most of the food ended up on Jerome’s handkerchief. The handkerchief became soaked, and my pants were completely stained with stew. Jerome didn’t get angry. He taught me how to take off my pants, had me wipe my stew-crusted legs with a wet cloth, and put on clean pants.

Next, he tried to teach me how to hold a cup and drink water, but that failed too. Jerome supported my neck and fed me the water himself. By the time we finished all this, it was afternoon. I still couldn’t figure out Jerome’s intentions. He acted nonchalantly. After clearing away the dishes, he suddenly held out his hand. I stared at it, and Jerome said.

Jerome said.

<…>

I took Jerome’s hand. It was cold. He pulled me to my feet. Standing on my own two legs felt strange. My knees felt like they would buckle. My head spun, my vision flickered black, and I was dizzy. My vision stayed dark for so long I feared I might go blind. Jerome held my hand and waited quietly for a while.

When I could see again, I silently turned my head toward him. Jerome, still holding my hand, started walking. I stepped off the blanket-covered mattress onto the cement floor. It felt strange, and when I looked down, I realized I was wearing shoes for the first time in who-knows-how-long. Jerome waited until I lifted my head. Hand in hand, we walked side by side out of the log cabin.

Sunlight poured down. I shielded my face with my arm and stepped back. I didn’t feel the heat at all, but my eyes were dazzled. Jerome waited for a moment before taking a step forward. I followed him onto the grass. The log cabin was at the edge of a forest, isolated. Jerome led me into the woods.

The surroundings were eerily quiet. There should have been sounds of construction or people’s voices, but it was silent, as if only Jerome and I existed.

Walking felt strange. The sensation of stepping on solid ground, the way my vision moved forward with each step, the swing of my arms, the bending and straightening of my knees—all of it felt unfamiliar. I focused entirely on the act of walking.

I didn’t even notice when we returned to the log cabin. We were back at the mattress. Jerome patiently taught me how to eat again, had me brush my teeth and wash my face on my own, and let me change clothes before finally allowing me to lie down on the mattress. Jerome lay down beside me. But I didn’t even care about Jerome.

We were lying down, but I still felt like I was walking. Stepping on solid ground, one step, then another, moving forward, perhaps forever forward—walking. Jerome, lying beside me, said a few goodnight words, but I barely heard them. I was endlessly imagining walking.

That night, for the first time in a long while, I had a different dream. I dreamed of walking slowly through a forest alone. I just kept walking. I could walk.

The days spent with Jerome could be counted precisely. He always woke me up in the morning. Before, I had slept all day, so suddenly being awake all day left me exhausted beyond belief. By evening, I fell asleep even if I didn’t want to.

There were many other changes. Simon didn’t come. Every night, Jerome slept beside me. He was different from Simon. Unlike Simon, who only seemed to wake when I fell asleep, Jerome stayed awake with me and slept with me. The workers stopped coming. James stopped coming. They didn’t tie me up anymore. But no one washed or fed me anymore either.

Jerome surprised me. I had never thought he was this kind of person. Like Simon, but in a very different way, Jerome was extraordinarily devoted within a perfectly normal range. He never got angry and treated me as a human being with dignity from start to finish. For example, when I needed to use the bathroom, Jerome never followed me inside. Instead, he kept explaining from behind the curtain.

It was the same when I showered. Far from washing me, he didn’t even try to look at my naked body. From behind the curtain, he explained.

He repeated the same instructions dozens of times, sometimes until his mouth went dry, explaining everything from start to finish, never leaving my side, and telling me about everything in sight.

<Raymond. It’s hot, isn’t it? You’re sweating a lot right now.>

Jerome said, wiping my drenched forehead with a handkerchief.

<…>

He handed me a water bottle.

And to teach me how to twist open the bottle’s cap, Jerome spent an hour in the sweltering heat painstakingly showing me. When I finally managed to open the cap and drink, Jerome drank the remaining half of the water himself. His cheeks, flushed red from the heat, dimpled as he smiled broadly.

<It’s really hot, huh.>

<…>

Life with Jerome was simple. As he spent time with me, he gradually adjusted the routine. In the morning, we ate first. He realized that changing clothes first was pointless since they’d get dirty during the meal. We struggled through hardships to finish breakfast, washed up, and put on clean clothes. Tying shoelaces took a while too, so by the time everything was done, it was afternoon.

