Whispers of Refuge Box Set

CHAPTER 31-1

CHAPTER 31

As soon as she woke up, Mee-Kyong’s fingers worked their way over to her belly and began their meticulous scratching. She wasn’t nearly as swollen as she had been right after the delivery — Mr. Lee’s rations at the Round Robin had made sure of that. She pried her eyelids open. The walls of the bedroom were painted a clean, soft shade of pink. A window curtain with frilly white laces did nothing to block out the late-morning sun that cast horizontal shadows across the bed. She winced as she sat up, convincing herself the wetness in the corners of her eyes came from the bright light, not the pain. She pressed her hand over her side and looked down. The long flannel nightgown bore no resemblance to her uniform in the prison camp or her usual attire at the Round Robin. A warm, soapy smell wafted up from its cotton creases. Across from her stood an open closet where Sun’s red dress hung up like a monument.

Sun.

You heartless fool. Did your soft pillow and warm tea make you forget? Her fingers dug into the skin of her abdomen, tugging, poking, prodding, peeling. She didn’t stop until she drew blood. Then she curled up her fingers and studied the red mess beneath her nails. Red puddle on a dirty white sheet. She inhaled deeply, welcoming the torment in her side, daring it to knock her senseless.

Sun.

Mee-Kyong’s shoulders heaved. The fire from her injured rib raced through her veins all the way down to her filthy, blood-crusted fingernails. She slapped away a tear that threatened to streak down her cheek. You didn’t have the courage to save her while she was alive. You’re not worthy to cry for her now.

She assaulted her belly, etching scars across her skin in rhythm with her convulsing shoulders. She hated that girl. She hated the delicate frailty that begged for protection, the vulnerability that made those around her feel so powerless. Mee-Kyong had never felt so weak before, not even in the gulag. She hated Sun for dying, for having a brother who loved her enough to work out his twisted vengeance on her delicate, wispy body.

The brother. Mee-Kyong stopped scratching and forced herself to remember that face. She gritted her teeth. Don’t ever forget. Ignoring her wet cheeks now, Mee-Kyong recalled his angular profile, his eyebrows that sloped down spitefully. She clenched her fingers into two trembling fists and vowed if she ever met him, if she ever came across that merciless beast again, he would die for what he did.

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