PSE - 32

“Who were you talking to on the phone before dawn?”

Lately, Zhao Chunni’s emotions had been relatively stable. She spoke less and less, but in terms of habits, she had started behaving like a disobedient child. She refused to take her medication, frequently wet the bed, and no matter how many times Ha Yue warned her about the dropping temperatures, she would always secretly remove the pajamas and adult diapers Ha Yue had put on her after bathing.

At this moment, she had just crawled out of bed, wearing only a floral-patterned tank top. Her bloated, milky-white limbs were fully exposed to the air, but she didn’t seem to feel any shame about exposing herself to her daughter.

Perhaps because they weren’t emotionally close, no matter how many times Ha Yue had seen her mother’s naked body while caring for her, she still couldn’t feel comfortable or familiar with it.

She focused her gaze on her mother’s face, deliberately avoiding looking downward, and reached out to grab her phone back. But Zhao Chunni held it too tightly, so Ha Yue resorted to gently patting her mother’s hand like she would a child. “Mom? How did you wake up? It’s cold in the kitchen. Let’s go back to the bedroom and put on some pants.”

“You must wear the adult diaper, or else I’ll have to change the entire bedsheet every day. Washing them daily will tire me out.”

Zhao Chunni ignored her, gripping Ha Yue’s phone and fumbling with it. Unable to unlock it, she glared up at Ha Yue and demanded, “Where did you get this phone? Are you secretly calling your father again behind my back? Didn’t I tell you? If I catch you contacting that bastard one more time, I won’t want you anymore!”

“Do you want to go out begging like him?”

“How can you be so ungrateful? Do you even feel sorry for me?”

The discomfort Ha Yue had felt earlier was now amplified tenfold by her mother’s incoherent accusations. In Zhao Chunni’s chaotic questioning, Ha Yue felt as if she had regressed to her high school years.

In her second year of high school, she had once received a call from her father, Ha Jianguo, on the home landline. His voice sounded as young and carefree as she remembered. He had casually greeted her, “Yueyue, it’s me,” and then told her that he was now making money in the redwood business in Yuecheng. Ha Yue hadn’t said a word, not even listening to what he had to say.

Zhao Chunni had snatched the phone away and screamed furiously into the receiver.

From that day on, Zhao Chunni confiscated Ha Yue’s phone and remained vigilant, preventing her from contacting Ha Jianguo.

Every time Ha Yue approached the phone or asked her mother to return her phone for school-related purposes, Zhao Chunni would fly into a rage.

This issue haunted Zhao Chunni for an entire year. The most intense conflict occurred two weeks before the college entrance exam. Because Ha Yue was busy solving practice problems late at night and refused to repeatedly apologize, Zhao Chunni, in a fit of anger, yanked the telephone cord out of the wall and smashed the home phone into pieces right in front of her.

That night, Zhao Chunni screamed and stomped on the shattered phone on the floor. Plastic fragments and red debris littered the ground. Ha Yue, her head bowed, felt her eardrums throb. Emotionally numb, she returned to her desk, picked up her pen, and continued working on her math problems.

The overburdened teenager didn’t want to cry, but due to her mother’s interference, she couldn’t solve the function problem in front of her. Tears streamed down her cheeks and dripped onto her chin.

Now, that same suffocating feeling in her chest returned. Ha Yue felt as if her body remembered the impossibly difficult math problem from that day.

Across from her, Zhao Chunni continued yelling, flailing her arms and hurling Ha Yue’s phone at her face.

Her browbone stung as the phone hit the floor tiles. Ha Yue quickly crouched down to inspect the screen.

“You love your father so much—why didn’t you go with him back then?”

“Did you think I wanted you?”

“I’ve raised you for all these years! I was afraid other men would harm you, so I didn’t dare date anyone. Is this how you repay me? Now that you’re grown up and have wings, are you going to find your father?”

“Have you forgotten? He ran off with someone else and didn’t want you! He dumped you on me like trash, and you still think about him?”

The accusations kept ringing in her ears. Ha Yue knelt on the ground, peeling back the spider-web-like protective film of the shattered screen. Fortunately, only the tempered glass screen protector was cracked; the phone screen itself was intact.

Her biggest concern at the moment was avoiding unnecessary expenses.

Before standing up again, Ha Yue repeatedly reminded herself: her mother was sick, trapped in the swamp of her memories, unable to save herself. She couldn’t argue with her because even if provoked, it wouldn’t make sense. Nor could she resort to violence against her, because even though her mother was a patient, an elder, and a vulnerable person, she couldn’t bring herself to bully the weak.

