Ch.1Prologue – As Anyone Would Be

<Prologue>

Beginnings are always difficult.

Not because there’s nothing to say, but because it’s overwhelming to choose what to start with among so many stories.

If I have to force a beginning, well, let’s start with a ‘watermelon.’ A watermelon smashed to pieces by a hand axe.

…I know what you might be imagining, but let’s just call it a watermelon for now. I’m not being impolite, just lacking in eloquence.

There’s no need to start this potentially long or short story on an unpleasant note.

Anyway, so, watermelon. Is the watermelon a problem?

No.

What I want to say is this: the watermelon isn’t a problem, so there’s no need to worry about it.

The stench spreading throughout the neighborhood might not be such a big deal either.

What can one do about this house where the front door has collapsed over there and all the windows are broken, making for excellent ventilation?

The guests approaching from that direction, dragging their feet, aren’t a problem either.

They’re all coming with furrowed brows and angry expressions, probably intending to complain about the unbearable smell.

Perhaps due to the rural custom of bringing fruit when visiting neighbors, they’re all carrying a watermelon on their shoulders.

But it will take them 5 minutes to reach the entrance, or 3 minutes at the very least.

So during these 3 minutes, we need to solve one truly important question.

“Is it better to be a fool or a smart person?”

Yes. That’s it. I’ve got it.

This is exactly where the story should begin.

* * * * *

Like anyone else, I too had a time of innocence.

A time when I couldn’t have remained sane had I known what lay ahead, a time that in retrospect makes me feel both pitiful and proud of myself for walking such a precarious tightrope—my first year of elementary school.

I froze in front of a fill-in-the-blank question.

※ Please freely complete the following blank:

“I wish people in the world would ( ).”

My friends quickly wrote things like “become rich,” “be full of love,” or “stay healthy without getting sick.”

But not me.

Like a notebook I loved too much to write in, or a toy abandoned in a closet for fear of breaking it.

It wasn’t that I had nothing to write—it was that I wanted it too desperately.

I simply couldn’t write it down.

The teacher approached. She looked down at me quietly, then gently placed her hand on my shoulder. She moved on quickly, but the warmth from her hand flowed down my arm to my fingers.

As if entranced, I wrote my answer.

“I wish people in the world would (be smart enough to understand each other).”

A few days later, the teacher called me to the faculty office. Handing me an unwrapped lollipop, she asked:

“I’m curious. What do you think would happen if people became smart enough to understand each other?”

“I think they wouldn’t fight.”

“Really? Why?”

“My mom and dad always fight saying, ‘Why don’t you understand what I’m saying?’ So if they understood each other, I think they wouldn’t fight.”

The teacher seemed quite taken aback, but I was just telling her how things were at my home.

And being a rather smart child, I knew enough that making adults uncomfortable could earn me a slap.

Like when I answered “I’ll live by myself” when asked who I wanted to live with.

I was fully prepared, but no blow came, and nothing was said. Glancing sideways, I saw the teacher smiling.

But somehow, it felt like she was crying.

“Teacher.”

Thinking her voice sounded too low, she cleared her throat.

“Teacher wishes everyone in the world would become fools.”

“Why?”

“When you’re a fool, you only think about what’s right in front of you. You don’t overthink things or worry whether someone might deceive you. When you’re hungry, you eat; when you want to cry, you cry; when you want to get angry, you get angry. And when it’s all over, you forget about it.”

There was a small photo frame on the teacher’s desk, about the size of a palm. It had been standing upright before, but now it was lying face down.

She fiddled with the corner of the frame, then abruptly let it go. Neither setting it upright nor throwing it away, just leaving it face down.

“That’s why I like simple, foolish people.”

The teacher gently took my hand.

“Teacher will always be here, so come anytime if you’re having a hard time. Okay? I’ll give you candy too.”

She was crying while smiling. I was scared. Just like at home, I feared that if someone cried here in the faculty office, someone else might get angry.

So I did something I hadn’t done since I was six. It was a childhood truth that giving candy to a crying adult would make them stop.

But why hadn’t I done it since then? Because although they did stop, I would get scolded: “How dare a little bean like you mock an adult.”

‘Ah. Maybe it’s because I didn’t unwrap it?’

That seemed right. My parents always taught me to be polite to adults. I fumbled to unwrap the candy and held it out.

“Please have it.”

“But I gave it to you. You eat it.”

“I’m giving it back to you.”

I even unwrapped it for you, teacher. My arm is getting tired.

