Bad Life

“Christine Moore… right?”
“If I am?”
Christine draped her chin over my shoulder. Her large hand was still gripping my joint tightly.
“If I am, will you tell me why you’ve been following me?”
“…Yeah.”
The trembling in my body subsided slowly, but absurdly my mind still felt completely blank. I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again as I spoke.
“So let go of this. It hurts like hell.”
“You’re big but you’re such a drama queen. Why should I let you go?”
Christine whispered teasingly. My first meeting with Christopher—no, Christine—was nothing like I’d imagined, but at least I’d finally found him. I just wanted to see his face. I’d waited too long. My fingers twitched as I murmured,
“Even if I can’t trust you, you can at least believe how much I hate Hugh.”
Christine’s breathing against my ear stopped instantly.
“And that includes the grudges I hold ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) against George, Simon, and Jerome.”
The hand clenching my arm released me. I shook out the arm that had been stretched tight and turned around. I pressed my back against the wall. A few steps ahead stood the person I’d hunted for eight years: Christopher…
I had to admit he looked different than I’d imagined. He was much taller than me—partly because of the high heels, but even without them he’d be about my height. In the lamplight, he was dressed in drag. The green wig perched on his head fell to his elbows, and his tight crop top and knee-length pencil skirt revealed his muscular build. His large hand that had twisted my joint was adorned with neat mint-colored nail polish, and on his strong wrist was a women’s watch with a stretchy band.
That wasn’t all. His face was heavily made up—false lashes, thick eyeliner, pink lipstick. I couldn’t find a single feature that matched the photos of Christopher I’d carried with me. No wonder no one recognized him.
We stared at each other in silence for a long moment. Finally, Christine placed one muscular arm on his hip and asked primly,
“Who the hell are you?”
Blood trickled down my forehead and soaked my shirt. I lifted the hem of my shirt to wipe my forehead and face roughly, then picked up the wallet that had fallen. Silently, I offered my hand to Christine. My driver’s license was slipped between his fingers. Christine stared at me without a word, her gaze flickering down toward the bulge under her skirt, then back up to my eyes. She blinked.
Christine shook her head.
“I’m not giving it to you just because you look cute staring at me.”
With that, Christine slipped my license inside her top. I turned my head before I realized it. Wrenching my ID under what was probably her bra, Christine tilted her chin up and said,
“Follow me.”
I was still bleeding from my forehead, so Christine handed me a handkerchief—a pristine white lace one I felt bad borrowing. I pressed the wound with it and slung my fallen bag over my shoulder, then followed Christine without a word. She led me deeper into the alleys. Only when we entered a backstreet did I see the common brothel ladies plying their trade. Christine wove through them as though at home.
Every time he took a step, the click of his heels rang out. His green hair, reaching to his waist, swayed lightly as he walked; it was hard to tear my eyes away from the curve of his hips over the skirt or his long, heeled legs. There were differences from the Christopher I’d vaguely pictured, but above all, he was huge. Most people stood two or three heads shorter than Christine. Even in this ordinary alley, he drew every glance.
We crossed the street, turned down a few more alleys, and finally arrived at a shabby, suspicious iron door. He tilted his body sideways and knocked lightly. Moments later I realized it was the back entrance to a restaurant.
We passed through the noisy, crowded kitchen and the storage rooms piled with ingredients, then ascended a narrow stairway. At the top, a hallway led to a gleaming, upscale door. Christine pushed it open with an elegant gesture. We stood on the restaurant’s second floor.
As if guided to a reserved seat, Christine sat at a table near the railing overlooking the first floor without any prompt from the staff. I collapsed into the chair opposite him and surveyed the restaurant. There were only a handful of tables on the second floor—just by the railing and window—and they were spaced widely. All of them were occupied.

Only then did I realize: aside from me in my jeans and bloody shirt, everyone here—from both floors—was dressed in formalwear. This was a fine-dining establishment with a dress code. The only odd ones out were Christine and me.
“Raymond Goodman.”
Christine, propping her chin on her hand, suddenly called my name. I glanced at him but said nothing. He merely repeated it to himself as if savoring the sound.
The bleeding on my forehead had stopped, so I removed the handkerchief and shoved it into my pocket, feeling too embarrassed to hand it back. Christine watched me with a faint smile, and I felt my cheeks burn.
“Don’t be shy. Now explain. What pitiful life made you so desperate to trail someone just to get scraps?”
Before I could answer, a server silently placed a wine glass in front of us, filled it, and departed without even glancing at my bloodied face. I rubbed the dried blood from my cheek and looked at Christine.
Somehow… this was going to be far more difficult than I thought. After a pause, I finally spoke.
“You’re really Christopher Moore.”
Christine removed the sunglasses perched on his wig and nodded.
“From Chadstone, swam in a competition at nineteen. Right?”
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs with a haughty expression, lifting his chin instead of answering.
“And you know Hugh Donwell…”
“Sweetheart.”
Christine cut me off with a light clap of her hands. I closed my mouth and looked at her. She took a sip of wine, crossed her arms again, and lifted her head, narrowing her bright blue eyes on me. Those eyes frightened me.
