He filmed me bleeding into my slipper

The doorman held his phone horizontal. I know what horizontal means — evidence, not memory. He filmed me sitting on the landing with glass everywhere and blood running into my slipper and he did not ask if I was all right and he did not look away and then he posted it. My name. Under the video. Like I was a incident report come to life and my shin was the executive summary.

I photographed the stairwell. I photographed the chat. I am keeping receipts now, the way Im kept receipts, and that thought makes me sick because I do not want to be the kind of person who keeps receipts but I also do not want to be the kind of person who gets shoved against a wall by a guard and has nothing to show for it.

The guard. His shoulder hit my hip and I hit the wall and there was the old bruise still purple under my fingers and now there is a new one building beside it and I labeled it BUILDING in my photo notes because I need to remember that this is their building and they have made sure I feel it. They film me. They push me. They add themselves to lawsuits I did not start.

The KTX is moving. Seoul is behind me now, thinning out into dark fields and I cannot feel my shin under the seat but I can feel tomorrow. The family table. The chair that is already full of someone else's expectations. Yerin said she would come but I did not tell her about the cut or the guard or the video and I do not know if I will or if I will sit across from her tomorrow and only say that I needed the car.

I am so tired. I am going anyway.