His mother used to scare him as a child, saying that biting his nails would cause them to collect in his intestines, forming a lump that could eventually kill him. Terrified of such a gruesome death, he tried to impose a limit: one nail a day, slowly, savoring it, in the smallest possible pieces.
He had her first thorough medical check-up at the age of forty. That’s when he learned his mother had probably been lying. But he never dared to ask anyone about it—not his classmates, not his friends, not even his girlfriends later on. One of his serious girlfriends had been a medical student back then. He could have learned the truth from her, especially since the girl used to warn him about intestinal infections caused by the bad habit.
Occasionally, he would stop. Like before his wedding. At that time, he was living a happy, balanced life, and it wasn’t hard to restrain himself. Who would have thought the young bride would run off with the hotel owner during their honeymoon?
His gaze swept across the silently scribbling classroom. For a moment, he watched the students with indifference. A faint smile crossed his face as he remembered how challenging the test he had prepared was. Not that the material hadn’t been covered in class—it was just that he took great pleasure in compiling those bits of knowledge most students tended to overlook.
In the beginning, he loved teaching. He enjoyed the special attention, the trust his students gave him, and the camaraderie of the workplace. But when he became the pathetic fool who couldn’t even bring his wife back from the honeymoon, everything changed. Colleagues looked at him with pity, and women kept their distance. The kids whispered behind his back in the high school corridors. To everyone, it seemed clear—he was to blame. Something was wrong with hi, if his wife ran away the moment they were married. He must be a terrible lover—that’s what they must think.
He hated this class the most. Or rather, a few students. To be specific, a few girls. The ringleaders of the senior group—wealthy, spoiled brats. Their disdainful, mocking glances. The unmistakable smirks painted on their lipstick-stained lips. A shiver ran down his spine when he locked eyes with one of them—a girl who seemed utterly unfazed by the damned test. That wretched girl’s icy look said it all: Did you really think you were so damn smart, you Monchhichi-headed loser?
Irritated, he brought his hand to his mouth. He bit down and swallowed.
The unmistakable sound made a few students look up. They shook their heads disapprovingly before returning to their papers. Of course. He buried himself in his books as well. Or at least pretended to. He flipped through the pages as if he had found something important. He appeared to underline random lines. Suddenly, he felt like laughing. He pressed his face against his shoulder to stifle the laughter threatening to erupt.
God! What a pathetic creature! At forty-five, here he was, pretending in front of teenagers. He was faking diligence, trying to please them, doing everything to avoid their ridicule for having been deceived, humiliated, abandoned, and emotionally crippled for life.
He still heard the stunned, bewildered murmurs behind him. The tickling sensation of blood seeping from his bitten nail, trailing down slowly, felt more intense than ever before. As he walked briskly, he wiped his finger on his pants without breaking stride. Not even for a second. No way!
He would never go back there, never humiliate himself again. Who cares what tomorrow brings? Anything but that—nothing else matters. Somehow, something will happen. Anything would be better than the way that brat looked at him. Even uncertainty.