“How hard you worked to dig up my past doesn’t interest me one bit. Stop beating around the bush and get to the point. Okay? It’s almost midnight. They’re about to close.”
Her cold words froze me. I couldn’t reply. Silence stretched, then the server placed an appetizer before us. I sat there with clenched fists, unable to touch it. Christine, on the other hand, began eating as if to show off.
Her message was clear: don’t hesitate—speak now. But the words wouldn’t come. I’d never said them before. Besides, I sensed whatever I had to say was useless to her.
For eight years I’d chased after him. I’d dreamed of this moment for eight years. I’d pictured countless first meetings with Christine, but none like this. He wouldn’t help me. I sensed that.
The past eight years would fade to nothing before him. Probably in the next moment. Half of me didn’t want to admit it, the other half clung to fading hope. The words stuck beneath my tongue as I stared silently.
Having finished the appetizer, Christine looked up. The server cleared the plates. I still didn’t speak.
Then Christine glared at me.
“Seems like you have nothing to say.”
Her tone was cold.
“Mind going now?”
My trembling fists loosened. I had to speak. I’d spent eight years searching for her, I had to say what I needed to say… Then Christine leaned back in her chair and added icily,
“And don’t you ever dig into my past again.”
“….”
It was like a bucket of ice water dumped on me.
Christine dismissed me with a gesture to the server and began giving orders. She looked entirely different from me in this fancy restaurant. I stared around blankly.
Why did I think Christine was wandering lost like me? Why didn’t I consider that she’d found her own answers? How stupid I’d been. I set the handkerchief I’d been clutching on the table.
Shouldering my bag, I stood and walked slowly to the door we’d entered. I went down the narrow stairs, through the kitchen and storeroom, and out the shabby iron door. It slammed shut behind me. The strap dug into my shoulder, my forehead throbbed. I wandered aimlessly, passing people taking out trash, then suddenly—without knowing why—I collapsed onto the pavement.
Maybe it’s all in the past now. The boys I followed at the —their mistakes are buried in the past too. They live new lives: working at companies, dating or marrying, posting vacation photos on Facebook, going to the movies for dates, gathering at pubs on match days. Christine is no different from those boys. For him, the past with Hugh is over. It’s a memory he doesn’t want to revisit, something to bury in the distant past.
Yeah. Maybe that’s life. Some things you just forget, let time carry away, leave to the years and live on. You can’t remember everything forever. Time flows, and even if I stubbornly stay in place, some things fade, discolor, and vanish with time, no matter how hard I cling. Some memories—some faces unseen for years—are bound to be forgotten. Even the dead boys… years pile up over their deaths. Maybe that’s life. Maybe it’s the truth of life I didn’t know. Sadly, the unchangeable past must be buried, and the lives of the living build new memories that slowly cover and sink old ones… I too am being forgotten. All those tragic lives are forgotten. All disgrace and hatred are forgotten. But if that’s life…
I jumped up. Slinging my bag, I ran until I was breathless, then pounded on the iron door we’d entered with my fists. Someone opened it. I shoved past them, raced through the kitchen and storeroom, sprinted up the stairs, down the hallway, flung open the door. Christine sat at the same table, still eating. My share of food sat cooling in my place.
Christine set down her knife and fork and looked up at me. I strode toward her.
“Help me.”
I begged in a rough, cracking voice.
“Help me, Christine.”
“….”
“I can’t… I can’t do this alone.”
Christine stared at me expressionlessly, then pointed with her fork to the seat opposite her.
“Sit.”
I looked at her instead of sitting. She tapped her fork again.
“Eat. You look starving.”
Strangely, at her words I felt an overwhelming hunger. My stomach growled like claws. I wanted to burst into tears like a child, but I’d left my tears on the ground with my bag. Wordlessly, I sank into the chair and grasped the knife and fork.
I paid no mind to table manners. I chopped pieces of the half-cooled meat and shoveled them into my cheeks as fast as I could until the plate was clean. Christine blinked at me with wide eyes.
“How many days have you been starving?”
“….”
“It’s fine. Eat as much as you want.”
There was no talk of the boys upstairs, no offers or requests for help. We didn’t share our pasts or ask each other questions. Instead, Christine kept refilling my plate. Whenever my glass was empty, she topped it off with wine. I swallowed the chef’s exquisite dishes without tasting them and drank the costly wine like water.
By the time I set down my fork and knife, I’d lost count of how many glasses of wine I’d downed. The restaurant was silent. The first floor below was deserted, the lights mostly off. On the second floor, it was just Christine and me. She watched me with folded arms, then when our eyes met, pushed her wine glass toward me.
I was already drunk and dizzy but too thirsty to refuse. After emptying the glass, even sitting still felt like torture. I leaned back in my chair and exhaled drowsily.
“You full now?”
“….”
I blinked slowly in response. I felt hot.
“You do look good when you eat… but…”
Christine, arm on the table, seemed distant. I watched the strands of hair tumbling from her shoulders. No—I realized it was a wig. That was a wig.
“So. What will I help you with?”
“….”
“How can I help you?”
Is it really a wig?