That wasn’t something a child should do.

Slipping the phone into her pocket, Ha Yue’s eyes were dry, but she maintained a calm demeanor as she gently tugged on Zhao Chunni’s arm. “Mom, all those things are in the past. It’s still dark outside; let’s go back inside and get dressed.”

“Aren’t you cold? Look, your whole body is covered in goosebumps. Let’s put on the adult diaper first. You need to wear it every day now anyway. We’ve already bought them—it’d be a waste not to use them, right?”

“Are you hungry? I made braised goose. Didn’t you say yesterday that you wanted to eat goose? Let’s have porridge for breakfast.”

Zhao Chunni frowned, suspiciously looking down at her own body, not understanding why she needed to wear a diaper. But when Ha Yue mentioned the braised goose, her gaze shifted toward the stove and then fell on a stack of white manuscript papers. Instantly, she pushed Ha Yue aside, grabbed the stack of novel drafts that Ha Yue had accidentally brought back from Xue Jing’s house, and started screaming again.

“You’re writing a diary again?! Writing about your good-for-nothing father, aren’t you?”

“Why are you so pathetic?”

“I’ll burn it all! I’ll burn everything you’ve written! I’ll teach you to keep writing!”

“I’ll make sure you learn your lesson! Learn your lesson!”

“Mom! That’s someone else’s property! Don’t touch it!” The moment Ha Yue saw Zhao Chunni grab Xue Jing’s manuscript, her mind went blank. She immediately lunged forward to stop her.

Unlike earlier when she had only used three-tenths of her strength to snatch the phone, this time Ha Yue exerted all her might, prying open Zhao Chunni’s wrist with one swift motion. Unable to overpower her daughter, Zhao Chunni tried to lift the pot lid and grab a handful of Ha Yue’s hair, forcing her to throw the manuscript into the blazing fire.

The flames shot upward, scorching the air, and Ha Yue immediately smelled the acrid scent of burning paper. In that critical moment, she no longer cared about filial piety or respect for elders. She quickly turned around, using one hand to twist Zhao Chunni’s arm behind her back, dragging her away from the dangerous area.

During the struggle, Zhao Chunni’s floral tank top tore open, exposing a large hole, while strands of Ha Yue’s broken hair remained clutched between Zhao Chunni’s fingers. After locking the kitchen door, Ha Yue was once again ambushed by Zhao Chunni, who lunged at her arm. Frustrated and overwhelmed, Ha Yue yanked her arm free from her mother’s grip. Her wrist snapped back like a rubber band, and her hand inadvertently struck Zhao Chunni’s cheek with a loud slap.

The sound echoed through the room, and Zhao Chunni, clutching her face, instantly snapped out of her haze.

For a few seconds, mother and daughter locked eyes. Then Zhao Chunni began to scream—a heart-wrenching wail akin to a cuckoo bird crying blood.

But this time, Zhao Chunni wasn’t angry about the past. She was genuinely furious at the present version of Ha Yue standing before her.

With both hands, she shoved Ha Yue, sobbing and shouting for her to leave the house. If she didn’t go, Zhao Chunni threatened to bash her head against the wall and kill herself.

She declared that she didn’t have such a ruthless daughter, that she didn’t need this ungrateful wolf who couldn’t be tamed.

“Get out! Get out of here!”

“How dare you hit your own mother! You’re unfilial!”

Ha Yue’s temple throbbed painfully, and a lock of her hair near her ear had been singed yellow by the flames.

Though she hadn’t meant to strike her mother, the guilt weighed heavily on her. Even though she knew it was unintentional, her lips felt sealed shut, making it nearly impossible to explain or justify her accidental blow.

Holding the manuscript tightly against her chest, Ha Yue stared blankly at Zhao Chunni. At first, she stood rooted to the spot in the courtyard, refusing to leave. But as Zhao Chunni continued to cry uncontrollably, banging her head against Ha Yue’s stomach and hitting her back with a broom, Ha Yue could no longer bear the overwhelming sense of desolation within her. Following her mother’s demands, she turned and stumbled toward the gate.

As soon as she stepped outside the courtyard, Zhao Chunni slammed the door shut behind her. Listening intently for a moment, Ha Yue heard her mother’s curses gradually fade away—she must have gone back inside.

She had left home, but the vast world offered her nowhere to go. Her life, up to this point, was an utter failure.

