P. 5

For a while, I forgot about Han. I kept talking about my project — to all my writer friends, in all my applications — but I didn’t actively seek her presence like I did last year. Then, one day, she came. She didn't arrive as a voice, the weather, or a feeling. She came as a dream. I call it: The Penguin Dream.

* * *

I was in a bustling fish market. I was with my writer friends from the K-drama institution. We walked around, enjoying the sight of fresh sashimi, crabs, clams, and seaweed. We wanted to try some, but we had to return a couple of hours later. When we returned, however, the market was already closing down. There was hardly anything left. I remember looking at leftover sashimi displayed inside a dusty glass case — they were no longer fresh, but dried, dead, unwanted.

Then, in a back corner, I spotted a live penguin caught in a net. It looked angry, constantly flapping its wings and making a squeaky sound. I was surprised, but I didn't feel threatened.

But as I walked past, I saw another penguin. This one wasn't in a net. It looked at me, its eyes beaming with rage. I instantly grabbed her by the neck and screamed for help. To my shock, no one listened; everyone minded their own business or pretended they didn’t hear me.

Thankfully some came. She was an old lady who ran one of the shops in the market. She, too, grabbed the mad penguin by the neck like I did. The penguin became even more furious: it now attacked her, its sharp beak almost touching the soft skin of her face. I screamed louder and louder, but people only looked up momentarily before turning away. I heard the woman say: “I’m dying.”

Then she did something outrageous: she opened her mouth, took a deep breath, and inserted the penguin’s head inside. She must have thought it would calm down the bird, but it didn't. Now, she couldn't breathe; she could only feel the rough feathers of the vengeful penguin in her throat. And in the midst of such chaos, she was cautious not to crush the penguin’s eyes with her teeth.

* * *

When I woke, I remembered everything — the suffocating sensation, the texture of the dark, waterproof feathers, and the nonchalant faces of the crowd. I felt sick just by imagining the moment.

That morning, I thought the penguin was Han, coming to torture me again. But by the afternoon, I realized: the penguin was the symbol of various sufferings in my life, and the old lady — the one who tried to solve the problem by swallowing it — was me.