Hyun: Alone In Winter

My phone chirps, startling me out of my momentary dozing. At least, I hope it was momentary; this homework pile won’t get any smaller if I keep losing focus. I check the time on the small screen and breathe a small sigh of relief; I was only out of it for about five minutes.

First snow alert, U-re’s KaTalk reads. Your ass better be up early on Monday. Traffic will be hell.

I look up and use two fingers to pry open the blinds on my window. Sure enough, big fat flakes of white fall down from the grey sky. Maybe it’s me, but Gyeongju is a bit quieter thanks to the snow. If I were on campus, I bet money that there’d be hordes of students running around trying to link up with their current crushes. As much as we knock our parents for being superstitious, we have no problem believing that spending the first snow with the person you like means you’ll be together forever.

Well, everyone except me has no problem believing that.

It sucks: I used to love the first snow. According to my parents, I used to run around like a crazy person as a small kid whenever the first snowfall happened. I’d even throw a fit if I couldn’t run outside RIGHT THEN! AND RIGHT NOW! Even when I was past the age of throwing tantrums, the first snow was my favourite day every year. I love walking out into that cold and breathing in the air. It’s so clear, like it’s flushing out all the impurities from around you.

Love it. Chef’s kisses. Mwah!

I still love that feeling, but now the first snow makes me think of my parents, and that one winter’s night when I was seventeen. The first snow makes me think of car accidents and funerals and...death. The taste of winter always bites like the sharp, choking incense they used in the church for my parents’ service, and the horrible whispers of their so-called friends.

“Poor thing: now he’s lost his parents twice. I suppose some people are just born to bring ill-luck to those around them.”

“That’s why they say you should never take in a black-haired beast.”

“Shh! The kid might hear you.”

“It’s not like he was their real son.”

My throat tickles even now just thinking about it, and I resist the strong urge to sneeze or gag. I shake my head, tucking the memory back into its metaphorical box and seal the lid tight. Augh, now I definitely don’t want to keep doing my homework. I suppose I could go out for a little bit…

But homework, the other part of my brain nagged.

Ok, but...a ten minute walk wouldn’t be so bad, right?

Home. Work.

I groan in frustration, rubbing at my face, as if the feeling of pressing down on the skin beneath my eyes will help me make a decision. The snow falls a little harder now, and I give in to the devil on my shoulder: ten minutes. I’ll go outside and breathe the air and maybe take a walk. Right: only ten minutes.

I shrug on a jacket, pocket my phone, and hurry down the stairs until I get to the door. A bracing wind greets me, and I can practically feel my pores shrink in response. My face tightens and I scrunch it up to try and make it loosen up, just in case I need to talk to anyone for some reason. The worst thing is when my face is so frickin’ cold, my jaw feels like it’s been wired shut and I talk like a drunk person, slurring all my words ‘cause my tongue turns into a dead lizard that flops around, unable to properly function.

I may have experienced this once or twice...or more than twice...okay, it’s happened a lot.

Like just now when I nearly crash into a delivery person on their way into the building. My attempt at an apology is garbled by the frigid wind, so I’m not sure they even hear me; they never lift the shield of their red motorcycle helmet, so I just awkwardly bob my head and turn away back towards the outside. At least I tried.

I only take a few steps before pausing to close my eyes and breathe in a long, deep breath...and immediately start coughing my lungs out. I didn’t notice someone was smoking a cigarette on my left and wow inhaling that was a mistake.

“Do you think you could not smok--...Coach?”

Sure enough, Coach is leaning against the side of my apartment building, a lit cigarette between two of his fingers. He grins and waves, the thin trial of smoke from his cigarette curling in little zig-zaggy waves.

“I figured you’d be coming out sometime soon,” he smirks, taking a last drag and turning his head to exhale the smoke. It doesn’t help much, but I hold back coughing again. Coach at least grinds out the cigarette on a metal case he pulls from his coat pocket, putting the half-smoked cylinder inside. I see several more in place.

“How’d you know I’d be--”

“I’ve known you for how many years?” Coach snorts. “And you’re asking me how I knew you’d be outside on the first snow?”

“Ah...right.” I immediately feel dumb and frown, “Since when do you smoke?”

