(A SHORT NOVEL )

I started traversing the trail up the mountain, which I often visit whenever I want to be alone to meditate or contemplate. Sometimes, I come here to read a book, and because I always bring a pen and a notebook, there have been times when I have journaled. This mountain is where I retreat whenever I need to make a significant decision, just as I did today.

I travel for an hour by bus to get here. It will take almost 2 hours of walking at a normal pace to reach the mountain’s highest point. No one knew that I had gone to this mountain.  Anyway, I never told anybody that I come here occasionally. That is intentional. It’s my hideaway, so I kept it secret. Even this climb, no one knows. I haven’t told anyone that I’m going anywhere… and I won’t be coming back.

I’ve been walking for quite a while now, and it’s already past noon. But I only feel a few sweat drops on my forehead and cheeks. I don’t even feel any dampness at the back of my shirt. Even though my backpack is heavy, it is filled with food and drink for my last supper. It could be because my steps are small. It’s like the walk of those joining a funeral march to bring someone to their resting place. It’s like the walk of someone about to be executed, needing to be pushed and coerced by those escorting them to the gallows. Or perhaps I’m not sweating much because it’s only late March, and the stubborn winter refuses to give way to spring, much like the emotional winter that still grips my heart and mind, refusing to melt away. The cold still lingers, just as my pain does, and the promise of renewal feels as distant as the warmth of spring.”

The cherry blossoms are starting to bloom in the few trees along my trail, and the leaves are beginning to sprout on the branches of some trees and plants. Under some trees are shrubs of forsythia with their buds of flowers, giving a glimpse of their yellow color. The flowers will bloom to their fullest in just a few days to bring life and color to the surroundings made barren by the scorching chill of the past winter. Yet, even as spring begins to reveal its beauty, I can’t help but feel indifferent. Like the stubborn winter that clings to the earth, my heart refuses to acknowledge the warmth, the hope, and the promise of renewal that is slowly pushing through the cold. The world may be awakening, but it’s still winter inside for me, and I can’t shake the cold rooted deep in my soul.

It’s too bad I won’t be around to witness the full bloom of the flowers as spring unfolds. The trail I’m walking on will be one I won’t descend again. Spring, with its promise of life and renewal, seems so distant, as though it belongs to a world I can no longer be part of. The flowers will bloom, the trees will bud, and life will return to the earth, but it feels as though my winter is too deep to let that warmth reach me. Death, like the last bite of cold in winter, feels inevitable now, and I cannot bring myself to see the beauty of spring when my heart remains frozen in this endless, unyielding chill.

No one knows what will happen when I climb this mountain again. I can’t say I’ll leave it all to fate when I reach the top. Fate is a myth.  I don’t believe when they say  “It is written.” That is not true. The book of life has nothing but empty pages.  I subscribe to the notion that life is the sum of our decisions. We hold the pen and we’re responsible in writing our story in the empty pages of the book of life.

And I have already made up my mind. I will write the last sentence of my storyten at the end of the day. Everything’s planned already. I’ll get to the summit and sit in my favorite spot there to finish a dozen beers and two bottles of Korean wine. I won’t leave any of the fried chicken I brought, except the bones. The peanuts and some kimchi I packed, I’ll gobble them all up, too.  They are the last foods I’ll taste. At least I’ll be full and drunk when I die. It’s not just the ones about to be executed who are given what they want to eat before their sentence is carried out. Even those who are about to take their own life should have their last but sumptuous meal.

This should have been one of the happiest days of my life. I prepared for it and spent a lot of money. I should have been in my own country now. But everything got messed up. Where did I go wrong?

Where did I fall short? I can’t figure it out.

I’ve reached the rocky part of the mountain. Only now did I realize that this part of the mountain looked like a cemetery during such times. There are no trees, and the large rocks resemble tombstones. The plants that haven’t yet sprouted leaves resemble crosses and grave markers.

In any case, the mountains here are often used as burial grounds. Every time I climb this mountain, I pass by a few graves that, without any markers or tombstones, would look like ant hills.

I’ll also lie down here on this mountain. Unfortunately, I won’t be buried properly.

I still have a long way to go, but I don’t want to speed up my steps. I’m not in a rush to die.  I just need to carry out my plan at the top of the mountain. I’m ready. By this afternoon, before the sun sets, the story of my life will be over.

