Chapter 108 [fin] - The Girl Wants to Be M*rdered

〈Chapter 108〉 I Offer My Sincere Respects to You (End). * * * ** I shall return to the sky Holding hands with the dew Vanishing in the dawn light, I shall return to the sky Together, just the two of us Playing by the shore, when the clouds beckon, I shall return to the sky On the day this beautiful world's picnic ends, I will go and say, it was beautiful…… [Ascension (??)] —Sim On (??) Cheon Sang-byeong. *** ─Click, clack. "...Phew. It's all over." A press of the enter key with a little finger. With that final press, the hour-long typing session came to an end. Yes, everything is truly finished. The keyboard, so roughly handled over time that the 'ㄴ' and 'ㅈ' keys have ceased to respond. My swollen, tired eyes from scanning repeatedly for typos created by this malfunction. The online serial publication format that required a double enter press to skip lines, forcing me to constantly review and edit my writing. My left eye, which could once see at 0.5 vision a few months ago, now unable to clearly see even the top line of the eye chart. The biweekly migraines that seemed to scratch at the inside of my skull, and the two fingers, so swollen from inflammation that they made typing a struggle. All of it, now over. In truth, it wasn't all that fun. A hobby is meant to be enjoyed, but when it transforms into a task, a routine, a compulsion, it is no longer a hobby but simply work. Writing was no different, and I wasn't alone in experiencing these struggles. Yet each time, messages from readers encouraging me to continue or eagerly awaiting the next chapter lifted my spirits enough to carry on. My physical condition, certainly, but my mental state too, had deteriorated, likely resulting in the fluctuating quality of the novel. The plot of the novel at the beginning and at the end was so changed, they might well be two different stories. A kind of transitional phase, perhaps. I learned much, and thus much changed. But if I were to return to the past, "I'd probably end up writing again." I cannot conceive of a version of myself that does not write. There is a saying, the “gypsy curse.” It refers to a fate where one cannot settle in one place, having to wander here and there. And if there is such a fate that binds one to writing invariably, that was likely my destiny. Elementary school—or was it middle school?—I once pondered what life was, how one should live, spurred by the task of writing our future aspirations for the school record. Children filled that blank line with safe, monochrome answers: soldier, police officer, firefighter, teacher. "........" And I remember staring at the empty space for an hour. In the end, I filled it in. My dreamed future read, "Build a house in the countryside, live peacefully, then die." Yes, that was my hope. The teacher scolded me, and I had to change it to something more conventional—a ‘researcher,’ of all things. For which I was praised. ...Why, though? Afterward, I pondered deeply. How should I live? What values and convictions are more precious than life itself? I pondered endlessly. And the answer I came to, which I proudly declared before my closest friend at the time, was this: 'Even if given the chance to relive life, I'd confidently say I'd live as I do now.' For the record, I said that and took my friend to a PC Bang (internet cafe). The exams were next week. I didn’t want to have regrets. For the record, my friend bombed the exams. Sorry. As time went on, I befriended someone who cherished philosophy. They told me, "That's something Nietzsche said." At that time, my knowledge of Nietzsche was limited to the graffiti of 'God is dead — Nietzsche.' followed by 'Nietzsche, you are dead — God.' and then 'You’re both dead — Cleaning Lady' on restroom walls, so his ideas came as quite a surprise. The context was different, of course, but perhaps the idea was something like this: "Is this life? Ah, yes. Then once more." Of course, I used the phrase as an excuse to go to a PC Bang. My friend loved the joke to death when I told him. Explaining Nietzsche’s idea of the Übermensch (overman) as a superman got such a reaction that he wanted to strangle me. Sigh, why though. People who like Nietzsche love it when you say, "Oh, Übermensch. You mean superman, right?" Try it sometime. I won’t take responsibility for what follows. It’s akin to some bass player being told, "Wow, you play well. Why only four strings?" Or asking philosophy students, "So, where do you work after majoring in philosophy?" Anyway. If asked whether I've grown to hate writing, I'd firmly answer no. I would've written again had I gone back in time, and if given the chance, I'd strive to write better. Of course, I’d invest in Bitcoin along the way. Is Bitcoin a deity and I invincible? Reading past works, thinking, ‘Wow, what kind of foolish person wrote this? Oh right, it was me,’ was a cringe-filled but respectful nod to my less refined former self. Actually, I was loath to remake it for other reasons. ...Kidding. I've learned much. And probably lost much as well. If asked whether I regret what was lost, I might say it’s somewhat regrettable, but because what I gained was greater, I don't particularly regret it. "Because──" The messages, lessons, and inspiration left to me by readers are invaluable, beyond any measure of worth. Some offered me encouragement. From others, I learned. And from some, I received passion. The ability of my writing to move people’s hearts. The joy and inspiration it brought me were indescribable. I was once just a reader of stories, but now I write them. Isn't that a fascinating experience? It's a joy incomparable, unique to me alone. A novel reveals everything about its author. And surely, I am no exception. In every word, every sentence, every choice in structure and composition, the author's essence is disclosed. What does one want to say, what message to convey, what values does the author hold? Through writing novels, I've been able to express my thoughts, and for that, I am content. To vent and even receive money instead of paying—what a sweet deal. Try being a writer, give it a go. "Ahhhh, now what's next?" I stretched, hearing a crack as I readied myself for what would be my final typing session. If it’s to be the last, it should end on a joyful or moving note, perhaps even one that makes everyone cry. ─Click. "...Let’s wrap this up." I placed my hands back on the keyboard. The novel concludes here. Yet it’s not absolutely over. In line with my destiny, I shall write stories once more. I don’t know what form the next story will take, but I hope to include all I've experienced writing this one. There is no permanent end. Only a series of recurrent beginnings exist. I’m not sure when I’ll post the next novel. I have the content planned out, but personal circumstances might make it difficult for the next month or so. I probably need to visit the hospital and tackle tasks I've put off. But someday, I will return. No matter where I wander, I know where home is. Even if I just watch from afar, I will return here someday. Because to me, this place is like a birthplace. "So now, it's the end. The real end, the absolute end." In a movie I love, 'The Truman Show,' there's a phrase used to bid farewell each day: 'In case I don't see ya, good afternoon, good evening, and good night.' It's a long way to say, have a good day. But well, I'll definitely return here someday. No matter what happens, I’ll come back here. Let’s end with something less ominous than those words. Something ordinary. A phrase everyone frequently uses. Simple but profound when reflected upon. With great resonance. "Farewell for now." I'll bring back some ice cream when I return. This is the end. Truly the end. And a new beginning. *** The girl wishes to be murdered. Record of 107 chapters serialized. From May 30, 2021, to November 10, 2021. It all began on a whim, lacking anything else to do, resulting in an oddly finished novel and culminating in a desire to write a genuine story the author truly wanted to tell. "I die as I lived, beyond what I deserve." The End (完?) ***