Once a day, we always went for a walk. We walked without saying much. Jerome sometimes yawned as if bored, hummed to himself, or muttered things I couldn’t quite make out, but he was mostly quiet. After the walk, we ate a late lunch. Then came the most important part of the routine. Jerome had me knit.

We sat across from each other on paint cans, knitting wool in the middle of summer. The amount of effort Jerome poured into teaching me to knit was indescribable. When I finally succeeded in knitting the first row, Jerome jumped around the log cabin’s living room, cheering so loudly my ears hurt.

While knitting, we also played cat’s cradle with the leftover yarn. Cat’s cradle always ended at the first step, but Jerome persistently tried to teach me. When I got fed up and sat on my hands, the game inevitably ended.

At dusk, we had dinner. Jerome and I sat across from each other, with several electric lanterns lit, and ate. After dinner, we went through the laborious process of washing and changing clothes again.

When we lay side by side on the mattress to sleep, Jerome’s face was always smiling. What was so fun about it? He always greeted me with a smiling face.

<Goodnight, Raymond.>

It was the eleventh night with Jerome, and that night, I didn’t close my eyes after hearing his goodnight greeting. That night, for the first time, I felt a chill. After days of feeling neither heat nor cold, only Jerome’s body warmth, that night, a sudden chill overwhelmed me.

At first, I fell into a light sleep. But soon, a chill overwhelmed me, and I woke up trembling violently. It felt as if my entire body was freezing, like being thrown into a winter blizzard. No, not a blizzard, but as if I had been shoved into an industrial freezer. An artificial cold froze me to the bone. It was a vicious cold… no, a vicious chill that made me feel like I might freeze to death.

I barely managed to open my eyes. Thanks to the dim moonlight, I could just make out Jerome’s face. He was sleeping soundly right beside me. I reached out with a trembling hand. Even though I had struggled so much to open the water bottle’s cap, for some reason, in the sudden chill, a strange strength surged within me, and I tightly grabbed Jerome’s hair. Jerome lifted his eyelids as naturally as if he hadn’t been asleep at all. But the faint trace of sleepiness in his eyes confirmed he had been sleeping.

In the few seconds our eyes met, Jerome gathered his wits and grinned, showing his teeth.

<…>

Jerome asked in a low voice, tinged with amusement.

He was awake now, so it was fine. Jerome would take care of it somehow. The strength in my grip on his hair released as if it had been a lie. I dropped my arm and exhaled. The chill intensified, making my limbs tremble uncontrollably. Jerome’s eyes widened. He blinked his green eyes a few times and placed a hand on my forehead. His wide eyes narrowed.

Jerome sat up. He turned on an electric lantern. The sudden light was blinding, and I tightly closed my eyes. Jerome left me alone. I could feel his hands carefully examining my body. My body was so cold that Jerome’s usually cool fingertips felt almost lukewarm. Moreover, every part of my body he touched ached as if I were dying. I flinched, trying to avoid his hands, but it wasn’t much of a movement. There was no escaping except to shrink my neck each time Jerome touched me.

From beyond my tightly closed eyes, I heard Jerome’s voice.

<It’s a bit late, but you’re recovering quickly. There’s hope, Raymond.>

<…>

<That’s why I liked this about you since our Bluebell days. Your strong spirit and body… your resilience.>

<…>

<It’s going to be cold, but there’s no helping it. Come here. You have to endure it.>

A moment later, my body moved. Jerome was taking off my shirt. When I squirmed, trying to resist, he clicked his tongue disapprovingly with a . He pulled me, drenched in cold sweat, into an embrace. To my surprise, what touched my bare torso was another bare body. I opened my eyes to see Jerome, also shirtless, holding me close.

From behind, he wrapped his arms around my waist, pressing our bodies together without any gap. I could feel his ribcage move with each breath he exhaled. Despite trembling from the chill, feeling Jerome’s breathing calmed my body slowly. Except for the deathly cold, that is. Jerome covered us with a blanket and whispered.

