Chapter 60

When I was young, I always heard people say that in this world, only life and death were significant. Later, when I grew up, I realised that to some people, life and death were not important. In fact, death was a kind of freedom for them.

For a long time, I was like that. Dying would not be more painful than living. However, I hadn’t expected that there would be someone in even more pain than me.

The person I was willing to live for, was currently doing everything he could to digest away the hurt I had inflicted on him. I suddenly wasn’t sure whether I should continue living.

I kissed his hair that was still cold to the touch, attempting to calm his emotions.

I said, “Yan Yang, you just have to say it, and I’ll live or die as you wish.”

My life had already reached this point, like a farce.

When I put my life in another’s hands, I still didn’t know if this was a good or bad thing for them.

I just hoped that he could feel at least a sliver of the care I had for him. My life was worth nothing, but it was all I had now.

He was silent for a while, before letting out a soft laugh.

“I want you to live like you’re half-dead.” Yan Yang gave me a light push, then lit another cigarette. Every time he smoked, my brows subconsciously knitted together. In my eyes, these cigarettes were a tangible expression of the hurt I had caused him. Pain had no physical body, but it could weave itself into a form of expression. Yan Yang was using smoking as a way to express his pain.

He actually looked very attractive when he smoked. He would take a drag of his cigarette, then tip his head back slightly, his eyes half-closed as he blew out a cloud of smoke.

He draped his arm holding the cigarette over my shoulders, his fingers lightly teasing my neck.

Yan Yang laughed, “If you live happily, I won't be happy. If you die, I still won't be happy.”

He paused for a moment, taking another drag of his cigarette.

“Let’s have sex,” he looked down and undid his belt, “It’s been a while since I last did it.”

Been a while.

I grabbed his wrist, gripping it very tight.

“You did it with other people?”

A mocking laugh escaped Yan Yang. He sneered, “Is that important?”

He looked at me, realisation sweeping over him, “Oh, no way. You didn't actually think I was still keeping my body pure for you, did you? Why the hell should I?” 

He yanked his hand out of my grip and took off his pants, standing there with his legs bare as he said, “Okay, I'll say it like this: I'm now a dirty whore that's been straddled by hundreds and fucked by thousands. Do you still dare to touch me?”

Yan Yang knew too well how to strike me where it hurt. He didn't even need to pull out a knife; his every word was like bullets and arrows, hitting my bullseye dead-centre.

He held the cigarette between his teeth as he bent over and took off his underwear, tossing it at me.

“Do you still dare to touch me?” Yan Yang stood there, the rims of his eyes red, “Do you think I'm dirty? Do you think I'm disgusting? Do you think I'm…”

I couldn't bear to listen on anymore and stepped forward to pull him into my arms.

I had apologised a thousand times already. I didn't know how many he had really heard, but even just one would be enough.

I cried as I hugged him, saying sorry over and over again. It was like other than this one word, I didn't know how to say anything else.

“You've gone soft.” Yan Yang touched my crotch, his tone of voice indifferent.

He said, “So you think I'm dirty.”

“No.” I strongly denied it, refusing to let him out of my embrace.

“Then why is it like this?” Yan Yang reached a hand into my pants. His icy fingers encircled my cock as he said, “This is the best proof.”

I felt wetness on my neck. Yan Yang was crying too.

“It's not!” I finally managed to yell, before continuing to hug him and cry.

He asked me to let go of him, but I refused to listen. He said coldly, “You can't even get hard to me now. You really are living like you're half-dead.”

It wasn't like that at all.

“Yan Yang…” I did my best to calm myself down, afraid that I might repeat my past mistakes and scare him away.

“Then tell me, why? Weren't you still hard just now?”

“I'm sorry.” As I apologised, I suddenly scooped him up and carried him back to the bedroom.

I put Yan Yang on the bed. He lay there, watching me as he smoked.

Yan Yang's gaze was very cold, but tears kept flowing out of the corners of his eyes. I got on top of him and kissed him non-stop.

I had gone soft because my heart was aching for him.

Because I felt guilty for what I had done to him.

Every part of his body was cold, to the point where when I finally got hard and entered him, even his insides were cold.

We still had sex in the end. He lay beneath my body, his heart was full of hatred. From the start to the end, he closed his eyes and smoked.

The foreplay was done carelessly. It was very difficult for me to enter, but when it hurt, he merely knitted his brows together, not making a sound.

He would never hug me and cry as he said ‘Ge, it hurts’ again, nor would he ever kiss my ear when he climaxed and tell me ‘Ge, I love you so much’.

He held a cigarette in one hand, while the other gripped the metal head of the bed. This old bed creaked as I moved, like it was calling back a departing soul[1]. In the dead of the night, it sounded like the wail of a ghost.

Neither of us was happy. Although we were doing it, not an ounce of the pleasure that came with making love was felt.

Halfway through, Yan Yang went soft. He didn’t even come.

I was like a clumsy, awkward lunatic, doing my best to pleasure him, yet he had no reaction at all.

In the end, I gave up too.

I came inside his body, then hugged him as I lay on the bed. Neither of us spoke, feeling my cock that had softened due to fatigue slide out of his body along with my cum.

A long time passed, so long that the moon was getting tired.

Yan Yang said, “I lied.”

I looked at him.

“I haven't done it with anyone else.” He let out a bitter laugh, his finger crushing the cigarette butt that had already been extinguished, “I have trauma surrounding sex. You can’t even get hard anymore when you see me. It’s just…rather disappointing.”

Footnotes:

[1] ‘calling back a departing soul’: The original phrase used was 叫魂. To put it simply, in the olden days, people believed that when a person was about to die due to illness, their soul was leaving them, so in order to heal them, one had to ‘call’ the soul back to the body.

I’ve taken the process of it from Baidu and run it through Google translate with some editing for accuracy below, if you’re interested to find out more.

Soul calling is usually done when children are frightened and cannot eat, sleep well, and are in panic all day long. Then the parents take their children to find a local soul caller to call for the soul. People who can call souls are generally older and mostly female. When calling the soul, the person calling the spirit draws a cross on the ground. The person who has lost the spirit stands on the cross, and the parents of the person who has lost the spirit stand aside. The person calling the spirit first utters a chant, and then stretches out one hand to the sky, making a gesture of grasping something and shouting "(Name) has returned", and then stretches out his hand to the person who lost his soul, and the parents of the person who lost his soul respond by saying "He is here". Repeat this seven times. The person who lost his soul will recover the next day.