Chapter 1
I hate concubines.
Concubines, mistresses, secondary wives, side wives, concubines of the inner court—I despise any word related to concubinage so much that it makes my teeth grind.
What kind of moron invented the system of concubinage? I mean, what kind of deranged piece of trash created such a system?
Of course, there must have been some reason for the system to come into existence. Perhaps there were grand and rational justifications that I am unable to grasp.
‘But so what? Whether it’s justifiable or not, is that any of my business?’
I wish every man in the world who keeps a concubine were miserable.
No, I wish this entire society that turns a blind eye to the concubinage system would just collapse. Damn it, damn it, damn it.
“Hwacheon, would you please take these rice cakes to the secondary house?”
“……What did you say?”
Mother held out a basket of rice cakes to me with her usual benevolent expression.
I couldn’t stand the sight of that serene face, so I flung the basket she handed me onto the floor. I threw it down with every ounce of strength in my body.
The rice cakes spilled from the basket and scattered through the air like flower petals.
As if to ensure I didn’t miss a single one, I crushed the cakes that had fallen onto the dirt floor, stepping on them, over and over again.
The household servants watching the scene let out sighs of “Oh my, oh my” as they stared at me.
“Mother, do you have no shame, no jealousy? Do you not even feel pity for us?”
Mother looked at me with trembling eyes, as if genuinely shocked. What on earth is there to be shocked about? Shouldn’t that be the expression I’m wearing?
To have her husband stolen by another woman and still be happy enough to send rice cakes to that wench’s house?
“……Hwacheon.”
Will my anger dissipate just because she calls my name sternly? Anger never fades unless it is expressed.
“Why should I take rice cakes to such a lowly wench?”
“Yoo Hwacheon!”
In the end, Mother shouted. The woman who only ever spoke in soft, gentle words was angry with me.
But why is she angry at me? I am not the one she should be angry with. Why is she picking on an innocent person?
“If you want to give that woman rice cakes so badly, why don’t you make the servants do it? Why me? Am I a servant? Am I an errand girl?”
“Your father is there!”
“That’s exactly why I don’t want to go! That’s why!”
Mother seems to think I need Father’s warmth, so she keeps pushing me to go to the secondary house, where Father never seems to return from.
“You have to show yourself so your father doesn’t forget you!”
It’s not that I don’t want to see Father. It’s not that I don’t love him. I want to see him, and I love him.
But at the same time, I hate him enough to want to kill him.
“You need to claim your share. You have to make sure you get the love you deserve from your father, don’t you? Parental love is something you can never have enough of in a lifetime.”
“That parent chose to set up a home with another woman instead of loving me, so why should I go looking for him? I’m just an intruder and a nuisance there! If that’s the kind of love it is, I’d rather not have it. Why should I grovel so pathetically? Why!”
Mother rushed over and slapped me across the cheek. Ah, it hurts. My ears are ringing, and I can hear a high-pitched whine.
Why is the hand of a woman raised in luxury so stinging? If she had used this stinging hand to slap Father’s cheek, would the situation be any different?
But Mother wouldn’t be able to do that. Even if given the chance, she couldn’t.
That is why Mother is a fool. A simpleton who gets fleeced while wide awake. A spineless woman who lets her husband be stolen. A pathetic idiot.
My poor mother.
Thick tears fell from my eyes. Mother looked at me and burst into tears even more sorrowfully than I did.
She was the one who hit me, so why is she crying so loudly? If Mother cries louder, I can’t even voice my grievance about being hit, can I?
“Can’t you just be loved instead of living in misery like your mother? If you would just humble yourself before your father and act cute, he would cherish you, so why are you being so stubborn? Why…….”
Things will never work out when she tries to project the love she can’t get from her husband onto her daughter.
I don’t understand why a person who never once showed greed in her life is so greedy only when it comes to her daughter being loved by her father.
It’s frustrating to the point of heartache. How will this weak woman survive in the world without me?
Just then, someone kicked open the front gate and entered.
The face of a man I haven’t seen in so long that the memory is hazy. The man, who looked strangely familiar yet like a stranger, scanned the two of us—mother and daughter—clinging to each other, then walked briskly into the study.
‘Damn Father.’
I stared blankly at the man’s retreating back, my mouth hanging open like an idiot.
Mother, oblivious to my feelings, tugged at my sleeve and said,
“Father is here. Go see him quickly.”
“Why should I go alone? Was I the one who missed Father the most in this house? No, right? If anyone should go, it’s you, Mother. As for me, it doesn’t matter if I see him or not.”
“I have to prepare dinner, so you go first and massage his shoulders. Hmm?”
“There are servants all over the house, so why are you cooking!”
“Your father won’t even touch food unless I’ve made it. He says the servants’ skills aren’t as good as mine.”
So that’s why she personally cooked and served that food to the secondary house? Mother really is too good-natured. Her face lit up with joy because her husband, who hadn’t set foot here in a million years, had returned.
A foolish woman. I will never live like Mother. I will never become such a submissive and devoted woman.
I will not live a life where I am crushed by a husband and unable to do a single thing according to my own will.
I grumbled incessantly as I made my way to the study where Father was.
