Bad Life

“It might not be…” I jumped to my feet. My head spun and I swayed. I shook it once, then approached Christine and reached out a cautious hand. Christine pulled her chin back as if to avoid me, then, realizing my intent, stayed still. The hair I touched—the wig—was far softer and smoother than I’d expected. I’d assumed the strange color meant it’d be stiff and coarse.
When I slid my fingers through it, the strands—this wig—glided between them. I could have stroked it like that forever.
“Is this… really your hair?”
“…”
Christine simply watched as I continued to stroke her hair.
“It’s so soft.”
I murmured and stroked again.
“So soft…”
“Sweetheart.”
Christine narrowed her eyes and asked, incredulous.
“Are you drunk?”
I glanced at her and lowered my head. I’d been hot ever since—my insides felt aflame. Actually, they were burning…
“Oh my. You drank a whole bottle of wine and you’re drunk?”
“I’m sleepy.”
“What?”
My legs gave out.
“Sleepy.”
It was true. I was sleepy. I slumped to the floor, gazing dully at Christine. My head felt unbearably heavy. Just for a moment… if I nodded off… the instant my forehead hit the table leg, overwhelming drowsiness washed over me. I blacked out.
I was thirsty. Parched. I burrowed deeper under the covers, too sleepy to rise. I exhaled into the blankets. They smelled comforting and felt soft against my skin. I nuzzled my face into them, forgetting my thirst, and drifted back toward sleep—until a delicious smell woke me.
I awoke abruptly. Waking to the smell of food was completely foreign to me.
I fell out of bed. I’d never been here before and had no idea where I was. As I surveyed the neatly decorated bedroom, I suddenly remembered meeting Christine yesterday. Dizziness overtook me and I almost collapsed. To make matters worse, I was only in my underwear.
I couldn’t recall what had happened. I swear I’d never experienced anything like this. Panicked, I looked around. A fluffy pink robe lay draped over a chair at the foot of the bed—something a woman might wear, but I didn’t care.
Surprisingly, it fit perfectly. I tied the sash and, barefoot, tiptoed out of the bedroom. Following the enticing aroma down the stairs, I saw a large man in the same pink robe, wearing a wig net over his short dark-brown hair. I didn’t need to see his face to know it was Christine.
I’d never felt so ashamed. My cheeks burned. I couldn’t bear to look at him, so I stared at the floor and shuffled my feet, ears hot.
“Um… excuse me.”
Embarrassment choked my voice.
“Ahem… hi there.”
“Oh, you’re up early?”

Christine’s cheerful voice greeted me.
“How are you feeling?”
“I-I’m f-fine.”
I stammered miserably, not knowing if my stomach was queasy—only that I was mortified. As I stuttered, Christine laughed outright.
“You made me work so hard yesterday, and now you’re embarrassed?”
“…”
I wanted to die. I couldn’t apologize without facing him, so I lifted my head. My cheeks burned furiously.
“I’m… sorry.”
Christine placed a hand on her hip and nodded.
“Good. You should be. Do you know how heavy you are?”
“…”
“Enough. Go wash up. Change your clothes and come eat.”
I nodded and turned—then hesitated, still red-faced, and mumbled back.
“Uh… Christine, my… clothes are…?”
“Well… sweetheart, do you remember anything from last night?”
I remembered nothing. I stood in silence until Christine giggled, then, instead of recounting last night’s events, pointed me toward the bathroom. I wordlessly fled.
Even in the shower, my face burned. After rinsing with cold water and shaving clean, I wrapped the robe around me and returned. Clothes had been neatly folded on a chair beside the bathroom; my filthy, bloodstained shirt was clean and pressed.
I couldn’t believe I, a man in my thirties, had done this. I crouched on the floor, face buried in the shirt, and sighed. Since meeting Christine, nothing had gone my way.
I dressed slowly, draped the robe over the chair, and, shoulders slumped like a culprit, returned to the kitchen. Christine was setting bowls on the table. I ignored his smile and sat.
