I Was Sick of Loving You

7 – fill it with memories

I let go of my past life and fell asleep as if I had passed out. When I woke up, Iris left a letter and went back.

“I won’t ask how you knew my family secret.

I will not rebuke you for your behavior that goes against the rules of etiquette.

I won’t ask what you saw in me that made you so sad.

However, I will not accept your request to break the marriage.

Since Sir’s mind seems unstable, I think it would be good to take some time apart. Considering your condition, I will not visit you first.

Waiting for you, I will also prepare myself.

Someday, when your mind is clear, please visit the North. The North will always be waiting for you.”

Various thoughts and feelings are mixed in the contents of the letter.

Shame on the immaturity that was spit out without thinking about the aftermath emotionally. I feel relieved about her behavior of not asking questions even though she knows the family secret. A sense of heterogeneity about her appearance, which is out of sync with the memory of being considerate and waiting. And the curiosity about the preparation written in the letter is mixed.

The emotions and thoughts were mixed, and confusion came. The confusion that came to me makes my head dizzy. He crumples up the letter that is the cause of his confusion and throws it away. Even though he acted out of anger, his heart is still the same. No, it got worse.

My head hurts from the confusion that fills me, so I leave myself on the bed. As I lie down, I can see the ceiling, which I can’t believe even though I’ve been looking at it for days.

As I gaze blankly at the ceiling, old memories that have now faded come flooding in from beyond my gutted mind. It reminds me of happy memories with my mother, who taught me that there are many beautiful and happy things in the world. when you are locked in those memories. The faces of the father and brothers appear.

Happy memories disappear and become tainted by unpleasant things.

A person who neglected me and my mother for over 12 years and enjoyed the pleasures and promiscuity of the capital city. A human being who left scars on her kind and warm mother’s heart and made her shed tears. A father who is not like the father who trampled on and beat his childhood dream of becoming a knight and protecting people.

Human beings who ignored the mother who brought them into the world and did not even regard them as mothers. Brothers who are not like older brothers who used to hit their younger siblings with wooden swords, saying it was tough training. The shameless ones who resembled their father and lived in pleasure, ruined the family line and opened their hands to me.

The displeased faces disappear, and I see myself as a child who foolishly considered them family. And looking at me like that, I see my mother crying, saying it was her fault. At the clear sound of her mother’s cry, pain comes to the heart that was once cut out, and disquiet increases.

I want to get rid of the pain in my heart and the anxiety that oppresses me, so I set out to follow the traces of my happy days. My steps stop in front of my mother’s room flooded with memories, and my hands stretch out in longing for the memories.

The door opens, and a slightly different landscape unfolds. The bed and furniture my mother used are covered with white cloth, and the wallpaper in the room looks faded.

It’s a bit bittersweet at the distance from the memories felt in that scene, but it’s not strange. It was only natural that a year had passed since her mother passed away, and she had gone up to the capital’s mansion five years before she passed away. Reason says so, but the bitterness does not go away.

In the bitterness that does not disappear, I peel off the white cloth. A little bit of dust flew around, and the appearance of the room became a little closer to memories.

I chase the traces in a room that is a little closer to my memories.

As I sit on the smaller sofa, I can hear my mother humming. With that hum, a blurry figure of my mother, who was embroidering, appeared, and I, a young me who liked that hum, appeared next to my mother. The eyes of my mother and the young me meet, a smile blooms, and the scene dissipates.

Get up from the sofa and head to bed. Mother and little me reappeared. My mother covered me with a blanket and read me a book. As a young child, my eyes twinkled at the contents of the book, but I could not overcome my drowsiness and fell asleep. My mother brushed my hair like that.

‘Have a nice dream. My happiness.’

The words heard over the slumber were heard, and the scene dispersed and reappeared.

The young me, whose face has turned red and continues to breathe hard. My mother shed tears as she wiped away her sweat by wringing a cloth soaked in water.

The coldness and warmth that come beyond the heat are transmitted. Feeling a little more comfortable with that feeling, I opened my mouth.

‘Mother, I’m fine.’

