Hostage Handbook

Chapter Twenty-Two | Summer Shadows

YEOREUM

I walk for two hours before I run into a petrol station I dare to enter.

I grab the cheapest blonde hair dye no one in their sane mind will use, kitchen scissors, a pair of discounted glasses, overnight pads and a cake bread that is two hours away from expiring. The cashier delivers me a lethargic greeting and squishes everything in a black plastic bag. His eyes are latched to the old radio TV.

"Where is the restroom?" I mumble with a forged foreign accent.

"Left," the worker says curtly.

I thank him and stroll to the door with a faded bathroom sign.

The tiled room is small and rusty. I stuff the pads and bread into my duffel bag and spread everything else next to the taps. A thick line of murk runs down the sink rubber, but I have to chase away my germaphobia to make my plan work.

The scissors struggle to wedge through my hair, occasionally getting trapped between thicker strands. That whopping twelve-thousand-won price tag is undoubtedly a scam.

My head grows light when I complete my choppy bob-cut. I tie up the plastic bag of hair and hurl it into the sanitary bin before I unbox the hair dye. The plastic containers and scrappy instruction manual fall apart with a clank.

I mix the chemicals that stink of chronic diseases and push the colour into my hair. I use up every last drop of the dye, trying my best not to think about all the permanent harm the toxins will do to my hair cuticles.

My neck is as stiff as death when I lift my head from the sink. I change back into the black hoodie before I look at the grubby mirror. The blonde dye has dried into a streaky yellow blonde colour on my hair. Although it is not as light as I anticipated, I do look different.

I squint my eyes shut and put on the cheap glasses. The thick black rims frame my face with a sluggish feeling that automatically draws people to look away from me.

I dart out of the store without the worker even noticing. There's only one working surveillance camera in the entire store, so I easily find a cameraless route.

The afternoon sun shines through the grass. It is blinding to the eye, but it does not emit a speck of warmth.

I can only pray that Ms Kim hasn't discovered my escape yet, but something in my mind urges me to be hopeful. I have been so unlucky for so long. Surely, it's time for the pendulum to sway in my favour.

The dock I want to reach is on the edge of Incheon, neighbouring the glamorous cruise ports. I was there once to give my father money to flee to China.

From memory, it is a large, foul-smelling place cramped with container cranes and grim faces. I was in my third year of middle school, and every wisp of air in that place seemed scary.

It was one of my father's tougher escapes. A notorious mob was hunting him, threatening to take his kidneys if he didn't pay them back. Of course, we couldn't pay them; Father barely had the money for food.

After Father disappeared, they threatened to chop off Gyowool's fingers, poured pig blood over our door, and even harassed me with rape threats. The stressful time didn't end until the police brought down that mob.

A selfish part of me was thankful when my father came home with a lung cancer diagnosis. Lung cancer returned his sanity and gave me the chance to climb out of all the horrors he brought me.

I was so certain I could live a better life in my new shell. I wanted my life to sprout towards sunshine and rainbows so bad. So, so fucking bad.

The water sloshes against the concrete dock. As I step on the grainy ground, I feel like a baby inching back into the womb.