“…Don’t you want it?”

“No, it’s because you look sad.”

“Me?”

Why do adults pretend not to know what’s obviously visible, making people frustrated? That always bothered me.

The teacher looked up at the ceiling, blinking her eyes, and ate the candy. Then she hugged me tightly. She was saying something, but her mumbling made it hard to hear.

‘If teacher were my mom, I could be hugged like this every day.’

It was like a dream, but it wasn’t a dream, and that was wonderful. The teacher’s embrace didn’t smell of alcohol, cigarettes, or sweat. Just shampoo.

“You’ll be able to become a wonderful adult. Teacher believes in you.”

After a long while, when the teacher finally let me go, she awkwardly gave me a handful of candies.

Afraid my parents would accuse me of stealing if they found out, I kept them in my bag and ate them all.

‘If everyone in the world became fools, would they really be happy?’

Even after finishing all those candies, I couldn’t find the answer.

And time flowed by as if on fast-forward.

My family situation improved dramatically. My parents no longer fought, and eventually, something like laughter and harmony even permeated our home.

I smiled along, but somehow it all felt strange and awkward.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t a genius. I was just a precocious child who was overly conscious of others’ reactions.

It’s not that I didn’t study. It’s just that when I received a test paper, my mind would go blank.

By the time I snapped back to reality in surprise, everything I had memorized and learned had fled, leaving only doubt behind.

All those things I studied,

All those things I knew,

Were they real?

Can I be certain that all of it is correct?

I’m not trying to talk about an ‘inner child shaken by an unstable home’ or ‘unhealed past trauma.’

That sounds too simplistic and even cowardly, making it seem like I’ve been walking around with my wounds wide open.

I just wanted to say that I grew up skeptical, like oil floating on water or water mixed with oil, not blending well anywhere.

It wasn’t my parents’ fault. They eventually reconciled.

It wasn’t poverty’s fault either. While we weren’t wealthy enough to throw money around, I grew up without lacking necessities.

The problem was me.

Not keeping pace with my parents, not stuffing money into wounds to stop the bleeding—these were all things I did.

Life after that, well, it wasn’t ordinary. The hurdle of what people call “ordinary” is so high that it’s hard to reach without imagination.

Instead, I could “act” like a decent human being.

I went to a reasonably good university, moved between a rented room and dormitory, did part-time jobs, internships, completed military service… even job hunting. I did all the usual things fairly decently.

But in one corner of my heart, there was a sense of dissonance, like a crack.

Like being given a good role and memorizing the script perfectly, only to have the role suddenly changed.

A feeling of alienation, as if I was forcing myself to pretend, but my place in the world didn’t seem like the real me.

Still, I’ve lived well enough until now. It might not have been an award-winning performance, but it wasn’t bad enough to call for a retake. That’s what I believed.

…Until I opened my eyes and found myself dropped into the world of a game I had enjoyed for a long time. And not just any game—a zombie apocalypse world.

Perhaps death could be an escape route. Like waking up from a bad dream.

But it might just end like this. Like the countless endings I’ve seen, I might become a zombie wandering this world, trapped in my physical body.

Sitting there in despair, what came to mind was that brief exchange with my teacher.

Aren’t these neighbors precisely the fools my teacher spoke of?

Drooling at the smell of ‘watermelon juice,’ floundering toward it with single-minded focus on eating what’s in front of them, regardless of twisted ankles or contorted backs—aren’t they the true fools in human form?

But what about me?

I am smarter than them. I know that my fate will ultimately be the same as theirs. I know how difficult and painful it will be to survive in this wretched world.

Having to be selective about what to eat and drink, being careful about where to rest, and preparing for the possibility that what was normal yesterday might not be so today—I clearly see all the exhausting struggles ahead.

I know the hardships that await me. They don’t.

I know they are miserable. They don’t know themselves.

I understand them. They understand neither themselves nor me.

I can’t expect such understanding from them in the future either.

So only one question remains.

Should I become a fool like them, living without knowing happiness or unhappiness, simply following instincts?

Or should I continue as I am, a wise person who knows pain, pleasure, sadness, desire, joy, and suffering?

If I want to live as a fool, I just need to stay still. Not move a finger and remain where I am.

But if I choose the path of wisdom, despite knowing all the pain it brings…

I must stand up. I must face it. I must consume hardship and stuff myself with suffering, knowing full well what they taste like.

The decision probably requires just the movement of a single finger.

And so, I make one small request of you.

Please lend me enough courage to move just one finger.