Ha Yue had returned to the small town for the sake of “mother-daughter affection,” yet even her ailing mother didn’t want her presence. She believed she had shed the lies of vanity and lived a morally upright life, but she had just unintentionally slapped her own mother.

No one would understand her—not even Aunt Siqin next door. It seemed she no longer had the qualifications to exist as a person.

At twenty-six years old, she had nothing tying her to this world, no bonds strong enough to anchor her. Perhaps this was the tragedy of being someone whose death wouldn’t be mourned by anyone—not even by Jinzi, who spoke so highly of familial love. Not even the most basic form of kinship could serve as her final refuge.

She couldn’t even describe what her feelings toward her mother truly were.

Love and hate weren’t separated by a thin line; there were many shades of gray in between.

The morning sun rose, painting the sky golden. Ha Yue’s mood was at its lowest point. In a daze, she looked down and mechanically examined the manuscript she had protected in her arms.

More than sixty pages, each sheet bearing traces of neglect. Xue Jing’s novel was covered in dust and grease stains from his home, and the ink on the cover had smeared where her tears had fallen.

Her eyes red-rimmed, Ha Yue pressed her fingers firmly over the pages several times, but the marks refused to smooth out.

Back when they were dating, Xue Jing often proudly showed her his handwritten drafts. He always said that reading someone else’s words was an intimate act, even more so than physical intimacy. The connection formed through shared thoughts transcended mere bodily union—it was a spiritual bond. He revered various schools of thought, valuing intellectual communion above all else.

Outwardly, Ha Yue mocked him for being pretentious and pedantic, but deep down, she agreed. That was when she fell in love with reading leisure books—fiction that seemed useless for practical life but brought small joys nonetheless.

Literature introduced her to worlds she had never experienced: happiness, sorrow, metaphors that sparked reflection, and fleeting sparks of insight, like the ever-changing scenery glimpsed from a train window.

What distinguished humans from animals was their possession of free will.

After their breakup, although Xue Jing was no longer part of her life, the intellectual legacy of their first love remained.

On her days off in Jicheng, she often spent her time at bookstores, lingering the longest in the popular literature section. Coincidentally, Xue Jing’s books were always placed in the most prominent spots by the store owners. Since she loved reading, there was no reason not to buy them.

After graduating from university, she purchased many of his books while in Jicheng: first editions, hardcover editions, limited signed editions, and personally signed editions. But her favorite remained the first paperback edition—small and compact, with 160,000 words. The story was concise yet powerful, each sentence brimming with emotion. She adored the stubborn and innocent young characters he created, so she kept that book by her bedside for years, flipping through it whenever she felt like it. Even as the cover yellowed and the corners became worn and curled, she would carefully erase any marks on the pages to preserve it.

Repeatedly reading her ex-boyfriend’s works wasn’t exactly a healthy habit—it was akin to obsessively stalking an ex-lover’s social media—but Xue Jing’s constructed worlds were always beautiful. Everyone has an appreciation for beauty, and back then, she yearned for the idealized romance he depicted in his novels. It was almost comforting, a form of spiritual sustenance.

It didn’t matter if her blind dates failed multiple times or if her attempts at dating down hit rocky patches. She still had her fallback—a mental refuge. At least she had once experienced the kind of love described in those books.

Once you’ve seen the vast ocean, lesser waters pale in comparison. No matter how calculating or unattractive men in real life seemed, she never felt particularly hurt.

Because deep inside, she still harbored countless fictional characters.

When she moved back from Jicheng, Ha Yue sold off all the luxury items she had briefly owned during her time there at a discount. But the novels signed by Xue Jing were the last things she parted with.

Two large boxes full of treasures she had proudly displayed on her bookshelf. Just glancing at them before leaving the house gave her courage, like buying blind boxes. She had spent a lot of money collecting various signed editions. But the old man who bought scrap metal had lived a bachelor’s life and felt nauseated at the sight of romance novels. Without even flipping through them, he wrinkled his nose and told her these “scraps” could only be sold by weight. In the end, perhaps because she was sweet-talking, he mercifully settled with her for 29 yuan.

Ha Yue used that money to buy herself a customizable spicy hot pot. The tiny, fly-infested shop’s chili oil was incredibly spicy—likely laced with chili extract—and accidentally choked her throat. Cilantro shot out of her nose, and she ended up shedding two streams of involuntary tears over half a soaked fried dough stick sitting in front of her.

