8. Chapter Eight #3
One morning I’m opening the store alone, barely awake, the sky still gray with dawn fog rolling in off the harbor. The metal doors rattle as I unlock them, pulling them up with a groan. I’m halfway through counting the register as I hear footsteps outside, slow and uneven.
I glance up and see Ryowoon coming up the street through the mist.
The cigarette between his lips bobs as he walks, his bag slung over one shoulder, the way he’s moving makes my stomach drop. Careful, like every step hurts. His head’s down, hair falling forward to hide his face, and he keeps one hand pressed to his ribs.
“Yah,” I call out, stepping outside. “What happened?”
He stops when he sees me, lifts his head, and I go cold.
The left side of his face is purple, swollen and mottled with bruising that spreads from his cheekbone down to his jaw.
I suck in a breath when I see the other side, a wide slash cutting across his jaw just below the corner of his mouth.
It’s still red and freshly cut, blood dried in streaks down his neck where it must’ve run before he had a chance to clean it.
“What the fuck happened?” I say again, louder, rushing toward him.
Ryowoon takes the cigarette out of his mouth, flicks ash onto the pavement. He says in his dead voice, “Dad slashed me with a broken soju bottle.”
My hands ball into fists at my sides and I want to scream, want to go find his dad and do something I know I shouldn’t, but Ryowoon shrugs, shifting the bag on his shoulder like this is nothing more than a scraped knee.
“It’s fine,” he says, brushing past me into the store. “Where’s Halme?”
“In the back,” I answer weakly. I follow him inside, watching as he drops his bag by the counter and heads toward the courtyard.
Mrs. Nam is sitting at the low table when we come out, peeling garlic for side dishes, her radio playing softly beside her. She looks up when she hears us and freezes.
“Ryowoon,” she says, sharp with alarm. She drops the garlic and gets to her feet, moving fast, her cane thumping against the ground as she crosses to him. “What on earth—”
She grabs his face, tilting it, her expression whitening. Her hands tremble as she traces the air around the gash, not quite touching it, her mouth pressed into a thin line.
Ryowoon stares past her shoulder at the wall.
Mrs. Nam’s hands drop and she turns away, gripping her cane tightly. When she turns back her face is stone.
“We’re taking you to the hospital in Busan,” she says. “Now. Don’t argue with me.”
“I can’t.” Ryowoon shakes his head, his voice still flat. “Mr. Moon asked me to take a look at his work truck today. He’s paying me enough to match three days at the store. I can’t miss it.”
“You need stitches,” Mrs. Nam snaps.
“I need the money more.”
She stares at him, her jaw working. Finally she exhales hard through her nose and nods once, stiff and angry.
“Fine. Sit down.”
Ryowoon sits at the table and Mrs. Nam disappears into the house, coming back with her first aid kit.
She works in silence, cleaning the wound with alcohol that makes Ryowoon hiss through his teeth, his hands fisting against his knees.
I stand off to the side, useless, watching as she bandages the gash as best she can, her hands steady but her mouth still pressed into a hard line.
When she’s done she steps back, looking at him with too bright eyes.
“You should’ve gotten stitches,” she says quietly. “This is going to scar.”
Ryowoon shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first one.”
Mrs. Nam mutters something under her breath, but she doesn’t argue anymore. She pats his shoulder once, gently, and tells him to come back if it starts bleeding again.
Ryowoon nods, gets to his feet, and walks back into the store like nothing happened.
He slings his bag over his shoulder and heads for the door without another word.
I watch him go, standing there in the empty store with the morning light spilling through the open doors, and I hate that I can’t do anything to fix this.
That all I can do is watch him walk away with blood drying on his neck and a gash on his jaw that’s going to leave a scar for the rest of his life.
The wound heals over the next few weeks.
Ryowoon powers through it, showing up for his shifts at the store, working on cars in the evenings, smoking on the harbor rocks with the rest of us with no change in behavior.
But the gash closes on its own eventually, leaving behind a raised scar that cuts across his jaw below the corner of his mouth. It’s stark and visible, a permanent mark that doesn’t fade no matter how much time passes.
I see it every time I look at him. The way the scar gets darker against his skin, the way it pulls when he smiles. Every time I grit my teeth and pretend I don’t see, pretend I don’t remember the empty look in his eyes and the hollow sound of his voice that morning.
For a while it seems like that might be the worst of it for the summer.
We spend most of our time in the woods with the others, climbing trees, skipping stones down by the creek, lying in the grass smoking cigarettes and arguing about nothing.