Coach chuckles, “Filthy habit, isn’t it? I only take a puff when I’m stressed or, in some cases, freezing my ass off like it’s the Ninth Circle of Hell while waiting for my student to show up so that we can go pay a visit to your parents.”

My brain doesn’t even bother to nag me about going back to studying, it just sort of shuts down and I nod. Coach jerks his head for me to follow, and we set off in the direction of the columbarium. We walk in silence at first; the first layer of already-stuck snow crunches quietly beneath our feet.

“Did you want to talk about it?” Coach asks stiffly. I’m not sure if he’s stiff from the cold or from the discomfort of having to broach a sensitive topic.

“My parents?” I guess. “Not really.”

I never have, and at this point it’s likely I never will; even U-re hasn’t pressed me on the issue since...well, since it happened. That time after their funeral passed by in a haze of too many people, lawyers, realtors – just too many people. Coach was the only reason I didn’t collapse right then and there during all that; he helped with all the legal stuff, helped me pack up and sell the family house, and even helped me get set up in my current apartment with the money from the house as well as some inheritance my parents had left. I guess even they had figured I’d bring them misfortune: they made sure I had money set up for after their death.

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It’s supremely fucked up.

Again we walk in silence, but the earlier clarity of the air feels tainted with a sombre heaviness. I sigh.

“You know, if you keep a secret to yourself, it’ll keep building and building like water in a kettle; you’ll only end up frustrated. I’ve found that telling someone usually helps relieve some of that stress,” Coach smirks.

Well, Coach, don’t freak out, but I’d like to announce to you that a few years before you met me, I suffered a near-death experience which resulted in an extremely early-onset of schizophrenia thanks to brain damage that usually presents what my psychiatrist calls “positive” symptoms in the form of visual and auditory hallucinations and delusions. I don’t know what’s positive about those, but I’m not a doctor.

Oh, and did I mention that apparently it’s not schizophrenia, but schizo…affective disorder? I think? I don’t know, my doctor said something about initially misdiagnosing and comorbidity with PTSD and blah blah blah…a whole lot of stuff that I don’t really understand.

Long story short: I see shit that’s not there. Don’t worry, though, I take medication for it when the symptoms appear. Oh, and did I mention said symptoms have been happening with a frequency lately that is more than a little alarming? Probably should bring that up.

Call me crazy -- I am, but don’t -- but I don’t see that conversation going well.

Coach is fucking amazing...but that’s a big pill for anyone to swallow. I’m the one with the fucking diagnosis and I still don’t really think I’ve ever processed it properly. I settle for a different truth.

“It’s...a tough time of the year. Exams and such leave me feeling stretched pretty thin.”

“You could always take a break from school and focus solely on your training.”

“Don’t tempt me,” I laugh, but it’s only half-hearted.

Part of me wishes I could just put school on hold and devote myself entirely to hwarangdo. But the logical part of my brain reminds me the chances of becoming a national-level, let alone National Training Center or even Sports University-level athlete are not just slim, they’re nonexistent: that train has long-since left its station. Then there’s the promise I had always made to my parents that I would go to a good college and get a degree. After all: isn’t that why I’m where I am now? They’re dead and I lost my shot at achieving what was already a seemingly impossible dream. So I defaulted back to the only other dream I knew: theirs. And somehow that makes me feel even more like I have to do it.

“Eh, well,” Coach holds open the door to the columbarium. “It was worth a try.”

We’d arrived without me even noticing -- how long had we been walking? It’s quiet amidst the rows of glass enclosures, the few people scattered across various rows and silent in their grief. My body doesn’t feel in control of my feet, it simply follows along the gravitational pull of my destination.

Their urns are actually at my eye-level; I’d never considered how fortunate that is for me that I don’t have to crane or crouch to see them when I come each year. Coach hangs back in the doorway; I see his reflection in the glass as he moves to cross himself and bow his head, eyes closed, to pray.

What’s the use? I want to ask. It’s too late: they’re dead.

I don’t even know what I can say to them at this moment, knowing whatever I say is more for myself than for my dead parents. The black of their names and dates stamped against the white porcelain of their urns drill themselves character-by-character into my head. I look up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. I’m trying, I say to them. It’s so hard, but I’m trying. Are you proud of me?