<Shh, it’s okay. You can endure it. It’s okay.>

And, absurdly, Jerome began singing a lullaby again. I succumbed to the lullaby, and despite trembling from the chill, I fell asleep at some point.

For the next two days, I was sick. Jerome kept wiping my sweat and nursing me. Except when feeding me or cleaning my body, he held me, shirtless, the entire time. At one point, when I looked back at Jerome behind me, he was sweating as much as I was, his face flushed red from the heat. The difference was that I was trembling and sweating cold sweat in the chill, while Jerome was sweating hot sweat, nearly exhausted in the heat.

I barely slept. I kept waking and sleeping, and whenever I ate something, I vomited it all. Jerome cleaned up all my vomit. It was remarkable. For someone who looked like a noble, no, who actually was a noble, to take care of someone so well was strange. It was like Simon, yet different in every way. But the pain quickly erased any sense of strangeness.

To sum up the past two days, he held me, fed me, cleaned my vomit, washed me, and sang lullabies. It was painful for me, but it must have been quite painful for Jerome too. Finally, the chills subsided. They didn’t completely disappear, but when I woke up two days later in the morning, the blanket covering me suddenly felt stifling. I opened my eyes and quietly looked beyond the window frame. It wasn’t morning.

It was dawn.

Before morning, there is dawn. I woke up at dawn. Dawn. I know the word dawn. I know what dawn is. Looking at the sky just beginning to break beyond the window frame, I pushed the blanket off. Beneath it was my bare body, with an unfamiliar arm draped over my waist. I examined it closely. The hand was rough.

Instinctively, I grabbed the hand and lifted it into my line of sight. It wasn’t an ordinary hand. It was large and thick. It had many scars, and the fingers, especially, had thick knuckles and firm flesh. The protruding finger joints bore traces of skin that had peeled multiple times. The nails were trimmed short. There were marks where the thumbnails and index fingernails had fallen off. I know people with hands this rough. I spread each finger out and placed my hand beside it for comparison.

Our hands were similar. Soldiers often have hands like this. Soldiers, boxers, or fighters have hands like these. A noble’s hands aren’t like this. A hand that only holds a riding crop couldn’t be like this. I carefully examined the forearm from the wrist up. I hadn’t noticed before, but it was solidly muscular. Not as bulky as a wrestler’s, but an arm made of well-developed muscle with almost no fat.

I cautiously turned my body. Jerome was sleeping right in front of my face. Funny. He wasn’t asleep. He was probably already awake when I stirred. But I didn’t force the calmly closed-eyed Jerome to open his eyes. Instead, I examined his face closely. A beautiful, refined, delicate face, but now grown into a man’s, with a solid bone structure and dark stubble sprouting on his jaw and cheeks overnight.

I gazed at Jerome’s bare torso. It wasn’t a body tanned for style but one bronzed from working under the sun. I traced a circle around Jerome’s navel with my fingertip. I felt his firm, thick abdominal muscles, moving up to stroke his chest muscles. I deliberately pressed and rubbed his nipple with my fingertip before moving past his armpit to place my hand on the back of his neck.

I traced the sleek jawline of his taut, straight neck, brushing past his rounded earlobe and cheekbone. At some point, Jerome had opened his eyes and was looking at me. I stopped my hand at the tip of his nose and stared back at him.

I flicked Jerome’s nose with my fingertip. His eyes widened before he slowly raised the corners of his mouth, eventually grinning widely. The fact that I spoke seemed to delight him greatly. He still looked a bit crazy. And after witnessing Jerome’s devotion over the past two weeks, the thought that he was completely insane gained full strength.

Yet, in some ways, Jerome finally felt human. The image of him waving from the top floor of the flame-engulfed dormitory was unimaginable now, but I felt a human certainty that I could kill him with a knife. But that was all. I wasn’t trying to kill Jerome. That’s why I looked at him docilely while lying in his arms. There would be no more fighting with Jerome or killing him to escape.

Jerome asked back.

Freshly woken, Jerome’s voice was slightly husky. In contrast, I could move my tongue and speak smoothly, like an eloquent orator.

<Wow, I’m hurt. Sounds like you wanted me dead.>

I stared at him silently. Jerome, still smiling playfully, said.

I blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected answer. No, maybe not entirely. At Bluebell, Jerome received . The room he used was one meant for actual royalty, and he had boasted about hidden rooms himself. Jerome rubbed his chin and added playfully.

<…>

As always, it was hard to tell if Jerome’s words were a joke or serious. No, even if truth came from his mouth, I wouldn’t believe it. Half-resigned, I muttered.

<…>

Jerome added softly.

I stared at his nonchalant, smiling face. The neatly disheveled black hair on his smooth forehead, the glossy green eyes with beads of sweat, the sleek nose, and the red lips curved in a smile—I examined them closely. It was a beautiful face, untouched by even a scratch despite those vicious flames. A face that made it unimaginable that he came for revenge.

<So, you came for revenge?>

<No. I came for compensation.>

As if he’d been waiting, Jerome answered with dreamy eyes, <Rape you…> staring at me, <beat you up,> and

<When, exactly?>

It felt as natural as if we’d had this conversation last night.

<That’s… up to Mr. Acacia to decide. He’s our boss. But since you’ve recovered this much already, it’ll probably be soon.>

Jerome spoke in a monotone but rapid tone, like reciting a prepared script.

We both fell silent. The summer morning sun began to drive away the dawn’s chill. The heat made our cheeks flush. The blanket still covered our lower bodies. We weren’t holding each other, but having been in each other’s arms all night, we were very close. I noticed during his words that Jerome was gradually getting excited. He was excited, but he didn’t want to rape me. That wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to wait a bit longer. Because

This time, Jerome flicked the tip of my nose with his finger.

Suddenly, Jerome stood up, causing the blanket to fall over my face. When I pushed it aside, he was already putting on a shirt and shoes. Noticing my gaze, he glanced back and grinned.

He strode out of the living room. After Jerome left, I lay with my limbs stretched out, staring blankly at the ceiling for a while. A chandelier fixture was firmly embedded in the ceiling. The rope, as if it had never been there, was gone. What gave them the confidence not to tie me up? I had no intention of escaping, but I couldn’t understand why they were so at ease. Unless someone was secretly watching, especially someone like Mr. Acacia, it didn’t seem likely they’d leave me like this. I was curious, but there was no need to find out.

As I said, I no longer had any intention of escaping.

Since lying on the mattress had become my daily routine, taking steps felt strange. I couldn’t clearly recall how long that period of lying still without walking had been. How much time had passed? A week? Two weeks? Or perhaps a month? Wanting to fall asleep by Simon’s side, wanting to be loved by him, and the strange jealousy I felt toward who was my true self—all of it felt like a story I had read in a book.

Washing myself had become more familiar thanks to life with Jerome. Since there was no faucet or showerhead, I washed using water poured into an empty paint can. Though slow, I managed to brush my teeth quite well, and I could wash my hair and body without being too clumsy. Why had I even forgotten how to shower? So foolish.

After finishing my shower, I changed into clean clothes placed on the fireplace mantel. However, as I stood there cluelessly with water dripping from my hair, a humming sound came from the direction of the front door. It was Jerome. He walked in carrying a heavy-looking plastic bag and brightened up when he saw me.

Jerome cheerfully exclaimed as he quickly approached. He grabbed a dry towel hanging on the window frame and vigorously rubbed my wet hair. Humming, he carefully dried even the damp back of my neck. Jerome draped the towel around my neck, stared at me for a moment, then suddenly ran his fingers through my hair, combing it messily before grinning.

<Hmm, nice. You look handsome.>

<…>

For some reason, Jerome was in high spirits, humming as he unwrapped the food. From the plastic bag, he pulled out a thick piece of meat wrapped neatly in paper. Cutting the string and unwrapping the carefully folded paper revealed a steaming meatloaf. Having eaten nothing but bread, soft-cooked vegetables, or soup for the past week, the smell of meat made me ravenous. Jerome took out a fork and knife wrapped in white linen, placed them side by side, and gestured.

<…>

Jerome stood up abruptly and pulled me by the hand. Sitting across from him, I stared blankly at the knife placed in front of me. Jerome sliced the steaming meat into large pieces and transferred them to a disposable plate.

<Today, I’ll teach you how to use a knife.>

Jerome set the plate in front of me.