After finishing her last dinner in Jicheng, she stopped paying attention to Xue Jing’s updates and never read any of his new works again.

So she wasn’t quite aware that Xue Jing had recently written another book or that he was peddling substandard products on Weibo.

The internet’s big data algorithms were far more precise than her own mindset. Xue Jing, who used to frequently appear at the top of her browser feed, suddenly vanished. Instead of luxury bags, art exhibitions, or livehouse events, her phone apps began bombarding her with ads for garbage bags priced at 9.9 yuan per hundred, free shipping included.

Her life entered a new phase alongside these cheap banner ads.

Rice, oil, salt, three meals a day, the comings and goings of the corner store—there were no philosophical fantasies, no literary movements, and certainly no spiritual companionship. All that remained were her sick mother, tight finances, and a body whose passion for life had long burned out, leaving her perpetually tired and aching.

Before Ha Yue came of age, the strong and domineering Zhao Chunni had absolute control over her daughter. Zhao Chunni was the type who needed to vent her anger immediately, and she would often lock Ha Yue outside the door whenever the latter was disobedient, defiant, or unyielding.

No matter what their arguments were about, who was right or wrong, the only way for Ha Yue to return home was to cry, beg for forgiveness, and admit fault—the more submissive, the better.

A child repeatedly rejected and denied might initially feel fear, pain, and sadness.

But after the same “lesson” played out too many times, defense mechanisms kicked in, and the remaining scraps of emotion peeled away like a husk, floating into nothingness.

Outwardly, there was still a shell, but inside, it was empty.

Ha Yue wasn’t allowed to miss her absent father because he had abandoned her. Nor was she allowed to resent her mother because her mother was the only one who accepted her.

Her inner child seemed never to have grown up, perpetually teetering on a precarious plank bridge.

She should have been accustomed to this punishment of having her feelings stripped away. After all, Ha Yue was now a 26-year-old adult. Her emotions had been discarded so many times that there was no委屈 left to take away. So she shouldn’t let loneliness creep in and make choices that amounted to drinking poison to quench thirst.

But this sense of rootlessness was insidious, worming its way into her heart, especially after her usual methods of emotional detachment had nearly failed just moments ago.

Ha Yue stared at Xue Jing’s manuscript again and again, unable to resist the temptation. Like a fool, she opened the stack of papers, drawn from Xue Jing’s world.

Just because Xue Jing said the inspiration for these words came from her, she felt a strange sense of being needed.

The work belonged to Xue Jing, but somehow, it also felt like hers.

This feeling was warm, making her isolated spirit and weary body seem less desolate.

“Just killing time,” she told herself.

After reading one line, she resolved to stop. But her eyes betrayed her, jumping from the period to the next line.

The lingering dampness on the ground was scorched by the rising morning sun. The blinding light refracted through a small puddle at the doorway, casting a blurry patch of light on Ha Yue’s cheek.

Line after line, row after row, she mechanically repeated this futile act for dozens of minutes. Squatting on the ground, absorbed in the book, she almost forgot what she had just endured and the kind of life she was living.

Coincidentally, the protagonist of Xue Jing’s new novel was also a mother-daughter pair betrayed by the husband. They faced infidelity, but unlike Ha Yue’s childhood experiences, the wife in the story reacted by deleting an anonymous tip-off message exposing her husband’s betrayal, pretending nothing had happened.

Maternal love and marital duty seemed to triumph over dignity.

But the tip-offs didn’t stop. The second time, the sender attached shocking photos and videos.

Ha Yue couldn’t help but marvel: after all their emotional anchors had been shattered, what awaited this mother-daughter pair?

Xue Jing was right; this novel had a fresh tone, venturing into the suspense genre, which he hadn’t explored before.

The style was unique, the language mature and concise, and the analysis of human malice was blunt, making it a very sharp read.

Her reading came to an abrupt halt as her phone buzzed in her pocket. Quickly closing the manuscript like a thief, Ha Yue took a deep breath and unlocked the screen.

The reflection of Xue Jing’s avatar danced in her trembling irises. At some point, his once-godlike high-definition photo had been replaced by an extremely childish stick-figure drawing.

On a blank sheet of paper, two little pink pigs huddled together, shivering. One pig frowned, seemingly uncomfortable, while the other pressed its head tightly against the first one’s neck.

Next to the pair of pigs, labeled as a couple, “X” said: 

“Although, but.” 

“As your neighbor, I have to say something.” 

“You forgot your clothes and the thermos.”