NB Chapter37

“You don’t need to target Li Yi at every turn,” I said while brushing Zhang Mingsheng’s hand away. “He and I are just friends.”

I had never felt the need to say such things before; my conscience was clear, so there was no reason to explain. Having known Li Yi for so many years, we had long since viewed each other as close family. Yet Zhang Mingsheng troubled Li Yi time and again. Even though I stayed obediently by his side and promised him I would no longer try to end my life, he still wouldn’t let it go, insisting on scoring petty verbal points.

Zhang Mingsheng seemed somewhat disappointed. He withdrew his hand but remained seated on the edge of the bed, watching me with a calm gaze. “Officer Yu, I’ve found that being someone by your side is truly difficult. Setting aside the fact that I can’t do bad things, am I not even allowed to speak ill of people?”

Can’t do bad things? What atrocities haven’t you committed?

I said, “We are living well now and have everything we need. You might as well let Li Yi have some peace as well; don’t make things hard for him.”

Zhang Mingsheng laughed. “If I truly wanted to make things hard for him, do you think you would have even seen him today?”

“Forget I said anything.” I was always wary of his pronouncements, fearing that further talk would only backfire.

Zhang Mingsheng, however, leaned back, seemingly savoring my words. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you say that ‘we’ are living well. Officer Yu, ‘we’… you mean us as a family, right?”

I couldn’t believe he had caught me saying that.

Startled, I snapped my book shut, tossed it onto the nightstand, and made a show of getting ready for sleep. “It’s late, I’m exhausted. I’m going to sleep now, please turn off the light.”

I lay flat for a moment, then turned onto my side, adjusted my pillow, and curled up slightly before closing my eyes. In an instant, the world went dark, and I began to drift into a burgeoning drowsiness. The people I had seen and the words I had spoken today flickered through my mind like a revolving lantern, drifting further and further away.

Everything around me remained still; I couldn’t hear a thing.

Zhang Mingsheng didn’t leave. He stayed seated there, keeping my nerves on edge and making me afraid to drift off. I had a premonition, and before I could speculate further, Zhang Mingsheng leaned in to fulfill it. His lips pressed against the back of my ear, grazing me with feather-light kisses, while his hand slid under the covers, moving with a practiced familiarity that left my body weak. It was a sensation of comfort and trembling, but also of vertigo; my mind stretched taut as if it might snap at any second.

For someone in a weakened state, sex is a life-shortening drug; it temporarily rouses the spirit and flushes the face, much like the final glow before the end.

Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to seize Zhang Mingsheng’s wrist and asked him, “You want me to die sooner, don’t you?”

“We haven’t done it in so long.” He muttered as he nipped and kissed my back, his tone actually sounding somewhat aggrieved. It was a fabricated grievance, utterly sickening.

I knew that struggling would lead to no good end. He was determined to do it today, though I had no idea where this sudden interest had come from. He’d just showered and would surely have to shower again; he clearly had no regard for water conservation, didn’t he know how many years it would take for rising sea levels to submerge Hong Kong?

Left with no choice, I let go of his hand and allowed him to flip me back and forth, prying and pulling me apart as if he wanted to dismantle me entirely. He forced his way in, and even though he restrained some of his brute strength, his impact still left me in a state of endless tears. He leaned close to my ear, his voice dropping to a low murmur as he kept repeating things I couldn’t make out. Dry towels and the warm water from the bedside table were eventually put to use. I was exhausted to the point of near fainting; in the end, I slumped against the pillow and refused to open my eyes no matter what. I only vaguely remember the sensation of warm water and soft foam pouring over my skin before I fell into a deep, drifting sleep.

My sleep quality was poor, marked by frequent startles throughout the night. When I woke up again, the small lamp in the room was still on. I grabbed my watch and struggled to focus, realizing I had only slept for two or three hours; it was now the middle of the night.

Zhang Mingsheng was gone, and the water glass was empty. My mouth was uncomfortably dry. I climbed out of bed, my legs weak and unsteady while my body felt heavy as lead. I staggered down onto the soft carpet and slowly made my way out, leaning against the wall for support.

The light was on in Zhang Mingsheng’s study; he must still be busy.

Aside from his identity as a psychopath, he also played the role of a workaholic quite well. Even after laying his cards on the table with Zhang Yaonian and having victory within his grasp, a control freak like him probably wouldn’t dare to relax.

I stared at that light with my toes curling slightly inside my cotton slippers. After some hesitation, I walked up and knocked a few times on the door.

The door was slightly ajar, and Zhang Mingsheng was not inside.

Just as I was wondering where he was, I saw a photo album spread open on the desk. The photo Song Yixing had taken was lying on top of the album, not yet tucked into the plastic sleeve.

Li Yi clearly hadn’t liked it; despite Song Yixing’s repeated hints, he had left after a brief farewell without ever mentioning the picture. Then again, Li Yi and I had hundreds of photos together; that one wasn’t particularly special.

In the end, Zhang Mingsheng had claimed it for himself.

