chapter 13

Chapter 13

I am afraid of sheep because of their Sheep Eyes.

This is the shadow of my childhood. From a young age, I was deeply tormented by the terror of being watched by Sheep Eyes.

Most animals have round pupils, or vertical ones; you can sense their emotions, and there is room for understanding.

But sheep have horizontal pupils. Such eyes are a mystery, completely unfathomable. They are neither cute nor fierce, devoid of emotion, and appear deeply uncanny.

A sheep stands not far away, silently watching you. You have no idea what it’s thinking. If you hold its gaze for too long, it remains just as calm, but it’s people who start to lose control.

Obviously, sheep are such gentle and fragile animals, yet they seem to possess a certain power to influence the human mind, to tempt people into doing things-especially, to tempt people to kill them.

It feels as if this is all arranged by fate.

I looked away, opened my arms to hug my father, and said firmly, “Dad, you have killed people, but I am not afraid, and I don’t hate you.

“You will never become my burden. Maybe others see you as a demon, but to me, you are only my father-the best father.

“I want to be a police officer, but that doesn’t mean I have a strong sense of justice. I just love suspense and deduction. This passion can lead down two paths, one good and one evil. Even if I don’t become a police officer, I will still have options.

“If the father I deeply love is a criminal, I will give up my original path without hesitation and stand firmly by your side.”

I know this is not right, and I know those are five human lives, but I cannot bring myself to sacrifice my family for the greater good. I am selfish, and truly unworthy of being a police officer.

After saying all this, I didn’t wait for my father’s response. I bent down, picked up a stone, and walked toward the sheep.

The sheep, with its strange horizontal pupils, silently watched me approach, watched me raise the stone. It did not move at all.

I struck the sheep repeatedly until it died.

Birds returning to their nests were startled from the woods and scattered in a flurry of wings; blood splattered, mingling with the crimson glow of sunset, and blended into the river water.

My father stared in shock as I carried out this violent act. He didn’t understand what I was doing, but as if guided by something unseen, he came over to help me.

One of us grabbed the sheep’s front legs, the other its hind legs. Together, we lifted the carcass and threw it into a hidden thicket by the mountain wall.

When it was done, I looked deeply at my father and said, one word at a time, “In religious sacrifice, the sheep is used as a Scapegoat.”

“Dad, the crime you committed will be borne by it in your place. Now you are already dead. We can go home.”

This is self-deception, like covering one’s ears while stealing a bell, but it works.

My father was somewhat comforted, standing in a daze for a while, still uneasy at heart. “Sooner or later…”

“We’ll deal with it when it comes. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” I said confidently. “Dad, trust me, we’ll be all right.”

As dusk fell, I took my father’s hand and led him up the mountain, retracing our path.

Since I was little, my father had taken me hiking many times, always holding my hand and leading the way.

This time, I wanted to walk ahead of him.