I've had a really bad habit ever since I was little: I just couldn't hold back my temper.
The adults called it a bad habit, so yeah, it must've been one.
Anyway, I was a bad kid with that awful habit.
So bad that when Dad snidely remarked at Christmas that Santa Claus wouldn't bring me any gifts, I punched him square in the jaw. Guess that makes me a bad kid after all.
I was only eight years old at the time, but for the crime of arrogantly socking Dad in the jaw, I had to skip dinner and copy out the Bible instead of writing a reflection statement.
Mom was a devout Christian believer, so whenever I couldn't control my bad habit, she'd force me to sit at the desk and transcribe the Bible by hand. They called it the Bible Copy Punishment.
While I was muttering "fuck"—a word I'd picked up from weekend morning dramas—and copying the Bible, Mom would quietly slip into the room and set a warm glass of milk beside me.
Then she'd say,
-This is all because Jesus loves you, honey. Do you understand Mommy's heart?
Every time, I couldn't hold back my anger and would snap right back.
-Where the hell is Jesus!!!! Santa Claus is the best!!!!!!!!!!
Of course, that doubled the amount I had to copy. I remember it going up to eight times max.
Thanks to that, by the time I'd just entered elementary school, my knuckles were already thick with solid calluses.
So, did my habit of flying off the handle all the time disappear? I was copying punishment sheets day in and day out, getting yelled at, skipping dinners—had to have gotten better, right?
-Teacher! I don't want to sit next to Siwoo!
-I don't want to either, you fucking bitch!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
-Waaahhhhhh!
-Siwoo, you! Where did you learn such nasty words!!
This puffed-up girl who looked like a steamed bun from all her baby fat openly dissed me during seat-swapping time, calling me a "goroshi" or whatever, so I just clapped back.
But the teacher, way too harshly, dragged me up to the front of the class in front of everyone and put on a public humiliation show. She yanked down my pants and whipped my thighs with a switch.
Hold up—how could such absurd corporal punishment happen in Korea, where advanced education and kids' rights are such a big deal? You're all wondering that, right?
Bottom line: my homeroom teacher was another hardcore Jesus fangirl from the same church as Mom. The second I got assigned to her class, Mom personally greenlit the "freedom to discipline."
So I was basically the only kid in school with parental approval for SM playtime.
Human Han Siwoo, at the ripe old age of eight, got a bitter taste of the world. Amid the classmates' jeers and finger-pointing, I slunk back to my seat.
And the moment I locked eyes with that girl—who wiped away her fake crocodile tears, stuck her tongue out at me, and whispered "Serves you right"—I lost it again and threw a punch.
That's how, on my very first day of elementary school, I got hauled to the teachers' lounge for breaking one of that precocious brat's baby teeth. (Precocious brat: straight out of a morning drama.)
True to form, her precocious brat parents kicked open the door to the lounge and started yelling at me. My parents just kept bowing their heads and apologizing nonstop.
In that stuffy room where nobody took my side and everyone was barking at me to apologize quick, I naturally triggered my bad habit.
-What the fuck did I do wrong!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Unable to contain my rage, I screamed at the top of my lungs and bolted. In a flash, I was through the dog hole under the school fence, dodging deadly traffic as I raced into the bustling downtown.
Then I plopped down at the rusty playground of an old apartment complex slated for demolition soon and went berserk digging in the sandbox.
Nothing special about digging the sand. Punching random stuff hurt my weak little hands, and sitting still was torture, so I just frantically clawed at the sand.
-Eeeeeeeeeee!!
How long did I stay buried face-first in that sandbox, my cheeks puffed up like they were about to explode?
By the time I hit the damp, hard dirt beneath the soft sand, I finally stopped my filthy hands.
I'm starving. If I go home, it's dinner skipped and Bible copying again, right? This time, 500 times for sure.
What if I just don't go home? Fucking genius!
-Oh~ Lord Jesus~ Overflowing with love~
Thanks to Mom, after weekend morning dramas, I'd always get dragged to morning service, and those sticky hymns would come spilling out.
-More beautiful than fragrant flowers of love, Jesus~
Jesus who never lets me have dinner~
Jesus who makes me copy punishment every day~
Jesus who always says only I'm the bad kid~
Santa Claus is still the best. Even as I grew up taking crap for being a bad kid, he faithfully left gifts by my bedside every time.
Even when I got into a toy robot ownership spat with my cousin at Grandma's house, the mighty judge (Grandpa) always took the younger cousin's side.
The robot they snatched last Lunar New Year was extra special—Santa's gift for my fifth Christmas.
So I couldn't hold back and flipped over Grandpa's rice cake soup bowl. That hot soup scalding him is why I got hit with the eight-times punishment, too.
Still, I stood tall. Just like now.
-Jesus Heaven, Non-believers Hell~ Jesus is the best~ Powerful Jesus crushes 3,000 to 5,000~
He's never once helped me in my life, but all I knew were hymns blindly praising him—no choice.
While other kids sang Baby Shark "doo doo doo doo~," I belted out hymns nonstop.
Mom had shoved me into the church kids' choir just to drill those hymns into me.
Still, the hunger was too much to bear. The chilly spring air turned even colder as the sky grew dark.
No home meant no scolding or copying, but then no sneaking fridge raids at night either.
To raid the fridge at night, I had to go home!
-I'll let it slide just this once!
I shook the sand off my hands and retraced my steps.
Smart enough to memorize morning drama lines, I didn't forget the way home. Now I could even copy the Bible without peeking.
Back home, what greeted me was an empty house.
No kitchen warmth from Mom prepping dinner, no parents snapping at each other about how to raise their kid, no tantalizing food smells—even though I couldn't eat it, I could sneak some later at night.
Just cold, stale air drifting through the dim, dark house.
Parents were probably out looking for me by now—or since they figured I'd skip dinner anyway, maybe grabbing takeout.
Thinking that, I headed to my room like always and copied the Bible. Better to get ahead so I'd get yelled at less later.
And the parents? A day passed, two days passed—even as I bounced between relatives' houses until elementary graduation—they never came back home. Ever.