Tonight we stayed late, playing a stupid game Haeil came up with, seeing who could break the most bottles with a rock.
Ryowoon won, grinning wide when his rock shattered three in a row, and Haeil called him a show-off while the rest of us laughed.
It’s well past ten by the time Ryowoon and I start heading back, the streets dark. He has one arm slung over my shoulders, both of us still laughing about Yoohan nearly braining himself with a rock when he tried to throw it backwards over his shoulder.
“Idiot’s going to kill himself one of these days,” Ryowoon says, grinning.
“Probably,” I agree, shoving at him lightly. “You’re not much better.”
He opens his mouth to argue and then both of us jerk our heads toward the direction of his house at the sound of sharp cries cutting through the night.
Not human.
Ryowoon’s arm drops from my shoulders and he takes off, sprinting, his longer legs clearing twice as much ground as mine. I’m right on his heels in seconds, my pulse thundering in my ears, my stomach knotting up with dread well before we round the wall and stare into the yard of his house.
Sickness floods me instantly.
Ryowoon’s dad is standing in the middle of the yard, disheveled, his shirt half untucked, shouting and slurring words. He’s swaying on his feet, a bottle clutched in one hand, and beneath him there’s a curled form on the ground, whimpering, yelping.
Nuri.
I can see her lying on her side, still chained to the doghouse, her body curled tight, and Ryowoon’s dad brings the bottle down over and over, smashing it against her side, her legs, anywhere he can reach. The sound of her sharp yelps and whimpers cuts through me like knives.
I have a second to feel the horror crash over me and then Ryowoon is barreling into the yard, launching himself at his father, shouting.
Ryowoon’s not as big as his father yet, but he’s getting close, and his weight is enough to knock the older man away from Nuri. They hit the ground hard, grappling, Ryowoon’s dad cursing and flailing, still clutching the bottle.
I leap into action, running into the yard.
My hands shake as I drop to my knees beside Nuri, gathering her up carefully.
She’s whining, high and thin, her body hanging limp in my arms, and when I touch her side my fingers come away wet.
She yelps sharply in pain and I nearly drop her, my throat closing up.
I yank the chain from her collar with numb fingers, my hands clumsy and shaking, and then I wheel around, stumbling toward the gate. I carry her out past the wall and set her down on the curb as gently as I can, her body trembling against the pavement, her breaths shallow and fast.
I wheel back toward the house, looking around wildly.
Lights are still on in the houses down the street. Windows lit up, curtains drawn. The neighbors are home, they have to be. They had to have heard the shouting, the yelps, the sound of breaking glass.
But no one’s coming.
No one’s opening their doors. No one’s stepping outside to check what’s happening.
They won’t come, I realize, my stomach hollowing out. They won’t come for the dog.
They didn’t come when they heard a full-grown woman and a little boy screaming and crying for help all those years, and they won’t come now.
I spin and run back into the yard.
Ryowoon and his father are rolling on the ground, fists flying, grunting and cursing. I freeze for a second, my heart hammering, because I’ve never seen Ryowoon hit his father back before. Ryowoon’s always just taken it, curled up and waited for it to be over.
But he’s not taking it now.
He’s trying to fight back, swinging hard, his knuckles connecting with his father’s jaw, his ribs, anywhere he can reach.
His dad curses, grabs a fistful of Ryowoon’s shirt and hauls him closer, slamming a fist into his face.
Ryowoon’s head snaps back but he doesn’t stop, keeps swinging, his breathing ragged and harsh.
Ryowoon’s holding his own because his father is drunk and slow, swaying, his movements sloppy. But his dad’s still bigger, heavier, and I know how fast this can turn. I’ve seen it happen before. One good hit and Ryowoon goes down and doesn’t get back up.
I see an opening when his father draws back for another swing, his balance tipping, and I dive in. I grab Ryowoon around the middle and yank him back hard, using all my weight to pull him off.
Ryowoon fights me immediately, thrashing, his voice thick with fury and pain as he shouts, “Let me go, Seyeon, I’m going to kill him, I’m going to fucking rip him apart!”
His elbow catches me in the ribs and I grunt, tightening my grip, dragging him backwards. “Ryo, let it go.”
“Fuck that.” He twists, trying to break free, his eyes locked on his father groaning and spitting blood onto the dirt as he rolls over onto his hands and knees. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”
“Ryowoon.” I shake him, shouting over him now. “We have to get Nuri out of here.”