I didn’t pick up the fork or knife, just gazed at Jerome. He held the fork and knife in both hands and tilted his head. He was impossible to read. For the first time since Jerome returned, I spoke.

Jerome grinned.

<That’s why I’m teaching you how to use it. First, you only cut what’s on the plate with the knife.>

<…>

Still, I didn’t touch the fork or knife, just stared at Jerome. He narrowed his eyes and asked.

<…>

<Don’t tell me you don’t like meatloaf? All Americans love it.>

I raised an eyebrow.

<…How do you know I’m American?>

<Raymond. Focus on the point.>

Jerome said as he cut his portion of the meatloaf.

Ignoring his nonsense, I said.

There was no need to dig into it now, but with Jerome right in front of me, capable of answering, there was no reason not to ask. So I kept asking.

Jerome answered with a wide smile.

<…>

<It’s getting cold. Eat quickly. If you don’t eat, I won’t answer anything.>

I picked up the fork and knife. Cutting the meat wasn’t difficult, even without Jerome’s instructions. Those things weren’t hard anymore. They were just unfamiliar. As I chewed the large piece of meat, Jerome, sitting across from me, nodded with satisfaction. I continued eating diligently as he urged. We settled into a peaceful morning scene.

I no longer had any intention of resisting anything. Even though he casually said he <wouldn’t kill me easily>, I remained calm. In fact, it almost felt welcome. Perhaps I had wanted to die for a long time. The idea that I could endure everything and keep living was wrong. Looking back on my life, there wasn’t a single normal part.

If I could lie down, I slept anywhere, and I ate not to savor taste but to fill my stomach. It was a chaotic life. I killed many people, and among them, I killed a friend.

Friend.

I had avoided thinking about Carl for a long time. Yet, I couldn’t escape his death. Carl was the first and last person to try to save me after my father died. I wanted to die painfully for him. I wanted to receive a death of atonement from the boys on the top floor and Mr. Acacia, the judge.

I silently devoured the meat. Jerome stayed quiet until he cut the fourth piece of meatloaf for me, then spoke.

<You’re eating well. I knew you’d like it.>

<…I do. It’s cheap.>

I responded, unable to ignore him. It seemed like continuing the conversation might help me learn what I was curious about.

Jerome teased.

<Poor? How modest.>

As expected, he knew. Jerome seemed to know everything about me. Since when, how, and to what extent did he know? Instead of answering, I just glared at the plate. Jerome suddenly reached out with his fork and lifted my chin.

<…>

Jerome turned the fork and poked my chin sharply.

<How’s your mother? I heard you two didn’t get along well.>

There was no trace of deceit in the man’s glossy, playful eyes.

A euphemism. It wasn’t just unpleasant; I had been too out of my mind for normal conversation. Instead of answering, I pushed Jerome’s fork away.

<It’s been five years since I last had contact with my mother. Aren’t you curious how she’s doing? Or about your stepfather and half-siblings?>

<…>

<Oh, right. Didn’t you say you were locked up in your mother’s house ever since your father passed? You probably don’t get along well. You must really hate those half-siblings who got all your mother’s love.>

I glared at Jerome.

<Julia, her husband, her kids—I don’t give a damn about any of them. I haven’t contacted or met them since Bluebell. I don’t even consider them family.>

Jerome smirked slyly.

<Aren’t you curious why she was like that?>

I finally threw the fork down in irritation. My appetite was gone. I had deliberately forgotten about Julia since escaping Bluebell. I hadn’t thought about her again. I didn’t have the energy to care about her issues. Whether it was revenge or whatever, back then, I had thrown everything aside and fled. If they were planning to use me to blackmail Julia for money, it was a ridiculously futile attempt. Julia wouldn’t bat an eye and would pretend not to know me.

Silence fell. Jerome picked up the fork and looked at me.

Staring straight at him, I kicked the plate away with my foot. Jerome shrugged and cleared the spilled plate.

<You’ve barely eaten all this time.>

<…>

The words slipped out instinctively. I was flustered. But it was unfair for Jerome to criticize Simon. Because… because…

Author's Thoughts

There are numerous stimulating scenes involving rape, gang rape, violence, abuse, and drugs. Please practice discretion as you proceed.

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