“Run! Run! Run! Run! Run!”Cough!A painful cough yanked me back to reality. From that first cough, Jerome twisted and spewed coughs like he was about to vomit. I froze, eyes wide. Tears streamed down my face, ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) but I couldn’t speak. Jerome was alive. He writhed and coughed, his chest heaving as he gasped painfully. Only then did I scramble up and lift his upper body, cradling him in my arms. He arched his back and coughed violently. Drops of blood fell from his mouth. His face, ashen and pale, coughed without end.Gasping, Jerome’s body jerked a few times before he managed to breathe properly. He stared down at his blood-soaked chest—it was my blood, from my torn lips and mouth when he hit me. Jerome lifted his head, and because I was holding him close, our eyes met.Silence roared in my ears. I was still crying, unable to utter a word. His bright, bloodshot eyes filled me with both hatred and love. I felt I might lose my mind. Seeing him alive, I wanted to strangle him again; seeing his green eyes on me, I never wanted to move again. Blood and saliva mixed on his split lips. I sobbed silently, staring at Jerome without blinking. He parted his lips, stained with my blood and saliva.“You should have killed me.”Jerome reached out. With his finger, he wiped my tear-wet cheek, speaking in a hoarse, broken voice.“You mustn’t love me.”“I don’t love you,” I answered through my sobs. Jerome let out a short, rasping laugh—something I’d never imagined. I just… hugged him tighter. I pressed my face against his chest and cried. Jerome didn’t embrace me back; he simply held me still. In a rough voice, like someone whose throat had been knotted, he said,“Do you think killing me once would erase all your hatred?Is it okay for us to live like this, together?”We met when we were twenty. In that isolated, cold-region school with no tropical nights, he tried to kill me countless times, raped me, orchestrated gang rapes, and whipped me until bruises covered my body. Jerome loved it. He loved watching me fall into despair and then scramble back up. He loved ejaculating on my face. He loved raping me, watching others rape me, and photographing my helplessness. He tortured me mercilessly and trampled my dignity.Yet he wanted me to survive—to survive in health so I’d suffer all the more. He pulled me back from death’s edge, reached out to my dying self, and let me taste victory in vengeance.I sobbed silently, holding Jerome close. After a long silence, he lifted his hand, gently embracing me from behind and whispering,“You’re foolish, Raymond.”I woke in the morning. Memories before blacking out came vividly: with nothing to vomit, I retched until my body convulsed beside Jerome. My body thrashed, then I collapsed on the floor and lost consciousness. Jerome watched without touching me. Lying face-down in thin vomit, I saw him through blurred vision. Though disgust made me retch, I felt deep relief knowing he lived to see me. Bit by bit, I realized I had nowhere left to fall. I stared at the ceiling and closed my eyes.I stayed in that house. Though nothing physically hurt, my body felt unbearably heavy whenever I tried to sit up. My head was foggy, and even drinking water was hard. Mrs. Stella (스텔라 부인, Stella) brought chicken soup, but I had no appetite—just a few spoonfuls. For days, I couldn’t even go to the bathroom alone; I leaned on Mrs. Stella for support. She tended me silently, asking nothing of Jerome’s words.I slept endlessly. Though I had no nightmares, I woke drenched in cold sweat. Mrs. Stella was always there, wiping my face with a damp cloth and muttering, “You’ll feel better after the fever breaks.” I was grateful for the big man’s care, but I didn’t believe I’d ever feel better. I was trapped in dreadful, yet somehow justified, lethargy. I lay in bed all day. Even Mrs. Stella’s cleaning had its limits; soon I stank. I didn’t shave, my beard grew unkempt, yet I felt no urge to move.After four days, I could eat a bit, though any full meal forced me to vomit. Yet sometimes my appetite returned wildly—I’d devour meal after meal, even crawling to the kitchen if I had to. I polished off a pot of soup, tore into cold meat with my hands, gnawed hard bread, ate raw eggs with shells, and munched raw vegetables. Spilled jam on the floor? I licked it up like an animal. Then I ransacked the cupboard for cereal and biscuits.Once, I’d trashed the kitchen and sat on the floor shoveling tea leaves into my mouth with a spoon when Mrs. Stella returned. She stared at me in disbelief. Our eyes met, and shame burned my cheeks. I collapsed, dry-heaving, and she set down her bag to guide me to the bathroom. Clutching the toilet, I vomited everything. She cleaned me, laid me in bed, and the next morning fed me breakfast as if nothing strange had happened.This cycle repeated until I couldn’t bear it. I wanted to die—I wanted it desperately. My stinking body, my beard, my raw mouth from endless vomiting—I was done. I thought I was losing reason. No—I’d gone mad. I sobbed filthy tears until exhaustion made me pass out. When I awoke, it was before dawn.Silence reigned, as that fateful day I nearly killed Jerome. My body felt unexpectedly light. The head that had been unbearably heavy felt lifted. I sat up and touched the carpeted floor with my feet; everything became clear. Why had I wandered so long? I climbed out of bed and threw open the window. Sea wind rushed in, billowing curtains. I closed my eyes, feeling free. Opening them, I saw a deep, dark cliff outside.With great effort, I crawled onto the windowsill. In the pre-dawn gloom, I couldn’t tell if soft sand or jagged rocks lay below, but I felt peace. I had found the right answer at last: after meeting the top-floor boy and enduring all those years, I’d discovered the path to tranquility. That was all I wanted. Right then, only that mattered. I inhaled deeply and leaned out the window.Suddenly, a fluorescent light flicked on overhead. The murky cliff face below glowed dimly. I turned back, squinting at the brightness. In the doorway stood Mrs. Stella, wearing her gown and nightcap with a white tassel, yawning.