My husband, though he was scum and devilish to us - saw himself as quite the hero. It was amazing what men could justify for their ends. Well, it's old history now, but I couldn't believe at first when I realised it. That someone who beat his wife, beat his child, gambled and drank all day could justify all that.

That was a sign he wasn't ‘human’ yet was more human than anyone else. Perhaps, by only living by those basal desires he could call himself a hero. It was most obvious when by an incredible miracle, he’d live to win and keep his cash. The faint jingle of coins, and long absences left barely anything to the imagination. It was only unfortunate that at some point he’d arrive home.

Otherwise, to me, that theory was more convincing than the civil society that grinded and grinded away at my gears. Gears that I told me to stand on reason. Gears that said I was wrong for thinking in such a way. Gears that said to trust in the humanity, in the strangers around me. That at least one person would listen to such a story.

I could agree on that at least.

Because you're reading this right now, no?

Humans are more than their instincts. Then the distant past, or inevitable future. The morality that bound all that told me to take responsibility till the very end. Because of that foolish sense of civility, I went between banks and pulled out loans often. At the very least, I wanted to protect one thing from the real world. That faint peace between his short ‘vacations’. Because I couldn't run away from the hero. He'd hunt and hunt for the animals in his keep, then slowly boil them alive. The heroes I’d once read about in fairytales seemed long gone from the reality I was in. But maybe this was just another form of that story. To the villain crushed by the hero, they were the devil.

Thus, I am the hero.

But for all my disdain and words I couldn’t say, there was a light suspicion for things not being right at home.There was a knock, and I'd just come back from work and was slow.

If I knew, I would've said everything was well.

Instead, the 'hero' opened the door. And on the other end, was an officer. Yes, a police officer. I won't pretend. I was excited. I saw a chance, an opportunity. If they came in, if they saw the truth we were living...!

It was a simple door to door questions about a murder. Right, yesterday..that elderly couple mentioned it. More people committed suicide here than it was worth pausing and mourning about, so I didn't understand the reason why. The dead won't come back. It's all for your self-satisfaction.

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Cooperating quickly while shooing away my son of course, I tried to mouth a few words to him. I don’t know what I expected. It was even rushed, so it was probably hard to read as well. Still, he said the fateful words. What I wanted to hear most at that moment.

“I’d like to ask other members of the family some questions.”

I didn’t control my expression well.

But I was satisfied.

And because of my satisfaction, forgiving "myself" and forgetting where I was in, he noticed. And in the middle of talking, turned around crushed my throat. Almost. I was ‘lucky’ in that, I was alive with only a few side effects. I simply couldn’t see for a while. Still due to being witnessed, however I had to sign some medical waivers. They were blurry, and I had to redo my signature several times. Yet, an agreement was made to not bother with court or anything else. With some choice words from him, of course.

I couldn’t…support Dokja on my own.

It was the first of many papers I signed. Where I said along with his words – 'It's Sookyung' s fault.' – It was worded differently, much more formally with different symbols printed in pristine ink, though the meaning remained unchanged. This was only a family matter. There was heavy concern, and a psychological assessment was done, but nothing could be carried out if neither party wanted a fuss. A woman was rather sympathetic to me, with there being quite a bit of security around the exit as well. A small room with the slight scent of iron with the only bit of childishness being a stuffed giraffe plushie. It’s four hindlegs poked out rather cutely.. I focused on it as my vision began to clear, not filling in the silence. She nodded as if reading my thoughts and finally started speaking.

Her voice was lowered as if not to stir me out of my daze. I still didn’t meet that gaze. She said she'd gone through similar things, and that if I admitted anything it'd be kept in strict confidence. I didn’t ignore those words, but I couldn’t follow through either. There was only one thing I was certain a person like me could do.

Running away in fear. Yes, I could turn away. But. If I did something like that, none of us could live normally anymore. He was someone who deserved to die, so it didn’t matter but what about us? Our next. I could see it being struck through with a harsh reviewer’s pen, that such people with troubled lives were undesirable. What would happen if that history was available for my employers? I knew. What about my reputation? It’d be stained in the same black ink I signed. Would my innocent child be able to heal from that? The answer escaped me. No matter how much I read my life again, it didn’t appear. It was the pages of a story seemed almost never-ending, but the last letters weren’t written anywhere. Just like that. Still, it was only ‘almost’.

And yet, the question of 'next' was scary.

"It's fine. Only...some family issues."

I wonder how I appeared as I said that. Was I shaking? Did I look resolute? I wondered how I appeared back then, and I thought how I could keep going. It was my story.