Chapter 1: The Weight of Nothing
I stood there motionless, my eye fixed above. On a massive screen towering over the bustling street, a face beamed down – some rich second-generation success story, spouting platitudes about morning routines and seizing the day. His words were like acid in my ears, polished and meaningless against the backdrop of my own existence. My gaze drifted from his perfectly coiffed hair to the throngs below, and a familiar bitterness began to curdle in my gut. This was how it started. Always. A spark of resentment, fanned by the endless parade of those who had what I never could. And then, the memories.
The scent of antiseptic and regret clung to me like a shroud. I stood there, watching her, a silent scream caught in my throat. My mother. Her face, usually so warm and lively, was now a map of suffering, etched with the weary lines of a life poorly lived, a life cut short. The words in my head were a hammer blow, echoing over and over: Because we didn't have the money, my mother wasn't able to get treated on time and passed away.
It wasn't just the finality of her fading breath that choked me; it was the cruel, undeniable truth that lay beneath it. Money. That cold, indifferent word. It wasn't just something to acquire; it was life itself, health itself, the very air you breathed when you were drowning. And we had none.
Money was indeed the best. I remember those words, not as a revelation, but as a bitter mantra forged in the fiery crucible of my childhood. Every day, the house filled not with laughter, but with sharp voices, frayed nerves, and the clanging of broken dreams. Because of our lack of funds, my parents fought constantly. I'd hide behind the door, a small, terrified shadow, listening to the cacophony, wishing I could disappear, wishing the shouting would just stop. Money wasn't just a need; it was a poison, seeping into the very fabric of our family, tearing it apart from the inside.
Then came the promises, the foolish, hopeful promises of youth. I looked into her eyes, full of belief, and spoke of a future we would build together. A future free from the specter of want. But reality, as it always does, caught up. I broke up with my girlfriend. Her parting words still echoed: "You're a worthless man who couldn't even get a proper room." The judgment was my own, whispered to myself in the dead of night. Worthless. How could I offer a future when I couldn't even offer a present, a decent place to call our own? The pain of her leaving wasn't just heartbreak; it was the confirmation of my inadequacy, branded on my soul by the absence of paper and coin.
My friends. God, my friends. Or what I thought were my friends. Socializing wasn't about connection; it was a constant, agonizing negotiation with my empty pockets. I lost all my friends because I couldn't even buy a single round of drinks. The shame burned, hotter than any fire. I remember the countless nights, the clinking glasses, the easy laughter, and then that dreaded moment when the bill arrived. My heart would pound, my hands would sweat. And then, the ritual. Bend down. Feign concern. Take my time. Tie my shoelaces. Do you know what my name was? It was 'Shoelace', because I always tied my shoelaces when it was time to pay. The nickname, innocent to them, was a brand of humiliation on me, a constant reminder of my poverty, worn like a scarlet letter.
Have you ever been afraid of a close friend's wedding invitation? I was. A knot would tighten in my stomach, not for their happiness, but for the impossible expense, the expectation of a gift, the suit I couldn't afford. It wasn't just drinks. It was every social gathering, every casual outing, every small joy that required money, and thus, became a source of exquisite agony. A tear had once fallen, warm and stinging, making me wonder, What am I doing? What was the point of striving, of breathing, if this was my perpetual state?
I looked around at the world, at the joyous celebrations of others, the elegant figures at their ceremonies surrounded by blooming flowers. They married in their twenties, built lives, bought homes. I saw it clearly then, the invisible barrier that separated us. The common thread among those who married in their twenties was their upper-middle-class status, at least. A brutal truth, cold and unyielding. My lack was not just a personal failing; it was a societal damnation.
Even when I tried to carve out a respectable path, to climb my way out, the shadow of my past clung to me. I studied diligently, pouring over texts, dreaming of a stable, secure future. Even when I was studying to become a civil servant, the path seemed clear, honorable. But the weight of all I had lost, all I had endured, never truly lifted. It was a constant thrum beneath the surface, a quiet rage that simmered.
And now… now the city's hum felt different. Not just a distant noise, but a pulsating current I could feel deep within my bones. The endless parade of the privileged on the screen, their empty words, the laughter of the unburdened in the streets—it all converged into a single, undeniable truth. This misery, this profound misery that money, or its cruel absence, had wrought upon me and those I loved… it hadn't broken me. It had transformed me. It had instilled in me a deep, unshakeable hunger. A resolve to do whatever it takes to never be without it again.
They won't ever be able to understand the depth of misery that money can inflict, or how it can transform someone into a monster. They won't understand the void I have faced, the sacrifices I have made, the countless tears shed in silence. They don't know the monster that poverty can create.
The city's vibrant pulse slowly faded behind me as I walked. The dazzling lights of the bustling streets receded into a blur, replaced by the familiar quiet of the outskirts. This was home, for now. The streetlights cast longer, lonelier shadows.
Creaaak.....! The door creaked open, familiar and unwelcoming. Dad wasn't back yet. Tick! Tock! Tick! The clock on the wall, a cheap plastic thing, read past nine. He'd be working late again, just as he always had. I moved quietly through the narrow hallway, my steps hushed, towards the room where my younger brother slept. The faint glow of a nightlight cast soft shadows on his face. He was curled up, a small mound beneath a thin blanket, his breathing even. I watched him for a moment, this small, innocent life, still untouched by the full weight of the world's indifference.
Satisfied he was deep in sleep, I turned to leave the room, to retreat into my own thoughts. But just as my hand found the doorknob, a soft voice, barely a whisper in the stillness, cut through the silence.
"Lee gon."
I froze. I turned slowly, my eyes searching the shadowed bed. My brother lay there, eyes wide open, staring at me.
"Oh, you're still up," I said, my voice softer than I intended, surprised he hadn't drifted off.
He just looked at me, a silent, knowing gaze. It was then, standing in the dim light of that small room, that the weight of everything – the past, the present, the unspoken future – settled upon me with crushing finality. The city, its false promises, the memories of a life defined by want, it all coalesced into a single, burning core.
This was my story. My name is Cho Lee gon. I'm twenty-four years old. And this is my truth, etched in the scars of a life that taught me the true misery money could bring, and the reality that the poverty might go on for life.
I lay down on my worn mat, the sounds of the city's distant hum the last thing I heard. My mind, usually a chaotic whirlwind of anxieties and bitter memories, felt strangely quiet. Sleep, when it finally came, was a deep, dreamless plunge into absolute darkness.
I didn't know it then. I couldn't have. But the sleep that claimed me that night was more than just a temporary respite from the day's burdens. It will be the beginning after the end.