“Nari wrote the script for this year’s school play.” Everyone in
the drama class was bewildered by Ms. Han’s announcement. A buzz of irritation
ran through the class.
A tacit rule of “Never Approach Nari” was rampant in the
class of 2014. Three months ago, Nari came to our school from the remote
bucolic village of Miryang. Her strong Gyeongsang-do dialect, shabby clothes
sewed with a fake Nike label, and a fetid stench that oozed out of her
made Nari a subject of derision. She soon became a public punching bag. The
moment Nari introduced herself, I anticipated her ordained isolation from the
boisterous laughter of the classmates; however, it was not until Nari poured her
repressed tears over a deliberately set out foot that I finally realized the
severity.
Jeering at Nari was children’s jocular routine. It was an
indubitable shock to all of us when Nari volunteered to write the script of the
play for the festival, the biggest event in the Yongsan middle school. “We are
screwed,” a boy sitting next to her grumbled. As gloomy clouds hung over Nari’s
face, Ms. Han turned around and fixed her eyes on me. “As the class president,
Sehee shall be the protagonist of our play.” Every cell in my body screeched an
adamant “no” until their voices got hoarse; however, cocooned in the heavy air
of responsibility, I murmured a feeble “sure”.
The rehearsal day soon greeted me with open arms. Ms. Han gave out
the printed script to the class. Bruise. The bold title caught my
eyes. I, the anonymous protagonist who gets bullied, had to speak Gyeongsang-do
dialect and wear a cheap shirt with a counterfeit brand label weaved on it. We
ran through the scenes under Ms. Han’s supervision. For an impressive
performance, we indulged in our roles.
“Shame on a farmer’s daughter,” taunted a bully. Knowing that my
real dad outside of the play was a prosperous businessman, I strived not to
gnaw my rickety wall of sanguinity; however, the intensity of bullying
gradually exacerbated. Beneath the insouciant exterior lay a nadir. As a
vulnerable marionette in the play, I needed a shield from razor-sharp blades of
ridicule and contempt in every scene. “Is this a school uniform for hicks?” A
group of girls giggled, pointing at my fake Nike shirt. “Retreat to
where you belong, riffraff!” Writhing in throes of agony, I shuddered with
resentment. The vacant eyes and the harsh words crashed me. I was hurt.
Teetering on the cusp of the barbaric climax, kids shoved me to
the locker to make me stop speaking the dialect. I glanced down at the script
to continue with my lines; however, blurry letters morosely danced on the white
paper as tears welled up. Before the tears could slide down, I flounced out of
the auditorium and collapsed in a
restroom stall, burying my face in my hands.
When wet tissues piled up to form a small mound, I felt soft hands
around my shoulders. “Cry yourself out. It feels much better.” It was Nari, the
real protagonist of the play. Her voice was oddly soothing, like a balm
for a pang of guilt. As Nari raised me up from the icy cement floor, I
resurfaced from the abyss of despair. We then stood in front of the mirror both
looking at my reflection: a lachrymose heroine torn into pieces with swollen eyes.
Knowing that this wreck had always been Nari before me, I stood there with a
lump in my throat trying to fight back tears.
Holding Nari’s hands tightly, I stepped back into the performance
room where everyone’s astonished eyes fixed on us. Iridescent beads on the rims
of Nari’s eyes gleamed under the stage light. A faint smile curled around the
lips of Ms. Han.
In the world we live in, people are actors playing the Bruise. A
few are anonymous outcasts; some hurt victims, unaware of their pains; the
benighted majority just neglects, as I did. I was an immature fifteen-year-old
who played the role of an indifferent bystander. Today I still encounter many
Naris around me, and I take part in the Bruise once again, hoping to unfold a
different plot.