Silence is my only response. I almost wish my brain would go sideways right now, and let met parents show up as delusions, even if only for a moment to feel a little less alone. Maybe Coach can read my mind, because a hand comes to rest upon my shoulder and gives it a small squeeze. “It’s alright,” Coach whispers. In the reflection I see him looking at my parents’ urns, and I don’t think he’s speaking to me when he quietly says, “I’m here.”

Voices suddenly break out in the hallway, sounding like a scuffle and the lights flicker on and off. I frown at Coach, who whips his head to the doorway, hand an iron vice upon my shoulder. Whoever’s arguing eventually takes it outside; the voices disappear. Coach still clamps down upon my shoulder; I have to tap him a couple times before he blinks and looks back at me. The lights flicker again and Coach tsks disapprovingly, looking up at the ceiling. “Wonder if it’s the weather,” he murmurs. With a sigh, he puts a tired smile on his face and says, “Let’s get you something warm to drink.”

“There’s a cafe near the apartment complex,” I reply, voice scratchy and throat dry. Hoping he doesn’t notice, I rub my hands up and down my face several times to wipe away any tears that might have slipped out to leave shining trails down my cheeks.

It feels like it takes even less time to walk back towards my apartment than it did to leave it, but the cold air does its job well to revive me from the dregs of sadness. All I can think about is that, in the snow, I feel so, so alive. Any exposed skin is tight and almost tingles with joy at the feel of any icy flake that makes contact. The snow’s coming down harder now, and upon seeing the cafe, Coach and I pick up our pace to half-run inside to escape the weather.

I grab us a table and wait. The cafe is playing holiday music loud enough that you can hear it under the hum of conversation, but not so much that you’d need to raise your voices to hear each other. There are a lot of couples in here...the ‘first snow myth’ strikes again, I guess. It only takes a few minutes for Coach to come back with our orders. I have no idea what it is he got, but it’s in a tiny little cup.

“It’s espresso,” he says to my confused look.

“You mean you drink it straight?”

On behalf of the amount of sugar and milk it takes to make espresso not taste like liquid burnt rubber, I’m offended. But Coach laughs and takes a sip of the...can I even call that a drink? Nope, nope, I don’t think I can.

I sip my own latte and embrace the sweet and creamy mocha goodness, complete with whipped cream on top. When was the last time I had one of these?

Coach doesn’t say much, just somehow enjoys his tiny drink -- I will never, ever understand. We talk shop: plans for the rest of the year and after the holidays, including what youngster classes I’ll be able to teach part-time at the studio. My mind drifts away at some point to the homework that’s sitting, unfinished, on my desk, and I can’t hold the sigh that escapes.

“You know, you never have to talk to me about your troubles. But, don’t forget...” Coach turns his eyes towards the big windows, “no matter how happy we all look on the outside, everyone holds on to a few painful wounds in their heart.” His smile is sad, barely there, and he sighs himself. “If you move on, great. And if you don’t, then you’ll become numb to that pain over time. Eventually, you can enjoy all that you used to without feeling like there’s air trapped within your chest, pressing against the seams to get out.”

I sip my drink, focusing on the blinding white of the snow outside. It makes my eyes water -- that’s definitely what’s making my eyes water. One hundred percent. Totally just how bright it is outside ‘cause of the snow.

It snowed when my parents died. They were coming back from some church event and a drunk driver skidded on the icy road and crashed headlong into them. Part of me can imagine my mom praying in those last seconds, and that always stirred fire in my gut: if she had the time, I hope she asked God why the drunk fuck who killed them got away with minor injuries, while they didn’t get away at all. I hope she asked God why it had to happen on my birthday, of all days. I hope she didn’t curse me for begging them to come to the match that night, and that’s why they left the church event early.

Their funeral was the last time I set foot inside a church; I did it for them and their memory, but I wish I hadn’t. People don’t think how their words affect others -- how those pitying ladies and grumbling men’s comments would hurt more than hearing the police officer’s voice through Coach’s phone. They didn’t think how their words would lodge themselves in my memory, to always rip open old wounds anew whenever I thought about my parents, and the sad conclusion of over a decade of being their son.