Chapter Text
He hated the sea.
It doesn’t make sense that he lived beside the sea for an entire year or made his livelihood by going out to sea every morning.
He hated the salt that stuck to his skin and dried his lips, the smell of seaweed that clung to his hair and under his nails, the seawater that dampened his clothes and made him remembered that awful night he nearly killed his friends.
In the waking world, the memories were blurry. He couldn’t remember the words he had spoken, the things he has done while under Park Il Do’s possession. He only remembered feeling helpless and terrified, trapped in his too-small body while someone else held the reins.
The first few weeks, he had to throw himself into the bathroom to rid the salt from his skin. The fear was itchy and almost painful under his flesh, and he scrubbed his skin raw until they bled. His nails had dug grooves into his tender skin, until the healing scars from his spell peeled and bloomed red all over again, until the fisherman who had taken him under his wing noticed and complained.
It’s almost self-therapeutic, in a way. Going out into the sea, over and over again every morning, despite his fear of the lurking darkness beneath the waters.
Even in the comfort of his small home, he could smell the salt in the air. This tiny village reminded him painfully of his own hometown, and his heart ached as he remembered his grandfather living alone in his house after losing two decades of his life.
One day, he’d return home and see his grandfather again. It briefly occurred to him that he doesn’t know the man with his grandfather’s face, and the family he has ever known all along had been Park Il Do in disguise instead. He tried not to think too hard about that; it would merely open another can of worms.
Perhaps it’s his own self-punishment for not noticing the evil spirit in his grandfather. Yoon would tell him that this self-infliction was unhealthy, while Gil Young would probably smack him over the head at his stupidity.
But they weren’t here, and his feelings regarding those two were mixed. A part of him longed to call them and tell them of his survival, but a larger part of him was still terrified of the spirit that once possessed his body.
If he couldn’t even tell his real grandfather from Park Il Do, how was he able to tell if the insidious presence in his body was really gone?
He should feel angry and hateful, but he’s fucking tired and he just wanted a peaceful sleep for once without waking up in terror. He’s so tired he could cry on some days, but it’s something that he had to endure no matter how painful and lonely he felt.
He would not be at peace until he’s completely sure that Park Il Do was gone.
On some nights, he sees Park Il Do.
On those nights, he clung to the rosary on his chest, until the metal edge of the crucifix cut into his palm.
After the suppression on his shaman powers has entirely dissolved, he found that it was much easier to differentiate between ghosts and hallucinations.
The Park Il Do that came to haunt him on those nights were just hallucinations, his brain playing tricks on him, but the fear was still very real.
He seldom slept a full eight hours nowadays.
He doesn’t know how Yoon’s rosary ended up with him, but the man who had fished him out of the sea had claimed that it was wrapped around his wrist. Other than the bedraggled clothes on his body, the rosary was the only belonging on him. The fisherman had kept the rosary in his safekeeping while he recuperated in the hospital.
The rosary was his anchor during the particularly bad nights. It was Yoon’s faith and persistence, Gil Young’s unwavering strength and confidence. Even when they were not here by his side, the rosary reminded him of them.
Whenever he felt himself faltering, the cold metal and beads wrapped around his fist reminded him to fight on, to stand firm against his fear.
He took great care of the rosary; washing it in warm water and polishing the beads. The silver would rust in the seawater, so he tried to avoid bringing it along whenever he headed out to sea. But as time passed, he found himself more and more reluctant to part with the rosary, keeping it around his throat even in the shower.
In a way, the rosary was a fellow comrade as well.
It had fought alongside the three of them, weathered more abuse than it had ever gone through since Yoon met Hwa Pyung, exorcising evil spirits despite being tossed around in the chaos.
It felt like he has a duty to take care of the rosary in Yoon’s place.
It’s silly, but the rosary was only thing left of the two comrades who have fought beside him. He doesn’t know if he’d ever see them again.
It shouldn't terrified him this much.
“Your hair is getting longer, isn’t it?” The grocer mentioned one day.
He dumped the rest of his groceries into his bag, reaching up to rub a lock of hair between his thumb and finger.
“Yeah,” he murmured. It has been more than a month since his last haircut at the local—and only hairdresser in this village. His hair was growing out of shape, the fringe long enough to cover his blind eye.
“Get a trim,” the grocer grinned, her yellowed teeth flashing behind her thin lips as she handed over his change. “You shouldn’t hide those sweet looks.”
He didn’t bother to stifle his snort.
Maybe in the past his looks could be easily defined as passably average, or perhaps even attractive, but now with his eye and scars, he doubted anyone would want to look at him anymore.
“I’m fine like this, Ajumma.” He said flippantly, picking up his bag. “See you tomorrow.”
“I’m being serious!” The grocer cried.
The door swung shut behind him as he laughed in amusement, the small bell ringing merrily. He slowed down as the row of shops stopped, and a rocky path of uneven steps greeted him. Adjusting his bag of groceries in his arm, he took careful steps as he made his way back up to his house.
It was weeks of practicing how to live with one eye after discharging from the hospital. He prided himself on his agility in the past, but now his sense of balance was all ruined. Even navigating around in his house was out of the question in the beginning. There were still times that he does not notice a stool or a leftover plate on the right side of his field of vision, resulting in a fall or an injured toe.
He never used to be particularly organized, but now he has no choice but to clean up straightaway after himself, lest he trips and breaks an ankle.
He was always a fast learner though.
It wasn’t long before he found himself out at sea, casting nets to catch fishes. Even traversing the rocky boat was an effortless task now.
His scars and eye were another issue.
He still wears a medical eye patch to hide the milky film in his right eye whenever he goes out of his house. Even in the summer, he would don on a thin cotton jacket to conceal the scars that have barely healed from his spell ritual.
When he first moved into this village, the novelty of a newcomer had caused the villagers to swarm around him. The fact that he was fished out of the sea by one of their fishermen, bearing hideous wounds, was a curiosity by itself. Gossips spread quickly like wildfire, especially in a small village like this.
It’s bad enough that everyone seemed to lack the decency of privacy, but having them gawked at his eye and scars every time he left his house was uncomfortable.
Six months later, the novelty seemed to die down, but he still garnered probing looks if he left the house without his eye patch and long sleeves.
It was the price to pay for surviving.
Gil Young had saved his life when he stabbed his eye. His sight was unsalvageable—all he sees out of his right eye was darkness now—but she had saved his brain when she shoved her hand in front of his knife.
There were times he felt bitter for surviving.
He has spent so long chasing after death that he has no idea what he should do now after losing his purpose.
It was the price to pay for throwing away everything he has to hunt a monster.