If only I could, to avoid the tiring climb, I would just let myself get run over by a truck. If only I could, I would use a gun or a knife. I’ve thought about doing any of those. But where will I get a gun? I don’t like to knife myself to death, for I think it’s a painful way to die. Even drinking poison. But I don’t want to die that way either. Another thing is, the poison I might buy might not even work. I want to be sure that my breath will stop when I do what I planned to do. If I let myself get run over by a truck, my body would be smashed to pieces, and anyone who picks up my scattered bones and flesh would be disgusted. They’ll swear, for sure. Instead of sympathy, they’ll curse me, and my soul may not find eternal repose. Then I paused, having recalled that, indeed, my soul will be damned in hell, for I am taking away my own life. That’s what my religion taught me. But what’s the difference between the hell afterlife and the hell I am in now?

Above all, the last thing I want is to be a bother to anyone. I don’t want to be found dead and cause trouble for others. I even thought about jumping in front of a subway train. But I don’t wish my country’s name to be dragged into it when the media finds out that the crazy person who got hit by the train was a citizen of my country.

Well, suicide news is pretty common here. If what I read is true, over twenty people commit suicide in this country every day. I will be part of those statistics tomorrow.  So, even if they hear about my death, they probably won’t care. And that’s what I want. I don’t want anyone to notice what I’m going to do. The only one who should know that someone jumped from the highest part of this mountain is the dead person who landed in the rocky, overgrown section of it. But I certainly won’t live to tell the tale. Dead men tell no tales.

Of course, my loved ones, friends, colleagues, embassy officials, and the authorities here will look for me. But they won’t think my corpse is here, in the steep mountain section covered with trees and grass. I even made sure to enter the section of the trail with no CCTV cameras earlier, so there’s no proof that I climbed this. I have been here many times and memorized where those security cameras are installed. That’s part of my planning. When they eventually suspect I could have come here and looked for me, the wild animals that I know roam this area have already filled their stomachs with my flesh, and the worms would have feasted on their leftovers. My bones could be scattered in different places, but the dirt and dry leaves would have already concealed them. They won’t find any of my clothes either because I’ll burn them, and I’ll jump to my death naked. So, if my skull is rigid and doesn’t break when I jump, I’ll surely die from hypothermia. I provide myself with no escape.

That’s how detailed my plan is. I just don’t have a suicide note because I don’t want anyone to know what I’m about to do. And for me, leaving a suicide note is corny.

I decided to take a break for a while. It felt like my legs no longer wanted to move. I sat on a large rock, leaning against a tall pine tree.

The surroundings were quiet. Was it just a coincidence that today, there were no chirping birds in the trees like I used to hear when I came here? Do they know what I am about to do, and in sympathy, they are keeping quiet and watching me from the branches of the trees?

I also didn’t meet anyone on the way up. That was fine, for it meant no one could claim to have seen someone who looked like that person in my photo, which they would surely show when they came searching for me. And I hope there won’t be anyone when I reach the top. I want to jump as soon as I finish all the food I brought, so it can all be over quickly.

While resting, I lit a cigarette. I coughed a bit when I inhaled the smoke. It was my first time smoking. I suddenly decided to do it when I bought a lighter at a convenience store before climbing. I wasn’t afraid of getting lung cancer anymore. It was the fear that prevented me from becoming a smoker.  That fear has lost its fangs, for in just a few hours, I’ll be closing the book of my life. At the convenience store, I ensured that the hood of my jacket covered my head, and I was also wearing a face mask that I usually use for protection against yellow dust, so no one would recognize me if they checked the CCTV, in case they started searching for me.

Before I could finish the cigarette, my phone suddenly rang.

It was my mother calling. I didn’t want to answer, but I wanted to give her the courtesy of hearing my voice one last time.

“Joseph… son, are you okay?”

I could feel my mother’s sympathy for me as she said that. And that’s what I hated the most – being pitied. That’s why I didn’t want to answer her call.

“Don’t worry about me, Mom. I’m okay.”

“Are you sure, son?”

I felt a little bit annoyed with my mother.

“How many times do I need to tell you, Mom?”

“Sorry, I just want to make sure. Son, I hope you still come home, no matter what happened. We miss you. It’s been months since we last saw you.”

It felt like my brows furrowed when I heard that. If I were looking in the mirror, I’d probably see my forehead wrinkled like a tangled pile of noodles. I had no face to show anyone after everything, yet my mother still wanted me to come home! For what? To be pitied or laughed at? To be a topic of conversation among rumor mongers. And if I did go back to the country, I wouldn’t want to go to our house. I’m sure something bad will happen. If I’m not the one getting badly hurt or killed, maybe I’ll be the one to hurt somebody badly or worse, take that someone’s life. Actually, two lives. The idea of going home feels like trudging back into the dead of winter, cold and suffocating, as if the chill will never melt away.

