The snow is falling down.
Falling and falling,
Showing no signs of stopping,
The snow is falling.

The water is dripping.
Dripping and dripping in the sink -
But nobody gets up to turn off the faucet;
The water is dripping.

She is lying on the couch - cold and uncomfortable.
She is lying on the couch with the bottle in her hand.
My mother, is lying there -
Just lying there on the couch.

But where is father today?
Where is he?
He said he was going to...to the factory.
Yes, that's it. The factory.

He works in the factory for a small wage.
He is not properly educated and cannot possibly manage to get a better job -
All the judgmental people deem him unworthy of anything better.

My father is unworthy.
My mother, lying on the couch, is then, too, unworthy by association.
And I, being their only offspring, am unworthy by blood.

Hell, I've always been unworthy.
This fact will never change.

This morning my mother awakes with tears in her eyes.

I don't like seeing my mother cry -
She is cruel, but she does not deserve to cry.

I kneel beside her contorted body lying on the couch and ask,
"Mother, why are you crying?"

She sobs a little more and moves the bottle closer to her heart.
She then turns her face away from mine and speaks into a pillow:

"Daddy is gone, son. Daddy's always been gone. And Daddy hurt Mommy. Oh yes, Daddy hurt Mommy very much this time."

"Why, Mommy? Why would Daddy hurt you, Mommy?"

After the words are spoken, she stops crying altogether.
She stops her shivering and lies there - completely still.
And then, slowly, she moves the bottle to her lips.
She moves so slow, I think that time is coming to a halt.
 

I feel bad for her.
She looks so broken, so defeated.
And as I look at her, I long to fix her.
I just want to put the pieces back together.

But before I can even try to comfort her, she turns around and slaps my cheek,
And I cannot help but let out a shrill shriek.
 

It hurts.
It hurts because all I want to do is help -
All I want to do is comfort her -
And what does she do?
She rejects my arms.
She rejects my love.
She does not need my love.
To her, my love means nothing.

She jumps up from the couch and lifts me off the floor by the collar of my shirt.
Then she yells harsh words into my face:

"Daddy hurt Mommy because Daddy is a bastard!
And Mommy is a bastard for letting daddy stay around this long!
And you are a bastard for getting involved!
And Daddy is never coming back.

Do you hear me?

Daddy is never coming back."
 

"No, Mommy!" I sob as she holds my shirt, her nose nearly sanding mine away into nothing,
"I want Daddy to stay! Don't make Daddy go! Please, Mommy - please don't make him leave."

And with that she slaps me again -
And I cannot hold back my tears any longer.
 

"Stop crying, you little brat! I'm all you've got! I'm all you'll ever have."

She hits me again, this time in my stomach.

"Stop ing with me, brat!
Stop ing with me if you know what's good for you!"
 

She drops me on the floor.
She just lets go of me and lets me fall to the ground.

Then she walks into the kitchen with the bottle.

She sits down at the table, puts her head in her hands, and lets her tears fall silently.

And the water keeps dripping.
And the snow keeps falling.

And my heart is breaking.
 

Soon after that, my mother hits me again.

My mother hits me many times after that day.

Finally, when I reach the age of about ten, I can't take it anymore.

It is not because her beatings hurt - but they do, they do hurt - it is because I can't stand the thought that I am helping to ruin my mother's life.

I don't want to ruin her life.

She seems to be doing a pretty good job of that herself.
 

And so I leave.

I pack a few clothes, write a good-bye letter to my poor soul of a mother, and leave.

But I have nowhere to go.

And so I live alone.

I live in the streets of Seoul alone.

I somehow find enough food to keep myself from passing out during the day and somehow manage to hug myself through the cold, snowy nights.

And for the majority of the time I am doing all of this, I am crying.

I'm not crying for myself - I am crying for her.

Because I know she is still crying too.

I know she is sitting on the couch or at the table, with her head in her hands, and the bottle next to her - crying.
 

After a month or two of living on the street, I become very wan and weak.
Some days I pass out in the middle of the alleyway and just lie there for hours -
On others I gather up the strength to crawl under the shelter of an abandoned building.
But most of the time I only make it halfway and everything falls black.

I am dying in the streets.
I am dying.
 

Until one day, a very kind woman finds me. I do not remember much of what happens after she finds me. All I remember is that she has a very kind face and very large, compassionate eyes.

She brings me to the orphanage in her car.

She sits me in the back seat next to her son.

And I remember them saying:
 

"Mama, why is this boy so dirty?"

"This boy hasn't lived like you have, son. But he will be clean soon. Don't you worry - he'll be clean soon."

"Is he staying with us, Mama?"

"No, son. We're going to take him to the orphanage. He will be better off there."

"But I want him to stay with us, Mama. Can he stay with us please?"

"I'm sorry, son. We just can't. I just can't..."

Well, she does drop me off at the orphanage.

And, at the time, I don't think I will ever see her or her son again.

I hope that they are alright
Because that lady is the closest thing to a mother figure I've ever had.

The orphanage owner is not much of a mother - she comes in and inspects our rooms and makes sure we are wearing clean clothes and washing our faces, but she never bothers to speak to us unless we are disobeying orders.
 

Even so, I like life in the orphanage.

I am fed regular meals, I have a blanket to sleep with, and I have plenty of peace and quiet to concentrate on my thoughts.

Yes, I like life in the orphanage.
 

I am still living there when I turn nineteen.
And, one day, the house mother comes to me and asks:

"What do you intend to do with your life, Jonghyun? You have not set foot in a school and you don't even bother to leave the premises. What are you doing with your life, Jonghyun?"

In this moment, I think of my father -
My father who never had an education;
My father who abandoned my mother and made her cry.

And it is then that the orphanage becomes unholy.

It is then that the orphanage is tainted by satanic emblems and curses.

And it is then that I know it is time to leave.
 

"I'm going to take a walk, mother. I'm going to take a walk and then answer your question."

She just nods her head and leaves the room.

I follow her shortly.
 

This time, I do not bother to bring anything with me.
I don't want to bring anything with me.
Everything has been tainted.
Everything has been soiled.
 

I step onto the street alone.
I have not been on the street for more than eight years.

I feel the snow on my hands.
I have not stood in the snow for more than eight years.
I have watched it fall from my window, but not once have I bothered to reach out and touch it.

I just don't see the point.
 

As the memories of my early childhood begin to barrage the mental barricades I have spent years constructing, I see the shape of a person lying in an alley way.

I recognize that alley way.
It is my alley way.
 

I walk into the dark space, overwhelmed by the familiar smells hidden from me for years.
And I see it. The person. Lying in the center of the alley.
 

"Are you alright?" I call to him.
He does not answer.

I step closer and look at him concernedly.
"Hey, are you alright?"

No answer.

I kneel down next to him and ask one more time,
"Are you alright?"

And when he does not answer, I place my hand gently on his shoulder.
And with my touch he springs up from the street and stands at attention.
 

His eyes are wide and scanning the alley rapidly.
His left cheek and knuckles are bloody.
His outfit looks expensive and it shows off his muscles beautifully.
 

He just looks at me for a few moments.
And I just stare back at him.

He takes a step closer to me, tilts his head, and asks,

"Who...who are you?
You look...familiar."
 

And it is then that I recognize his face.
 

I take a step closer to him too, tilt my head in the opposite direction, and say:

"I...I think...I think I remember you..."