I like the Beijing weather more than most.  I sit inside my two story apartment, nestled in the rim of China’s capital city, listening to the sound of the rain dampening the world outside of my window. I’m glad that the rain outside is so heavy; the tiny tick of a raindrop hitting solid surface, multiplied by the billions, creates a white noise that can lull me to sleep better than any Ambiem or Rozerem pill.

The only things I have to be weary of on these rainy nights where my mind surrenders to sleep are the dreams I’ll have. My dreams are almost as dark as my truth. Sometimes the grim fantasy I witness behind closed eyes seems like liberation from the reality I live with my eyes open.  

My life wasn’t always so solemn, I was actually blessed enough to spend the majority of my life genuinely happy. My family was a caring one, and their love was always present.  My father owned a successful architecture firm in South Korea; therefore, our family of four was able to travel to many different parts of the world for vacations and holidays.

Once while vacationing in India, my father had taught me how to play badminton. While my sister and mother admired the Taj Mahal, he and I entered deep into the city to buy birdies and rackets from a tiny shop that smelled strongly of cumin and saffron. Afterwards we played badminton with some of the locals. I played terribly. My father was no good at badminton either, even though he knew how to play. Needless to say we lost our games, but we had a great time doing so. During a different trip where we visited the Philippines, I remember our family spending hours on the warm beach burying each other in the hot sand. I transformed my younger sister into a mermaid when I was able to form a, rather impressive, sand tail over her legs. After we washed all the sand off ourselves, we sight-saw volcanoes and I ate so much adobo I was clenching my stomach on the ride back to the hotel.

My fondest memories are in those trips with my family. However, it was during one of those trips that things began to change.

I was sightseeing the Turkish streets alone with my messenger bag slung across my torso. The local merchants could practically hear the sound of lira in my bag as it swung against my hip. My obviously foreign and round face gave the impression that I was a naïve child who must have lost his way. The merchants saw me as easy prey and called me over to their booths relentlessly. Tanned, calloused hands beckoned me from every direction. I was able to ignore them well enough. However, some were more insisting than others.

One man in particular, with a large black mustache that veiled his entire upper lip, tugged on my wrist roughly to buy his merchandise. I looked down at the watches laid out on the table beside him: obviously stolen goods, most likely stolen from foreigners like myself. His wrinkled face stretched into one of self-assurance. His smile was all yellow teeth. I shook my head at and him and tried my best to free my wrist from his tight grip. The man was persistent and motioned at the watches violently. I told him I wasn’t interested in the best Turkish I could manage. I wasn't anticipating his reaction. He began speaking angrily to me; I could only pick up a few of the words he spoke, “bastard” being one of them.

The man pushed me down and I fell straight into the dirt. He towered over me and continued his enraged speech. I was more than frightened. The man was older and taller than me. My legs shook as I pushed myself back up. He pointed a bony finger straight to the point in between my eyes; I noticed the whites of his eyes slowly becoming darker and soon he stared at me with a out gaze, muttering words that seemed to melt together into a demonic chant. I felt a chill go up my spine. The veins of his face began to show through in raised lines beneath his tanned flesh. This wasn’t natural; I had to leave. The man began to yell a word to me over and over again.

I turned to run away; as my feet pounded against the dirt I could still hear the man’s chilling voice yelling the same word repeatedly. My Turkish wasn’t very good, but I recognized the word perfectly.

Cursed. Cursed. Cursed.

When I returned home I forgot about the incident with the merchant almost immediately. I wasn’t reminded about it again until a few months later. During a soccer match at my high school, I was playing on the defensive. The opposing team was from a school on the other side of the city who we hadn't played yet this season.

I met eyes with a tall boy from the opposite team. The back of his red jersey was adorned with two black zeros, he was blonde with a high nose and pointed chin. The player glared at me, and I knew he was going to attempt to score a goal. When he traveled onto my team’s side of the field I made it my mission to block him. He was able to retrieve the ball; I sprinted toward him as fast as I could.

Then it happened: In my haste to retrieve the ball from in between the boy’s legs I bumped his shoulder rather hard, suddenly I felt an intense heat in my eyes; it felt like they were filled with hot tears. Then a grim image registered into my brain. I saw a body being submerged under water and moving frantically. The body's hands scratched at the surface of the water and it's mouth opened and closed, desperately gasping for air. They were drowning. I in a harsh breath and I felt my heart stop. The image faded away quickly and all I could see was the soccer player standing in front of me on the field. 

The boy was going to die after this soccer match, and I had seen it in my own head. This boy, whose name I didn’t even know, was going to drown in the Han River later today.

I felt my legs go numb after my vision returned. My attempt to steal the ball was halted and the boy pushed me aside before scoring a goal on my team. The opposing team members cheered as the boy grinned and made a victorious gesture.

I was frozen. My eyes stung and my breathing was harsher than it should have been.

“Get your head in the game, Minseok!” one of my team members yelled.

I stood silent, still distraught from what I saw. I stared at number 00 again, he was smiling and high fiving his team mates. He’s going to die. He’s going to ing die.

I was sure of the boy’s death, but at the same time I didn’t want to believe it. There’s no way I could believe what I saw. It was the heat. I was tired from playing and dehydrated. Hallucinations were common when someone was lacking water.

My chest gave me a pained feeling; I quickly made the time-out symbol to my coach and ran off the field.

“What’s the problem?” Coach furrowed his grey brows.

“I think the heats getting to me.” I panted. I grabbed a chilled water bottle from the ice chest, held it between my hands and downed it like my life depended on it. I felt the cold run down my throat and settle into my stomach. My back leaned onto the fence and I watched my team mates play eagerly. The pace of my breathing began to slow but my chest still felt tight. I continued to look at my teamates, some of them wore intense expression and others were smiling.

It was a hallucination. Nothing bad is going to happen. My heartbeat slowed and my breathing became easy once again.

Number 00 scored another goal onto my team and he ran across the field with a wide grin spread across his face.

My chest ached. He’s going to die. Was all I could think.