Seungcheol had another drink today, too. It was the first time in a while he'd had a nice profit. His face flushed red, he downed five shots of soju and hummed along. The alcohol he'd consumed, almost to the point of nausea, gurgled in his stomach. Back home, he tuned the radio while chewing on the free slush from his regular bar. After a few crackles, the news began to play.
“His Excellency Chun Doo-hwan will exterminate the communists in Gwangju for the safety of the people…”
Seungcheol sobered up. Gwangju was where his only son was. He'd heard it was locked down, but he'd thought it would be lifted soon. Still drunk, Seungcheol fumbled around for his car keys, his arms and legs still sore from the alcohol. "Dad's coming." Seungcheol clenched his fists with determination. He then affectionately stroked his old taxi. The taxi, its paint chipped in places, sped along with considerable force, as if to repay Seungcheol's kindness.
The two returned home in silence. Not a word was exchanged between them. Only the cassette tape, which they hadn't been able to turn off, played softly, and even that player was prone to malfunction. Soobin locked the bathroom door and crouched on the floor for a long time. Why is the world so cruel? It was truly fucked up.
“…come out.”
Subin laughed, making a deflating sound.
“You speak informally so naturally?”
"I was wondering if it was okay to do it since you didn't tell me to stop using informal language earlier. We've known each other for quite some time now. If you don't like it, I won't."
Yeonjun hurriedly added, "If you don't like it, I won't do it." But Soobin no longer felt any sense of camaraderie or anything like that with Yeonjun.
“What do we know?”
“…”
"Name? Appearance? That's all I know. Even third parties know those things."
"Didn't you see the wanted poster that came up this morning?" Soobin muttered softly. Yeonjun couldn't have missed it. It was plastered large on the window of Grandma Jang's supermarket. The poster, sourced from the Gwangju Police Station, contained a poorly-quality photo, seemingly taken hastily at a protest, and Soobin's name was printed in bold letters. But Yeonjun quickly forgot about it. It didn't affect their contract, and he'd seen something even worse.
“You only know what other people know about me.”
Yeonjun was quiet. He must have been thinking about something else. Soobin felt incredibly pathetic about herself. But Yeonjun was a burden to Soobin in so many ways. He should have just told her not to protest. Soobin clutched her hair in frustration.
“…yellow taxi.”
“…?”
“The yellow taxi is coming to Gwangju… No. Let’s stop talking.”
Soobin frowned at this enigmatic statement. What does that mean? He must have gone crazy after inhaling tear gas.
“……Come or not.”
Subin spat out as if he was annoyed.
“…People were asking me earlier if I wasn’t going to come to the protest.”
“I’m going. Who said I’m not going?”
“……”
“Don’t even think about following me.”
Soobin retorted in a low voice. Yeonjun walked slowly from the bathroom door to his room. What kind of situation is this? Just a few days ago, Yeonjun and Soobin had been idealistic contract partners. No, it seemed like they were starting to develop feelings for each other that were more than just contract partners. But why? Why, of all times, did they have to become each other's suffocating presence? Yeonjun couldn't understand.
Seungcheol stared at the entrance to Gwangju, surrounded by layers of soldiers. He'd long since sobered up, and the sky, which had been a deep blue when they left Seoul, was now rising again. Seungcheol's tongue felt parched. At the same time, the thought of his son, who must have been terrified, surrounded by those soldiers, brought tears to his eyes.
Seungcheol took out the photo he kept in the pocket of his faded yellow vest. His son, now taller than his father, was staring at Seungcheol from the torn photo, his dimples bright and his smile bright. As Seungcheol tried to fold the photo back up, the torn photo tore.
“Oh my.”
The part with Seungcheol's image fell off his son's and rolled in the mud. Seungcheol picked up his face, which had fallen into the puddle. He couldn't think of a way to dry it. He simply carefully folded the piece with his son's image and put it in his vest.
“Subin, don’t be afraid. Daddy is coming.”