It was strange, I didn’t even know Zhang Mingsheng owned a photo album. He had always forbidden me from showing my face in public for fear of leaving behind photographic evidence. I had assumed he was the type of person who loathed photography.

I’ve met people like that before; they worry about leaving indelible traces in the world, marks that might act like nails, snagging them by the hem of their trousers.

What kind of traces had Zhang Mingsheng collected?

Overcome by sudden curiosity, I rounded the desk, picked up the photo, and began to flip through the album.

The photos were arranged with no discernible order separated by several blank pages. There were baby pictures of Keke, a small ID photo of Xiao Yuan from the orphanage, landscape shots from a trip to Japan, and several photos showing the back of my head.

I hadn’t even realized he had taken these photos of me.

As I flipped further back, an obviously old photograph with burnt edges caught my eye.

It was an artifact of another era, the image faded into a hazy, yellowish-green tint. The faces of the people were blurred, their features as thin and faint as the legs of a mosquito; the harder I tried to focus on them, the more they seemed to slip away. Only someone intimately familiar with the subjects would be able to recognize them at a glance.

The photo featured a boy and a woman.

Who were they?

Could they be the former wife and child of Zhang Mingsheng?

I dismissed the thought immediately. Judging by the age of the photograph, by the time it was developed, Zhang Mingsheng would likely still have been locked away in the Zhang ancestral home, a budding young psychopath.

That does seem somewhat possible, but the two people in the photograph were dressed plainly, hardly like they came from a wealthy family.

As I stared, a chill swept over me.

Why was this so familiar?

The woman wore a purple dress, while the child was dressed in a pale goose-yellow shirt uniform.

Then there was the horsetail pine behind them and the plastic slide, its colors so vibrant they looked cheap.

I could even remember the things that were outside the frame of the photo.

Next to the slide was a large sandbox scattered with olive-drab iron shovels. Beneath the tree sat a pile of sandbags, with a bright yellow jump rope hanging from a branch. Higher up, stuck in the needles, was a shuttlecock that the old director had tried everything to get down but never could.

The old director had bought a second-hand camera and was excitedly fiddling with it to take pictures of the children.

A woman arrived late, holding a little boy by the hand. They had just been reading together a book that told the story of a mischievous girl who wore red socks.

When the shutter clicked, a gust of wind swept through.

The child then caught the scent of the woman’s perfume.

This was No. 14 Liannan Lane, the Zhen’ai Orphanage.

It was the place where I grew up.

The child in the photograph was me.

And the woman’s surname was Yang; she had worked at the orphanage for a brief period. We didn’t know much about her personal life; everyone just called her Auntie Xiao Yang. She was the kindest to me, often spending her own money to buy me clothes and books, and she even gave me a new name.

She said with a beaming smile while stroking my hair, “Your name shall be Fuchao.”

Fuchao, to soothe the tide. She told me that the most miraculous and vital thing in this world is water: thousands upon thousands of streams, rivers, lakes, and seas, surging and flowing, sometimes swift, sometimes slow, but always eternal.

I listened intently. Even though I didn’t fully understand, I felt an extraordinary sense of longing.

I even used to fantasize about how wonderful it would be if she adopted me and if she became my mother.

That is how it is for children in an orphanage; if you receive even a tiny bit of kindness, you can never forget it.

Then, she suddenly vanished, leaving nothing behind.

I grew used to that too. Life in the orphanage was always like that: just as you begin to think you might finally have a home, the fantasy crumbles and vanishes into thin air with the departing footsteps of those you cared for.

But I held no grudge. I cherished the memory.

At least I had a new name.

At least, there was one photograph left between us.

And now, that photograph had appeared here.

“What are you looking at?”

A voice suddenly rang out, making me start violently. A moment later, a pair of arms came from behind and pulled me into an embrace. I had been so lost in thought that I hadn’t even noticed Zhang Mingsheng walking in; he moved with a terrifying lightness, like a ghost.

Panic flared in my chest, my heart pounding against my ribs, though I couldn’t even tell what I was afraid of. Why did he have this? Had he gone to the orphanage to rummage through old things? Did he keep it because of me, or because of her?

Where did she go? Was she alright?

I wanted to ask, but I didn’t know where to begin.

Zhang Mingsheng rested his chin on my shoulder, holding me as he looked down. His voice was tender as he asked, “You saw it? Well, what do you think? Is she beautiful?”

“She’s very beautiful.” I answered.

It was the truth.

“En.” Zhang Mingsheng nodded.

He said nothing more.

“Who are they?”

I couldn’t hold it back any longer; the question forced its way out.

Zhang Mingsheng gave a soft laugh in my ear. He extended a finger toward the photo, pointing at the woman. “You really should have recognized her by now. This is my mommy.”

A shock went through my system, leaving me paralyzed.

But he didn’t stop there; his finger moved, this time pointing at the little boy instead. “And this is you, Laopo. How can you not even remember what you looked like as a child?”

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