The Mutable World, Page 2

I woke to the warm greeting of the morning sun. Shafts of light shone through the cracks of our curtains, and I watched as the illuminated dust gently floated in the turbulence from the air conditioner. It’s almost like snow, I thought. Silence reigned supreme here, and I savored its presence. Outside, a car honked. The audible clop of a presumed kitchen knife on a cutting board echoed down the hall and into the room. Suitably rested, I thrust the covers off and planted my feet on the warmed wooden floorboards. Dad had insisted on a wooden floor for my room. I trod out the door and traced a path to the kitchen.

  “Awake already, Kee Jin? It’s only eleven in the morning,” said Dad with a chuckle.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked, confused.

  “Don’t worry about it son,” he replied. He then assembled the various ingredients he had so diligently prepared, and placed the sandwich-laden plate upon the dining table. The thunk of porcelain on solid wood awakened my appetite, prompting my swift consumption of the food arranged before me. I noticed Dad watching me out of the corner of my eye. He must have already eaten, I decided.

  “Good news, son. We’re visiting the park today,” said Dad.

  “Really? Last time we went was such a long time ago!” I managed through mouthfuls of bread and ham.

  “I know, son. That’s why we’re going today. Playing outside is good for you. Remember that.”

  “Yeah yeah, I know. Exercise the mind and the body. You’ve told me plenty times, Dad.”

  “Doesn’t hurt to make sure.”

  I birthed a sigh of exasperation, and proceeded to my dresser in order to clothe myself appropriately for the occasion. I don’t remember any park visitors ever arriving in pyjamas.

  Soon after I dressed, Dad and I descended the steps in the stairwell to the ground floor and made our way to the bus. Following a short period of edgy waiting on my part, a bus pulled up to the curb and came to a gentle stop, accompanied by the usual hiss. Dad paid for our tickets and we took our seats within.

  “Dad, why do buses make those hissing sounds when they stop?” I asked, curious as to the cause of this curiosity.

  “It’s the sound of air escaping from the brake system of the bus. Every time the bus driver uses the brakes, air pressure builds up in the system. When we reach a bus stop, he flicks a switch releasing all the extra air,” he explained. I nodded my head in partial understanding.

  “So it’s just because of extra air from the brakes?” I asked, hoping for a clearer understanding of the concept.

  “Well—yes, but it’s more complicated than that, son. Most big cars like buses use air brakes because they are more reliable and—” he replied with a smile. The bus lurched to a stop, further exemplifying my topic of inquiry. I rose from my seat and surveyed my surroundings. The park was visible across the street, its borders lined with old trees and benches occupied by an assortment of different people. Dad and I took our leave and tread upon the sidewalk, heading for the nearest zebra stripes. I peered across the pavement at the trees. I had always wondered what species these were; they were beautiful. Dad did not know what kind of tree they were either. When I asked him why, he said it was because he grew up in the city. He had recommended asking someone at the park, but I didn’t want to; they were just trees. Dad said I was shy afterwards.

  It was just before noon, with the sun directly overhead, serving as ample deterrent to any attempting to partake in intense physical activity within the crowded park. Large groups of people claimed the benches and the areas around them, making sure to settle in areas of shade rather than languish in the sun’s intense glare. This park was popular in Seoul. Dad said there aren’t a lot of green places in the city, and that this place was special because of that.

  Without a bench available, Dad and I decided to spread the blanket upon the ground beneath a large maple tree. He read a book, and I played on my GameBoy. After the sun had eased its insistence on providing unbearable heat somewhat, we donned our baseball gloves and, in conjunction with several other visitors, started to play catch. We continued with similar activities for the next few hours, of which I enjoyed every minute. Dad was rarely able to spend this much time with me. He was always at work.

  As dusk approached, we wrapped up our current game, said our goodbyes and made our way to the bus stop once more. The ride home was spent in contented silence, fatigued from an afternoon of sports. I stared out the window, watching the lights of Seoul burn streaks into my vision. The Han river glittered with a thousand lights reflected, and the roads twinkled with the glow of a thousand headlights. We arrived home at our destined bus stop around 6:30. Dad hauled the bag of balls off the bus, and we began the moderate walk home.

  “My arm hurts,” I said.

  “Which one?” Dad asked.

  “My right one.”

  “Let me see it.”

  He placed the balls on the sidewalk as I held out my arm for inspection. Grasping it in both hands, he observed it for a few seconds before concluding, “I don’t see anything. Is it sore?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Ignore it, son. It will go away by itself in a day or two.”

  I nodded in understanding when a scream pierced the air surrounding us. Dad swivelled around to face the direction of the scream.

  “What was that, Dad?” I asked stricken with fear.

  “Stay here, son,” he ordered as he ran towards an alley down the street.

  “Dad—Dad, what are you doing?” I yelled after him as he jogged toward the source of my terror.

  I frantically scanned the street for other people to no avail. We were alone. I was alone. Thought after successive thought began to rush through my head, jostling for attention amongst the flood of emotions beginning to well up inside. Who screamed? Why did she scream? These questions infected my consciousness, blotting out any resemblance of serenity as drops of ink blot the clarity of water. I watched Dad round the corner into the alley. He disappeared behind the hulking building towering above its entrance, and my breathing became heavier. The onslaught of emotions and questions built ever larger, as sweat trickled down my skin. What happened to Dad? Why isn’t he back yet?

  I heard another scream, this time clearly of male origin. Calm. My mind cleared of all distractions, devoid of any thought deriving from any influence. Then the storm returned in full force, reaching its crest and then crashing down like a tidal wave, drowning the calm beneath it. The storm grew in magnitudes, reaching an eardrum-abusive cacophony, allowing no respite as it beat down upon my consciousness. A gunshot rang out, popping the balloon encasing my head. I had been standing on the sidewalk with my eyes closed and ears tightly held shut by way of my palms.

  I sprinted across the cement panels comprising the sidewalk, and wheeled sharply on my heels to survey the alley Dad had entered. Between three walls coated in graffiti lay two silhouettes on the ground and a single standing figure, all faintly illuminated by the moonlight. The figure turned to face me. It was a woman. She was holding a gun in her left, which she dropped at the sight of me. She reached into her right pocket, and I tensed before she finally pulled out a cell phone.

  “Call for help,” she said. Then she passed out.

  I spent the next few seconds in indecision. Was that the woman who screamed? It must be. Is that Dad on the ground? A moment of clarity struck me and I rushed to the pair of bodies on the ground. A puddle of blood framed them against the surrounding concrete. Oh no. The first body belonged to a young man. He was bleeding heavily from his torso. A couple meters aside was Dad. He laid on his side, partially curled up against himself. I could still hear him breathing, coming in intermittent, raspy gasps of air. He appeared hurt.

  I fell to my knees at his side, arms limp against my sides. I noticed the tears now. Legions of them marched down my visage, before depositing themselves in the pool of blood beneath me. Dad opened his eyes and slowly turned his head to face me.

  “Why did you do that, Dad?” I asked, tears tracing ellipses down the arch of my
cheek.

  “I did it because it was right,” he whispered, before falling unconscious again.