Father glanced at me and asked,
“What’s wrong with your face?”
“……What about it.”
“Did your mother hit you?”
“No.”
“What do you mean no? It looks like you were hit. Even your mother, who is like a saint, can’t seem to handle the temper of a girl like you, can she?”
With that, he went back to intently reading his dull book.
I hated Father’s indifference. He dotes on the daughter born to the concubine as if he would give her everything in the world, yet he is always like this with me.
He is utterly heartless. He is the kind of person who wouldn’t even blink if I died, as long as he could keep reading his books.
“Tell your mother to send some rice cakes to the secondary house tomorrow. Your stepmother was praising your mother’s rice cakes, saying they were incredible. How kind of her.”
“Who is kind? My mother, who makes rice cakes for her husband’s concubine? Or that damn wench who, not content with stealing someone else’s husband, demands rice cakes too?”
Before I could even finish my sentence, Father, with a face full of rage, threw his book at my face.
Since it hit me square on the bridge of my nose, it hurt ten times more than when Mother slapped me.
“Damn wench? You dare call your stepmother a damn wench?”
“……Well, that’s what she is.”
They say you should speak the truth even if your mouth is twisted. How can I live if I can’t call a damn wench a damn wench?
That woman, and her daughter, are all damn wenches to me. But the biggest damn bastard of all is the father standing in front of me.
“Is anyone there!”
As Father shouted for a servant, one opened the door and entered.
“Yes, Master.”
“Bring me the cane!”
The servant pretended not to see my swollen nose as he bowed. The servants in this house are experts at pretending not to see anything.
Perhaps it’s because they know that the moment they acknowledge what they see, the trouble will spill over onto them.
‘If I had screamed like this at the secondary house, they would have split up long ago. He only acts like the master when he’s at our house. He doesn’t even have servants at the secondary house. He can’t even say a word against what the concubine says.’
The moment I slowly lifted my skirt, Father’s hand moved without a second of hesitation.
The cane struck my calves relentlessly.
The beatings were always like this. It was too late to ask for the reason, and any excuse was crushed before I could even begin.
As the sound of the cane cutting through the air and the pain radiating from the strikes hit me, I gritted my teeth. If I made a sound, I would lose.
Moaning was a luxury. Tears were a weakness.
“You stubborn wench. You won’t even let out a moan!”
At this point, it’s hard to tell who is the daughter of the concubine and who is the legitimate daughter. Only the names remain, and those titles protect nothing.
My head knows that my wretched fate is not entirely her fault.
But as I endure this beating and stare at the floor, I cannot stand the feeling that her peace is built upon my misfortune.
That is why I hate her. Even if my reason denies it, I cannot deny the dark, festering emotion rising from the corner of my heart.
* * * My calves, beaten by Father, throbbed so painfully that I couldn't even swallow a sip of water. In the end, I went hungry until lunch the next day.
It wasn't as if I were particularly hungry, so it didn't bother me much. My hollow heart and empty stomach were a perfect match.
Taking pity on me, Mother came to my room carrying a bowl of perilla seed porridge.
‘Ha, how embarrassing….’
I was so ashamed of lying here after being beaten that I kept my eyes shut, pretending not to notice her arrival.
I kept up the act of sleeping for a while, but the air grew strangely quiet.
Curious if she had left, I opened my eyes slightly, only to find Mother staring straight down at me.
“W-what are you doing!”
I was so startled that I bolted upright, and Mother clicked her tongue. On the tray she had brought, there was ointment alongside the porridge.
Setting the tray down beside the bed, Mother abruptly hiked up the hem of my skirt.
To pull up a grown lady’s skirt without permission like this. Mother really lacked any sense of caution.
Then again, if she had even a shred of caution, she would have surely noticed her husband running around and fooling around outside.
I know. I know she is a victim, not the perpetrator. Yet, because the wounds I have received feel so much closer, I cannot bring myself to look directly at her own.
Neither of us is a sinner, so why are we both living like criminals? Is it because we are weak, or is it because we are women, destined to be treated as lesser?
“Does it hurt?”
“...Of course it hurts. I was struck with a rod, so naturally, it hurts.”
Her touch as she applied the ointment to the welts was not particularly gentle. It felt as if she were pressing down hard on purpose, wanting me to feel even more pain.
I suppose Mother hates me, too. She must be displeased that I stood up to her husband.
But would Father even acknowledge it if she did? If he won't acknowledge it, what is the point of such devoted, unwavering loyalty?
“Why did you have to stand up to your father? If you don’t temper your temper, you will suffer once you are married. A woman must know how to bow her head. What husband would cherish a woman as headstrong and fierce as you?”
“Then let him not cherish me. Was I born just to be cherished by a husband? Is that the sole purpose and destiny of my life? I’d rather not live at all than live a life like that.”
“How dare you say such things in front of your own mother? Do you want to see your mother fall ill from grief!”
Loyalty that is not appreciated by the recipient is worth less than trash. Clinging to that trash and living one’s life is a truly foolish endeavor.
“Don’t cry. If you’re going to cry, go outside and do it. I’m sick of seeing you cry. I’m sick of this house, I’m sick of this life, I’m just sick of everything.”
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