It wasn’t okay, but I forced myself into a smile, not wanting to see my mother’s sad face. Mother swallowed her tears and caressed my cheek. The time in harmony with coldness and warmth is scattered.

go to the bookshelf Mother’s books are visible where the eye can reach, and below them are fairy tale books and heroic books. A young me appeared, picked up the heroic book, and ran to my mother.

‘Mother, please read this today.’

At my young words, my mother laughed and read the book to me. I put my head on my mother’s leg and listened to her story. My expression was comfortable every moment, and a smile bloomed at the end. And the sight is scattered.

As I stared blankly at the scattered sights, I heard a voice.

‘Mother, what are you going to do today?’

‘Well, since the weather is sunny, shall we take a walk in the garden?’

‘like!’

The mother and I, who appeared along with the voice, walk hand in hand. I am fascinated by the sight and follow it.

At a slow pace that matched my young steps, the landscape changed to a garden as I walked with my eyes blinded by the little hand holding my mother’s hand.

In a garden where only tulips are blooming, various flowers are blooming. My mother, who tells me the names and language of flowers, and the young me listening to them pass by.

A mother and a young me appeared in the flower field. My mother put a crown on my head. Looking at the corolla, I made a sloppy corolla by weaving the flowers together and gave it to my mother. Mother smiled as she accepted the crude garland. Disperse with mother’s laughter.

A voice is heard from the center of the garden. Tea and cookies appeared on a table placed in the center of the garden, and a young me taking a bite of the cookie and my mother looking at it with a smile appeared.

‘Mother, try this. It’s so delicious!’

Seeing me talking with a broad smile, my mother smiled and stroked my hair. I was soaked in that warm and kind touch. It disperses with a vague warmth.

Scattered young me and my mother appeared in a tree in the corner of the garden.

‘Mother, the bird is gone.’

‘It must have injured a wing.’

‘Then I can’t fly anymore?’

‘I can’t fly until I get better.’

‘Then, will you take care of me until I get better?’

‘Alric is kind.’

Carefully holding the injured bird, young me and my mother disperse. And a tiny little bird flies away. A young me who holds back crying over a short meeting and parting with a bird. Then my mother, who hugs me and comforts me, appears and disperses.

I, who had grown up a little, swung a wooden sword and sweated. My mother approached me and wiped my sweat with a handkerchief.

‘Don’t overdo it.’

‘Yes!’

My mother, who cares about me even though she is still very young, and I, who responds bravely, part ways.

Snow began to fall, and me and my mother, who had grown to a certain extent, appeared.

‘Mother, must we go?’

‘…I’m sorry.’

The distance between me and my mother grows farther away, and the fantasy dissipates. The fantasy created by memories shows the separation from the mother and announces the end.

When the illusion of memories is over, the disquiet disappears from the heart that was wounded and cut out by itself. In the place where the confusion disappeared, there were things left behind by fantasy.

Mother’s humming sound and mother’s warm touch. The calm and warm voice of the mother who told the story. The coolness and warmth of a wet cloth. Mother’s hand, which was big and warm. The names and language of flowers given to me by my mother. A smile that blooms even in a sloppy corolla.

Memories of fondness, love, and happiness turn into nostalgia and moisten and fill the broken heart.

The perfume is so warm and kind that I don’t want to leave it like a blanket on a cool morning. I want to stay immersed in it.

Nostalgia covers the eyes. I don’t reject the perfume that covers my eyes, but it fills me up. It contains the perfume completely and pushes out the perfume that covers the eyes. I open my blinded eyes and look at the bitter reality. A garden without a mother and a disastrous future shown by dreams.

Faced with that reality, the disquiet that had melted away in nostalgia comes back to me. The confusion makes my head dizzy again, but I grit my teeth and endure it.

Crying and grieving to the point of being broken, and immersed in happy memories, this is enough to avert one’s eyes. I’m being hacked. The heart that was torn, cut out, and screamed was filled with happy memories, so the heart is also enough.

With a renewed heart, I walked into my room to think about my future life, not the past and the future that had become a dream.