“Sorry, Mom. My boss gave me an urgent task at the hagwon. My contract entails me to abide by it.”

“But aren’t you on leave because supposedly you and Jinky…”

“Mom… STOP… PLEASE.”

Another reason I didn’t want to go home was that event. It was the only thing they would repeatedly talk about. Every time I thought about it, it felt like needles were piercing through my heart and mind, like the sharp, unforgiving frost of winter that cuts through any warmth that might try to reach me. You can call me dramatic, but anyone who has gone through what I did would have their world collapse and come to a halt. I couldn’t even allow myself to believe in the possibility of spring, of things changing, when all I felt was the numbness of winter and the certainty that nothing would ever thaw.

For the first time, I yelled at my mother. When I said those words, I felt like my eyes were about to pop out. It was as if I were talking to my youngest sister.

It took a while before I heard my mom’s voice again.

“Son, if you need someone to talk to, just call me, okay? Or we can Skype.”

“Yes, Mom. I’m sorry. Just let me be for now.”

“By the way, her parents came here earlier. They wanted to…”

“AHHH… MOOOMMMMMM!!! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I AM SAYING? IS IT THAT HARD TO UNDERSTAND WHAT I WANT TO HAPPEN? I WANT ALL OF YOU TO LEAVE ME ALONE.”

“I yelled again at my mother. It felt like my throat was going to explode as I said that. If I were talking to anyone else, not my mother, those words would have been interlaced with a lot of cussing and cursing.

What followed was silence, a heavy pause that seemed to stretch endlessly, like the cold between winter and spring—an unspoken tension, the space where anger and regret collide, where something could change but refuses to thaw.”

“Okay… okay, son.” My mother broke the icy silence, her voice trembling, like the first crack of thawing ice that still clings to the cold, unwilling to fully give way to warmth.

“Ah… Joseph. Son, are you still with me?”

It was the last thread of patience and respect I had for my mother that made me still answer her.

“What is it, Mom?”

“Well, you see…”

I already knew what my mother was going to say.

“Your brother is here. I want you two to talk. I’m begging you.”

The last thread of patience I had snapped. I didn’t respond to my mother’s supplications. I ended the call. That could never happen again – for me to talk to my mother’s eldest son. If by some miracle, my bones and skull weren’t crushed when I hit the rocks and the cold didn’t take my breath away, and I survived, we’d never reconcile.

“It would have been easier to accept what happened if he hadn’t been involved. But of all the people, why my brother? The brother who once promised, when we were little, that he would always have my back. Yeah, he had my back—just long enough to stab me in it.”

My mother kept calling. I didn’t answer. If I weren’t waiting for any other call, I would have turned off my phone and thrown it away. The silence felt colder than the phone buzzing in my hand, like a winter storm that refused to let up, relentless and suffocating.

I had no one on my side. Of course, my mother would favor her favorite child. Maybe my friends understand me. I’m sure they know what happened. It’s hard to believe they haven’t heard. Many of them were even invited to my wedding that was supposed to happen today. There are calls and texts from the country. Some are even sending me private messages on Facebook. My Messenger is flooded with messages, as is my email. Not one of them have I responded to. Their advice and opinions would only make things more complicated. They don’t know what it’s like to feel like you’re stranded alone on a desolate island in the middle of an unyielding winter, no warmth, no escape from the cold.

Whatever they say, it’s still me who will decide for myself. This is my life. I think no one can help me. No one can change what has happened.

What about God? Could He change everything that happened? If only He could. But I know that’s not how God works. He doesn’t interfere. He doesn’t take sides. As I understand it, He lets people make their own decisions and face the consequences of their actions.

When a person is born, the wheel of their fate begins to turn. Sometimes, they’ll get caught in that wheel. It’s too bad if they can’t avoid it and get crushed. Trapped. Crushed. Just like me now. Crushed. Completely crushed. It’s the weight of winter, bearing down, suffocating, unrelenting. No spring in sight to soften the blow, no light to cut through the darkness.

I can’t wait to get to the top of the mountain. I just want to slam my head against the rocks repeatedly until my skull breaks.

To be continued…

Edge of the Fall (Part 1)