Walking alone, drunk, in the Seoul winter

Walking to YoungEun's, I'm drunk. Friday night. No taxis. Especially none for foreigners. Too cold. Snow. Friends still out. Getting texts from them. From YoungEun. No idea of time. No school tomorrow. School's finished. Just wandering. Subway closed. Walking past subway stops I don't know. Talk to YoungEun. Samgakji? Why are you there? Just get a taxi. No taxis. Friday night. See the river. I can cross. She lives south of the river. Walking towards it. Cross the street at a crosswalk. Green man. I go, drunkenly. Two steps and then a bang into the side of my left knee. I'm on the ice on the road. A taxi skidded into me. I look up at the driver. He just hit me. I should sue. He's in trouble. His life is over. He just lost his job. He hit a pedestrian. I look at him. No expression. I look at the passenger. A little worried, not hysterical. This isn't America. Get out of the way, drunk foreigner. You can't do anything, can't speak Korean. Move. You're in the way. I look at him disgusted. He should be ashamed. He isn't No expression. He gives me nothing. He's a statue. I limp away a few steps. Give me sympathy. Or at least anger. Open your window and say something. Either say sorry or call me stupid. Anything. I'm just something his car hit. Like a speedbump. A rock. I think of soccer tryouts sophomore year. I was small, weak. I wasn't going to make the team. I was skillful, had worked hard, but wasn't big enough. Everyone felt sorry, but I wouldn't make it. Despite my hard work, nature decided I wouldn't make the team until Junior year. Not my fault. Everyone said so. You're so good, but they'll pick the bigger, older ones. I felt anguish, powerless. The world was against me. Everyone told me so. And I believed it. With my whole being I believed it. I played the victim. The soccer genius denied his chance because he's too small! One tryout session my friend Josh and I, both in the lower group, the group that wasn't going to make it, were playing against each other. He tripped me. An obvious foul. I look at the coach. He's looking away. I look at Josh. No emotion. He's taking the ball the other way. This isn't fair. Again. I'm wronged. I lay on the grass, defeated again unfairly. My mom's not there to give me that pained look: big eyes and sad mouth, covered slightly with her hand and looking like she's going to cry. It's just me, on the ground. Worthless. No one around, just my teammates and the other team just playing. Just cars driving by and people going about their business. The world spinning. I'm small. I don't matter. Sympathy doesn't matter. It's pointless. I get up. I stop limping, a pointless limp. It hurts but I can stand, can walk, can run. Why am I limping when I need to be running? Sympathy won't put me on varsity, won't find me a taxi won't get me a girlfriend, won't give me a purpose in life, won't make me money. I'm up. The Han river. The bridge is huge and long. The cars go by on the left, but the sidewalk is empty. It's 2am in the January cold. I'm alone. Why am I limping? Who cares? It's just me. I run. Yelling. At the top of my lungs. Beneath me the Han River surges, powerful and cold.