I sat on the padded floor mat, my black dress stiff and uncomfortable. My legs had gone numb from sitting so long, but I didn’t care. My hands were clenched in my lap, the thin fabric of my dress crumpled in my fists. Around me, the low hum of conversations mixed with the faint scent of incense burning near the altar. People came and went. They bowed deeply, left offerings, and whispered condolences to me which I barely remember. i have seen this scene before, when it was my parent's funeral. i was too young but i remember the voices, the smell of incense, black cloths and the smile of my mother in the picture.
Someone’s crying echoed in the room—a deep, gut-wrenching sound. it might've someone else who just lost their loved ones. I couldn’t tell anymore. All the voices, the sobs, the whispers blurred into one strange noise, like the background static of a TV left on too long.
But I couldn’t cry.
I stared at the portrait again. My aunt’s lips curved in a faint smile, and I almost laughed. It was such a perfect picture of her, but it wasn’t her. Not really. She didn’t smile like that. Her real smile was wide and full of teeth, sometimes goofy, sometimes sarcastic. The smile in that photo felt fake—like it didn’t belong to her at all.
The laugh bubbled up before I could stop it. It wasn’t loud, just a small, breathy chuckle, but it cut through the room like a sharp knife.
A few people turned to look at me. I slapped my hand over my mouth, but it was too late. The laugh wouldn’t stop. It came again, louder this time, and then again, spilling out of me like a broken faucet. My shoulders shook, and my stomach ached, but I wasn’t crying—I was laughing.
The room felt heavier, the silence pressing down on me like a weight. “She’s really gone, isn’t she?” I whispered, the words barely audible even to myself.
The truth hit me all at once, sharp and cruel. My aunt, the woman who was my only family, who laughed the loudest in the room, who made the best kimchi stew—was gone. Stolen. Murdered.
I wanted to cry, to scream, to do something, but I couldn’t. I just sat there, staring at the altar, frozen. I was trapped in my own head, in a loop of denial and pain. finally, a weak tear slid down my cheeks.
But it wasn’t enough. No amount of crying could make this make sense.
Then, the bell above the door jingled.
Two men walked in, their faces partially hidden under baseball caps and masks. Something about the way they moved—fast but deliberate—sent a shiver crawling up my spine. My hand froze midair, holding a bag of chips. I stood slowly, wiping my hands on my apron. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah,” the man at the counter said. His voice was gruff, low. “You can help by giving us all the cash in the register.” his english was rough, he must be a korean.
I blinked, my brain stuttering. Did he just—?
“What?” I asked, my voice cracking.
He slammed his hand on the counter and pull out a gun and point it at me, and I flinched. “I said, give us the cash! Now!” he shouted and i glanced towards the gun he was holding, my instincts, a voice, whispered into my ear.
"there is no bullet in it" i said it out loud and the next thing happened is that the second man grabbed my arm, yanking me hard. I cried out as pain shot through my shoulder. His fist came down hard against my side, knocking the air out of me. I stumbled, clutching my ribs, but there was no time to recover.
The first man came around the counter, and the next blow landed on my jaw. The world tilted, and I fell hard onto the cold tile. My head smacked the floor, and everything rang—like someone had smashed cymbals inside my skull. They didn’t stop.
Kicks landed on my stomach, my back, my legs. Each one sent a sharp jolt of pain through me. My arms instinctively curled around my head, trying to protect myself, but it didn’t matter. They were relentless.
I could taste blood—metallic and thick—pooling in my mouth. The smell of sweat and cheap cologne from the men filled the air, mixing with the faint, sweet scent of spilled soda from a knocked-over display.
“Stop, please,” I whimpered, barely able to get the words out. My voice was weak, swallowed by their shouts and the sound of my own labored breathing. I lay there, trembling, unable to move. My entire body throbbed, every nerve screaming in pain. Through the haze, I heard their heavy footsteps and the jingle of the doorbell as they left.
For a moment, the store was silent again, except for my ragged breathing and the distant hum of the freezer. The cold floor pressed against my cheek, grounding me just enough to realize they were gone.
I tried to push myself up, but my arms gave out, and I collapsed again. The sharp sting of tears blurred my vision as I stared at the register, its drawer still open, empty now.
All I could do was lie there, hoping someone—anyone—would come, but no one will.
I managed to come home at last and slept for days. Whenever I opened my eyes, I found no urge to look at what day it was or even what month. Time felt like a meaningless blur. Finally, someday, a doorbell pushed me from bed to see who had come. Maybe it was the angel of death.
I opened the door, but there was no one. Only a box at my feet—a small, plain box. I bent down to pick it up, and a streak of pain hit me like a bullet, i haven't recovered fully glancing up and down the street for whoever had left it. There was no one except the neighbor’s kids on their way to school, their chatter faint in the distance.
Curiosity prickling my skin, I brought the box inside. Sitting at the edge of the couch, I opened it cautiously. Inside was a mobile phone, sleek and new.
I stared at it for ten minutes, processing the whole thing. Who would leave this for me? Why? Finally, I turned it on, the screen lighting up brightly. It was completely clean—no contacts, no messages, no apps. But then I found the gallery. There was only one video.
I hesitated, my finger hovering over the play button, but something pulled me to click it. The moment it started, horrible screams filled the air. My stomach twisted as the image appeared.
Two men were tied up, their condition enough to make anyone gag. One of them had a broken leg and arm, the bone jutting out of his flesh in jagged, bloody horror. The other’s face was a mangled mess of bruises and blood, his mouth busted open. I squinted, my breath catching in my throat.
It was them. The men who robbed me. The men who beat me.
My hand trembled as I held the phone, my pulse pounding in my ears. Suddenly, in the video, a hand entered the frame—a veiny hand with long, firm fingers gripping a gun tightly.
Then came the shots.
The sound of gunfire ripped through the video, and their screams stopped instantly. Blood splattered everywhere, and their bodies slumped lifelessly.
The video ended, but I couldn’t let it go. My thumb rewound it, back to the moment when the hand appeared. Carefully, I examined the screen, my heart racing.
And then I saw it. A black hair tie looped around the wrist of the person holding the gun.
It was mine.
A chill ran down my spine, my entire body going cold. My chest tightened as everything clicked into place. That hand—the one that pulled the trigger—belonged to someone I knew. Someone who had access to my things. he is watching me? from where? did he know the tragedy happened to me?
My lips trembled as I whispered, “Ray fucking Wallace.”
The name came out like venom, a mixture of anger, confusion, and something I couldn’t quite name. Fear? Relief? Betrayal? In that instant, a hurricane of emotions whirled through me.
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