Heavenly Army, Doraon dorai_ By Ooahan JS

“See, you crazy idiot. Why on earth did you quit a perfectly good job just to chase some pipe dream about being a screenwriter? Huh? Why, you moron?”

“Just stop, Mom. I feel miserable enough as it is.”

“And what was so great about him that you emptied out the deposit for the house and drained your savings for him?”

“…It was big.”

“What?”

“His nose. I liked how big his nose was.”

Mom froze for a moment, staring at me with a baffled expression. Then, with a quiet mutter of “Crazy girl,” she turned her head away.

That made it worse.

I’d have preferred if she picked up anything in sight and beat me senseless. Her sighs and that heavy, sorrowful gaze weighed down on me more than any punishment ever could.

She sat there for a long time, staring at the floor. The same woman who used to terrify me as a child. But now, she’s growing older, weaker. A sharp pain stabbed at my chest, but I pushed it aside.
That feeling was too overwhelming to confront.

Mom must be lamenting, “Why did I ever give birth to a daughter like this?”

She’d worked so hard to make ends meet, putting me through college with the little she had. And what did she get in return? A daughter who fell apart after heartbreak and a scam.

I thought I could bounce back quickly, but I was wrong.

I was trapped in a vicious cycle, stuck in a rut I couldn’t escape.

It’s not like I don’t understand my own situation.
I know how my foolish decisions led my life to this low point.
I hate myself for it—more than anyone else could.

Does Mom even know how much I hate myself?
How much her pained, disappointed gaze cuts into me?

I thought three years would be enough. Enough to get back on my feet, to accomplish something.
But I haven’t achieved anything. And now, there’s nothing left.

Whenever I think about it, the first thing that escapes me is always the same.

Sigh.

---

The deep sigh I let out seemed to echo through the room, heavy enough to sink into the floorboards. Hearing it, Mom sighed as well, pulling something from her pocket and holding it out to me—a small, thick red envelope.

“This… This is a talisman? Why?”

“Carry it with you. Supposedly, things will get better starting in September. Ugh, look at me, trying every little thing now.”

“Why waste money on stuff like this? Do you really think this’ll change anything? Why believe in superstitious nonsense?”

I didn’t know why, but the sight of the talisman made me instantly angry. To me, it felt like an admission that I wasn’t capable of fixing things on my own, that I needed divine intervention to make up for my incompetence.

“I don’t need it. Stuff like this is useless.”

I tossed the talisman onto the floor and stormed out of the house.
The moment the front door shut behind me, tears came streaming down my face.

Why am I crying like this?

I’ve spent two years writing screenplays—because that’s all I know how to do. And yet, even after all this time, I’m still a failure. I managed to finish one story, but it didn’t even reach 1,000 views.

It didn’t fit the trends. It wasn’t a popular genre.
But let’s be real—what it really boils down to is that I wasn’t good enough.

Why did I cling to that story so desperately, hammering away at it as if it could save me? Why did I keep writing something everyone ignored, like a fool bashing my head against a wall?

I feel pathetic.

Yet I can’t seem to let it go.
Maybe because it’s the very story that dragged my life into the gutter. The one that spiraled out of control thanks to a con artist masquerading as a romantic partner. The one whose concept was stolen right out from under me.

Perhaps I clung to it because I couldn’t face my own failures.

Is it finally time to let it go?

After five long years, maybe the universe is telling me no one will care about this story no matter how much I pour into it.
Sigh. Life is such a *@#% mess.

I thought about calling Mom to suggest we eat dinner together, but then I remembered the talisman incident and dismissed the idea immediately.

Why did she bring me into this harsh, unkind world?
These days, young people say, “You brought me into this life, so you should take responsibility,” but I’m too old to make such childish complaints. At my age, whining like that would just seem ridiculous.

So, really, it’s all my fault.
If I was going to be born, I should’ve at least been born into a rich family.
That I wasn’t? That’s on me.

Which makes me a worthless person.

Maybe I should’ve just taken the talisman.
I lashed out at Mom for no reason when she hadn’t done anything wrong. And now, after all that, how could I possibly call her and ask to have dinner together?

Riiiiing. Riiiiiing.