Chapter Text
Here are the rules to living with a murderer. One: Do not draw attention to yourself. It’s a simple concept really– if they don't notice you they won't think of killing you. Become a ghost in your own home if you will. But that's difficult when you sit opposite of them at every meal, share a washroom and kitchen, and sleep a mere twelve feet and two flimsy walls away from them. Even the smallest changes are bound to be noticed. Which brings me to my next rule.
Two: If you can’t be invisible, be useful. Cook big hearty meals that put them in a food coma too strong to think of slaughtering you. I mean meaty stews, thick casseroles, heaps of potatoes. No one ever went on a killing spree after eating a pound of mashed potato. Giving them bread and hard cheese isn't gonna keep you alive.
You should also make sure to keep the house spotless. Sweep the floors, fluff the pillows, shine the cutlery so bright you can use it as a mirror. Never let them run out of fresh laundry. I f the buttons are coming loose, sew them back on before they pop. If the socks are wearing, sew them back before it’s noticeable. Wake up and milk the goat and fetch the eggs before Sunrise, no matter the weather. Better cold and wet than dead bro. The goal is to make your murder inconvenient. Murderers hate to be inconvenienced.
Rule three: If you can’t beat them, join them. Not in murder. The last thing you want to do is establish some kind of rivalry. Find a way to apprentice yourself another way. Become something they didn’t know the needed, so cutting you would in terms make them bleed.
Build the stamina it takes to walk around the loch day after day, rain, snow, or shine. Do it with ease and speed. Learn to set and cast nets around the loch edges to catch fish. Learn where to cut the fish and harvest their guts. Train yourself not be sick at the sight of fish bellies thrown across the table you cleaned earlier that day. Clean it again. Study hard and learn how to test and make sure the loch water is clean. How to do the tables and predictions for the water levels so you know from a single look how much can used that day. Master these calculations and keep the numbers on your tongue. Record and prepare for when signs of rain or a drought presents itself.
More than that, familiarize yourself with spears, knives, and guns. Learn how to sharpen a blade on a whetstone. Learn how to load a gun with gunpowder, how to clear the barrel, and oil the trigger. Know where everything is kept and that the supply is always plenty.
And then there's rule four: Don’t make them angry. In my experience, a murder is much more likely to occur when the murderer is angry.
Right now, my dad is furious at me.
“Jake.”
It takes a lot of practice to keep your back turned to a murderer when their talking to you, but I’ve had a lot of practice.
“Jake.”
I know he’s mad from the way he says my name. It’s how he snaps it; the sharpness of the k, the straining of the a as it leaves his lips. The hairs on my arms rise reflexively. Then dread pools in my stomach, like a wave crashing against a shore. When he says my name like that, it’s like a snarl in the dark, telling me to run and hide. To be careful.
So what do I do?
I let out a long sigh. “Just a moment, Appa.”
I write the last three words of the sentence I’m transcribing with a flourish and calmly put my pen down. Then, and only then, do I turn away from my desk to face him.
Because that's the fifth rule, and this one is the most important:
Do not let them know what you know.
To survive, you have to be smarter than them. If I listened to my instincts, if I fled whenever he came into the room or flinched every time he picked up a knife, hammer, or gun, he would know something was wrong. He’d start getting anxious and ask questions. A skittish murderer is what I would really need to worry about. The trick is to hold your nerve and act like nothing's wrong. So instead of shaking in fear, I act like any sixteen-year-old would when their father barges into their room without knocking.
“What is it?” I try to sound bored, even a little annoyed. I’m pleased with myself until I finally look at my dad face to face. He is certainly not pleased with me.
I attempt a smile. He doesn’t return it.
Oh shit.
My father fills the doorway, ducking his head so it doesn’t bump the frame, and I swallow at the realization that he is blocking my only exit. He’s a real giant of a man, Seongcheol; when I was little he would scoop me up in his hand and swing me between his legs like a swing set. My feet never came close to touching the floor. I didn’t inherit his height, But I did inherit the fluffy brown hair and dark brown eyes. Right now my father ‘s eyes are fathomless, cold and deep as the loch water, and I fight not to flinch as I meet them.
“Did you check the nets?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
I nod, even as my gaze moves to the bundle of rags gripped in my right hand.
No, not rags. Net.
Oh holy fuck.
Here’s the thing: I did not check all the nets. For once I decided to leave the farthest one up by the north mountain so I could get back and finish my transcribing work. In my defense, I’ve checked those nets twice a week for the past 3 years. There has never been anything caught in them and they’ve never needed more than some basic repairs. Until today apparently.
“Jake.”
There's no point in lying again. Not that it stops me from trying though. “I forgot. They were fine when I checked them last week,” I say, standing. He unrolls the net, and I wince seeing the size of the tear. I’m pretty good at net repair after 7 seven years of doing so, but there isn’t enough twine in Ormscaula to ever put this one back into shape. I could fit through one of the holes.
My father glares at me through the net, and for a second, it’s like he’s caught on. My pulse quickens as I force myself to look away from him and step closer to examine the tears. Whatever did this must have teeth or claws like a knife, these rips look more like they were slashed clean rather than gnawed through.
“What could have done this?” I ask, forgetting to be wary of my dad for a second. The biggest predators in the loch are otters, and they couldn’t have possibly done this. Nor any fish that live in the area. “A wolf? A bear?”
Dad shakes his head immediately. “There's no bears in these parts anymore. And we’d have heard a wolf if they were around.”
That’s true. You always know when wolves are close. “A lugh maybe? Maybe a deer was trapped in the net and it went after it?”
I have found deer in the nets before. Deer are pretty stupid. And lughs—mountain cats—do hunt by the loch, although usually during winter.
My father stares at the net, as if expecting it to tell him how it got to this state.
“Is it likely to be a lugh?” I ask.
“A lugh would have to be starving to come down the mountain during spring,” he says finally. “Starving or rabid. I’d better go set up a few cages.” Then his tone turned pointed. “Either way the net will need replacing today.”
My heart sinks. It’s bad enough that I skipped checking the nets, worse that my dad found it in this state. Any other day, I would be halfway to the sheds to fetch a new one, muttering prayers and apologies. But today, I need to go down into the village to meet Park Sunghoon and get my things from him.