Chapter 1
When my mom and brother died in a car accident, the driver was driving my car.
My dad had a mental breakdown, his memories got all mixed up, and he started believing I was the one who did it.
He hated me for seven years, and I spent seven years trying to explain.
When he hurled a steaming bowl of medicine at my face, I stopped explaining.
I nodded calmly and said, "Yes, it was me."
He could think however he wanted.
Anyway, I was going to meet my mom and brother soon.
*****
On a cold winter, I blacked out at my desk and got let go by my boss, though he tried to sugarcoat it.
The company was struggling, and honestly, I was never anything special at my job.
He'd already been more than fair to keep me around this long.
As I walked out of the office with my belongings, the first snow of the year started falling in Snowfield.
My phone rang. It was the hospital calling.
I picked up.
The wind outside was fierce, whipping past my ears.
I listened to the voice from the hospital, soft and full of pity. It took me a while to make out the last two sentences.
It took me a while to make out the last two sentences. "Whether you want to stay in the hospital or not, that's up to you. If there's anything you want to eat or do, go ahead."
I hung up.
I checked all my pockets, but only came up with 27 bucks.
A taxi pulled up by the curb, and the driver rolled down his window to size me up.
I hesitated for a moment.
Still, I hugged my box a little tighter, turned around, and walked toward the hospital.
It was only nearly 10 feet, but it took me almost an hour to walk.
On the way, I passed a restaurant and spent 15 bucks on two sandwiches.
Then I spent another 10 on clam chowder.
It tasted strong but with little clam in it.
It was the best dinner I could afford.
When my mom was still around, she'd make clam chowder for me because it was my favorite.
She used to say, "Have some clam chowder to get yourself warm. No matter how harsh the winter is, we'll always make it through together."
*****
When I walked into the hospital room with the food, my dad was sitting in his wheelchair by the window.
He seemed to be looking outside, but maybe he was only lost in thought.
Even from behind, he seemed cold and unapproachable.
I walked over and set the food on the little table.
He didn't look at me but just gave a mocking laugh. "With weather like this, how are you not frozen to death yet?"
A dull ache throbbed in my chest.
I reached up to take off my scarf, but my hand finally dropped back down.
People said after being given a cold shoulder for too long, one would eventually get numb to it.
Two years of hearing stuff like that, and I still couldn't get used to it.
My hair was crusted with frost, and white snowflakes dusted my collar.
As the frost and snow melted, coldness seeped down my neck. Even with the heater blasting in the hospital room, the chill still pierced right through me.
I sat down and pushed one sandwich toward my dad, keeping the other for myself.
Then I picked up a bowl, getting ready to divide the clam chowder between us.
But my dad knocked the sandwich off the table, sending it crashing to the floor.
My hand trembled, and some chowder splashed onto the table.
Still, I quietly poured the rest of the chowder into two bowls.
The takeout box had been knocked to the floor.
I crouched down, grabbed the box off the floor, and had a bite of the sandwich.
Then I slid my own sandwich over to him.
He looked furious, about to swipe it off the table again.
I swallowed the sandwich and had some clam chowder.
I quietly said, "This is all I could get with the money I had. If you think it's too dirty, then you'll have to go hungry."
As soon as I finished speaking, he hurled the takeout box to the floor.
Everything went flying—my sandwich and both bowls of clam chowder.
Food was splattered all over the floor, leaving nothing at all on the table.
I heard him grind his teeth, his voice full of rage. "Starve me to death. Isn't that what you wanted?
"Then you can live the good life with that bastard.
"No one will ever know you're the murderer who killed your own mom and brother. It's just the way you wanted, huh?"
I stayed silent, staring at the mess all over the floor.
With only two bucks left in my pocket, I could get nothing now.
My dad's voice, thick with rage and hatred, kept echoing in my ears. "How do you even have the nerve to show your face? Someone like you should..."
He was so worked up, his voice came out in fits and starts, with painful coughs.
His words were interrupted by violent, painful coughing.
He couldn't even finish what he was saying.
I gathered the scattered food from the floor and dumped it all in the trash.
This time, I really couldn't bring myself to eat a single bite.
As I picked up the shards of porcelain, one of them sliced my hand, and blood welled up at my fingertips.
But instead of pain, I felt an odd sense of relief.
I once saw a man stab himself in the chest, yet his expression was disturbingly excited.
Back then, I thought he was a lunatic.
Now, it hit me that I might be becoming a lunatic too.
After I finished cleaning up the mess, I looked up at my dad, still seething with anger.
I gave him a faint, bitter smile. "So you should really eat more, you know?
"If you starve yourself and let me, the so-called murderer, walk free, could you really rest in peace?"
My dad went rigid, his expression frozen. For a long moment, he stared at me in disbelief.
He finally said, "W-What did you say?"
With some effort, I managed to stand up.
I prepared the medicine and passed the bowl to my dad.
When I spoke again, a metallic taste flooded my mouth. "Yes, it was me."