“No wonder I heard the window rattling,” she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep.“I thought it might be that time,” she added.Before I could react, her strong arm wrapped around my waist. She hoisted me over her shoulder easily, shut the window, and carried me from the room. I struggled, but it was futile. She set me down on the sofa. Too weak to resist, I stared blankly at her. Mrs. Stella winked.“If you’d been any later, something really bad would’ve happened.”She ruffled my hair as if we’d just shared a prank.“I’ll make you some tea—stay here.”“…….”“Got it?”She placed a blanket on my lap and smoothed my hair kindly. Embarrassment heated my ears. I bowed my head without replying as she left for the kitchen. I sat in a daze, listening to the kettle until slippers tapped in the living room. Mrs. Stella sat opposite, placing a steaming teapot and cup before me.“How much milk? Is this enough?”“…….”“Sugar?”I shook my head. She offered me the mug, and when I hesitated, she guided it into my hand.“Drink. The cold air can give you a chill.”I took a cautious sip; she smiled approvingly. I gazed at her vacantly, and suddenly a tear fell. I wiped it hastily, but tears flooded out. Clutching the mug, I bowed my head as tears soaked my beard. I felt ashamed—acting like a child before someone I barely knew, guilty, miserable, still longing for death. Unable to stop sobbing, I hunched over, oblivious to my shame.“You must’ve been pretty shaken,” she said gently.“I-I’m s-sorry…ugh…”“It’s okay. If you need to cry, cry.”I couldn’t lift my head. I kept crying in front of her, unable to stop. I didn’t know where to go or what to do. I wanted to vanish—somewhere no one could find me. My ears ached, my head throbbed, tears overflowed again.I even wanted to harm myself—to feel real pain on my skin. Instead of suffering alone with internal agony, I’d rather someone beat me to death. No salvation, no release—just proof that I hurt. I had to prove my pain was real, that all my suffering wasn’t delusion, that the marks from those top-floor boys were real. That I had truly been hurt, that I was still in pain. I had to prove it to myself.Shaking and sobbing, I dropped the cup. Glass shattered. I snapped my head up at the noise. My tear-stained face looked terrified as I stared at Mrs. Stella. She watched silently, then set another cup on the table and laced her thick fingers.“I think we need to talk.”“…….”“I have a rough idea what happened. Jerome told me he found you at the .”At her words, memories of that night at the —which I’d blacked out—returned. I’d avoided thinking about it, fixated on Jerome: my attempts to kill him, why I couldn’t finish the job, looping over those thoughts without end.“I didn’t ask for details—I didn’t hear what you went through.”“…….”“But I know what the is.”I stared at the glass shards. The lukewarm tea soaked my toes and the carpet.“I went there in my younger days, too.”Her unexpected confession made me look up. It was clear: Mrs. Stella had endured similar horrors. But she looked much older—at least forty. If someone her age survived the , it had begun far earlier than I thought. I trembled imagining how many had been sacrificed.I stared at her, then looked away. My pain wasn’t from the —it was from those top-floor boys. From me. Nothing else mattered. I didn’t care about anything else. All I wanted was to escape this agony….“I devoted my youth to the .”Mrs. Stella spoke quietly. I watched her.“All the atrocities… I endured years of contempt and survived. I chose to survive. Instead of fighting the sadism with rage, I endured and lived.”“…….”“You’re still young.”“…….”“No matter what you endured at the , you have a choice now. You can decide how to live the rest of your life—survive like me, or…”She paused, and her expression conveyed decades of regret in an instant.“You could throw yourself into vengeance, like Christopher and Jerome did.”“Jerome…?”I looked at her in confusion. She nodded gravely.“They owe the too, like we do.”Instinctively, I sprang up. Shards bit into my foot, but I barely felt it. Mrs. Stella gasped. I took a step toward her, and blood welled up. I felt faint—not from pain, but shock. Sensation dulled; I couldn’t feel or see my wounded foot. Then a sudden sharpness: Mrs. Stella pulled a glass sliver free. I gripped her arm as she examined my foot.I tried to speak but found no words. A debt? It sounded as if Jerome had suffered at the . But what kind of man was Jerome? I recalled only his crazed face lashing me, laughing atop a horse as he pursued me. I had never known a helpless Jerome. I couldn’t imagine it. In shock, I finally blurted,“J-just… what did you mean? What did you say about Jerome? What debt does he owe?”Mrs. Stella’s gray eyes blinked silently. I bit her arm, shouting, unable to remember when I last spoke so loudly.“Answer me! What do you mean? What debt?”“Jerome…”She spoke painfully slowly.“Well, I don’t know all the details. His situation was very different—quite a special case. In any event, parts like self-harm or suicide attempts were similar.”

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