About

January 1995 was dark and cold. A young boy gripped his younger brother's hand with all his might and ran for his life. The younger brother gasped for air, dragging his feet as if he might collapse at any moment. The boy urged him on, forcibly pulling his arm. The sound of crunching white snow soon turned into a slushy, sticky noise. Rubbing their hands, which were as red as a hot stove, against their thighs, the children walked endlessly across the vast snowy field. They desperately searched for somewhere that would take them in. *** I was seven and my brother was nine. That day, Mom was sprawled on the floor, swollen all over. I massaged her feet and occasionally pounded my own aching arms. Me, Mom, and my brother—we were all puffed up like newborn goldfish. Cheeks, eyelids, the tops of our feet... there wasn't a spot that hadn't been hit. Mom wiped away her tears as she looked at us. I still remember how she tried so hard to lift the corners of her mouth whenever she caught my eye. And then Mom died three days later. She was beaten until the very end. I think my brother was next. I was too young, and he at least had a body worth hitting. From then on, my brother was like a mother to me. But at the same time, I was scared. Even as a naive child, I knew enough. What if he disappears from my side after being beaten like that too? So the two of us ran away. We didn't think about the consequences. But if I had known it would turn out like this, I should have just died back then. It's just that things turned out badly for the two of us.