A glance at the wall clock showed noon. Sleeping in this late… I was mortified. I’d never owed someone a debt like this—especially not someone I met only yesterday. I didn’t know what to do. My mouth felt like sand.
“Eat, quickly.”
Christine said kindly. I dared only to watch. Christine, arms draped over her chair, looked utterly amused; the robe gaped to reveal a white lace camisole. I couldn’t look away.
“Don’t be coy—eat like you did yesterday.”
Her teasing was obvious.
“Got sober and turned innocent? How cute.”
“…I’m sorry.”
I muttered.
“I’m really sorry. If I made any mistakes yesterday…”
“Oh my, you really remember nothing? Not a thing? After putting me through that?”
Christine’s exaggerated tone stung.
“You were something else yesterday. I can’t even describe it. Don’t go around drinking like that—I was so embarrassed.”
Despite knowing she was teasing, my head sank. Only when she laughed and said it was fine did I lift my head.
Settling into a friendlier mood, Christine pushed the stew toward me. I managed to scoop it up. The stew was surprisingly delicious, and I finished it. Thankfully, Christine didn’t tease me further. After the meal, she brewed tea. I fidgeted with the floral teacup as Christine, arms crossed, chin raised, watched.
“Now that you’re sobered up, tell me what’s going on.”
I braved looking at her, cheeks still flushed. She listened solemnly, then suddenly burst into laughter.
“Pfft! Pff, hahahaha—oh, sorry, really, sorry. You’re killing me.”
She wiped tears from her eyes and cleared her throat. I bit my lip and met her gaze. Christine looked at me fondly, then in a low, natural voice whispered, “So… adorable…” After that embarrassing compliment from a nearly two-meter ex-marine, she laughed and adjusted her wig net. I turned away, face burning.
Her voice shifted back to playful.
“So. You wanted to talk?”
“You…”
I mumbled, ears still red. Though odd in this lighthearted setting, trying to be solemn would’ve been absurd. So I spoke of the boys on the top floor for the first time in a casual tone.
“I don’t know if you’ve heard about Hugh and George…”
Despite the flush in my cheeks, I continued.
“The news that they died.”
Silence. Christine watched calmly, then slowly licked her unpainted lips and spoke.
“Of course I heard. Weren’t they the quieter ones?”
“…”
“Who killed them?”
It wasn’t a question of how but of who—spoken as if she already knew. Perhaps she sensed who I was: the one who’d tracked her down to deliver the news of Hugh and George.
“I killed them.”
Christine responded with a soft “Hmm,” part sigh, part answer. That was all. She tapped her lips with her fingertip and simply watched me. It wasn’t the reaction I’d expected—but after several disappointments with her, I wasn’t disheartened.
Still, my chest felt heavy. Christine didn’t empathize—she hadn’t even asked about George’s death, let alone Hugh’s, which had been widely reported. There was no sign of curiosity. Her lips tapped again, and I noticed her mint polish was chipped at the edges.
Despite the gloom, I remained, clinging to a faint hope. Christine, though seemingly indifferent, was perhaps merely cautious. After all, she’d harshly rebuked me yet laundered my stained clothes. When I stormed out of the restaurant and returned, she’d left my plate untouched.
Maybe Christine wasn’t truly indifferent—just guarded. That hope faintly lingered.
“It happened two years after you left the .”
Christine took a drag of her cigarette without reacting and calmly continued through the harsh smoke.
“In 1998, I transferred to St. Bartholomew’s Boarding School in Bluebell, Forgland Province. I was assigned to Dorm B. Four people already lived on the top floor: Hugh, George, Simon, and Jerome, of course.”
“…”
“And I… spent every day searching for you—before I even enrolled, trying to uncover what had happened in the past and who those guys really were.”
“…”
“Even after chasing them that long, I still don’t know who they are. Not even you, or what you went through. I assume it was something like what I suffered.”
“Well. Maybe.”
Christine replied ambiguously, puffing her cigarette.
Suddenly thirsty, I wiped my sweaty hands on my trousers instead of drinking tea. If Christine had dressed me himself last night, he certainly…