The Long Night - Chapter 1

It would be better to just jump.

Yan Liao looked down from the twentieth floor of the building. The bright summer sunlight baked the asphalt road to a glossy black. The roadside was lined with lush locust trees, and a wave of hot wind rustled through the leaves, creating a sound like a flowing green river.

The apartment was filled with cool air.

The air conditioning felt incredibly comfortable. On the transparent coffee table was a plate of watermelon, freshly taken from the fridge, cut into neat squares with a small silver fork. Next to it was a bowl of plum soup with floating ice cubes, looking clear and inviting.

He lay on the rocking chair, squinting his eyes, like a boneless creature on a beach. Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, falling on his pale, bluish skin. The surroundings were so quiet that he could almost hear the blood gurgling through his veins.

The scorching summer heat was sealed off by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

If he weren’t completely paralyzed, living in a room like this would be a joyful experience.

Yesterday, he and Tang Shaocheng had a big fight.

To call it a “fight” was a stretch. It was more like a one-sided, vicious tirade as he lay motionless in bed, spewing the most spiteful insults. Tang Shaocheng sat by the bed with a somber expression, listening silently, not bothering to argue back.

There were times like this before, but back then he could still move. When Tang Shaocheng gave him the silent treatment, he could smash a glass on the table or hurl a vase to the floor. Tang Shaochéng, even when enraged, would never strike back. He would only walk out when he couldn’t take it anymore.

But now, Tang Shaocheng was naturally chivalrous toward a disabled person. Unless Yan Liao cursed himself to exhaustion, he wouldn’t leave.

“You’d probably be happy if I just died, wouldn’t you?”

This was the last straw. Tang Shaocheng stood up abruptly.

He clenched his fists, the veins on his arms bulging menacingly, and walked toward the head of the bed. Yan Liao stared at him coldly, a thin layer of sweat covering his face and dampening his bangs. Tang Shaocheng raised a hand to brush the wet black hair away, revealing his pale forehead underneath.

Yan Liao’s voice was hoarse from yelling, and he was breathing heavily. His face, usually ashen as if soaked in disinfectant, was now flushed with a moist, reddish hue from the exertion.

Tang Shaocheng lowered his eyes and watched him quietly for a moment. He picked up the water cup from the bedside table and softened his tone. “Take a rest.”

It was as if he were soothing a deranged person.

Yan Liao sneered. When the cup reached his lips, he forcefully knocked it with his head. Tang Shaocheng’s wrist remained steady, only trembling in panic when he saw the blood from the cut on Yan Liao’s lower lip. A small patch of dark blue water stained Yan Liao’s pajamas. He grinned, and a winding trail of crimson blood trickled down his chin.

Tang Shaocheng stared at him, silently picking up a tissue from the table to wipe the blood from his mouth. Then, carefully, he took off Yan Liao’s pajamas, brought a towel from the bathroom, and gently wiped the water marks from his body.

“Doesn’t my flesh feel like a dead person’s?”

Yan Liao’s mouth curled into a self-deprecating, disgusted smile, his words like daggers to the heart.

Tang Shaocheng’s hands paused, and he held his breath for a few seconds. Not “skin,” but “flesh.” Yan Liao always knew how to inflict the most pain.

“Why don’t you break up with me? Why don’t you send me to a nursing home? Are you so attached to this face? …I can’t even satisfy your needs anymore.” Yan Liao’s voice grew hoarser, laced with cold mockery. “Do you still love me? How could you possibly still love me? Or are you just keeping me out of guilt? Because of that day you didn’t come to save me…”

Yan Liao gasped for air and coughed violently. Tang Shaocheng calmly helped him up, let him lean on his shoulder, and gently patted his back.

Yan Liao fell silent.

Even when angry, even as rage like an ignited oil drum climbed from his organs, he could only lean on Tang Shaocheng like a broken doll, utterly without dignity. He had to endure the other man wiping away the water marks he couldn’t feel from his soft, flabby flesh—flesh he felt was constantly rotting.

A man who couldn’t even control his own bladder and wore diapers every day was no longer worthy of the word “dignity.”

“I do.”

Tang Shaocheng’s soft lips brushed against his cheek, and he whispered, “I still love you.” Even though he knew Yan Liao had more bitter words ready, he said the words completely, emphasizing each one as if making a ridiculous vow at a wedding.

Yet for a long time, he heard no more insults from the man in his arms. Tang Shaocheng lowered his head and saw Yan Liao with a furrowed brow, a shimmering layer of water in his dark, moist eyes, which were trembling with unease.

“…Tang Shaocheng.” He suddenly began to breathe rapidly, panic in his voice. “…My hand hurts.”

“Which hand?” The voice suddenly stopped.

The doctor’s diagnosis had been “spinal cord injury resulting in high quadriplegia.” He was completely paralyzed from the neck down and would not be able to feel anything.

He wouldn’t feel pain even if hot oil were poured on him.

But on that day, Yan Liao’s fingers twitched.

It was a pair of hands with startling, grotesque scars. Yan Liao’s hands used to be beautiful, long, and fair. He was a painter, and these hands were what he cherished most.

Now they were covered with brown and dark red scars.

The year the incident happened, Yan Liao was only twenty-five. There was a kind of youthful innocence in his features that stood between a boy and a man. He had a clean, fresh aura. When he held a drawing board with one hand, he looked like an art student still in high school, and despite being a celebrated painter who had won countless awards, he still had a hint of nervousness when standing on stage to accept them.

The audience below screamed and cheered. Some loved his art, but more were drawn to his beautiful looks. In short, that year was incredibly lucky, both for his career and his love life.

He and Tang Shaocheng had both come out to their families. They had been classmates since middle school and neighbors in high school. The elders of both families knew each other well, and after a few simple objections, they all conceded.

It was funny, but back then, Yan Liao’s mother’s biggest complaint was, “How did such a good boy like Tang end up with you?” When Yan Liao heard this, he laughed so hard on the sofa he could barely breathe. He called Tang Shaocheng and told him, his tone smug and annoying, “I guess I’m just too lucky.”

Tang Shaocheng laughed on the other end of the line. “I should be the one saying that. It’s my luck that you came into my life.”

The two settled in Pingcheng and lived a very happy life. But Tang Shaocheng’s job was always busy. Working at the best law firm in the country, he always had an endless stream of cases and seemed to never rest.

Back then, Yan Liao would not have fought with him hysterically. He would dutifully prepare a table full of dishes and wait every night. Sometimes Tang Shaocheng would come home late and find him quietly asleep on the sofa.

In the warm, gentle light, his thin, fragile back would rise and fall with his steady breathing. The warm yellow light would fall on his pale cheek, and his thick, long eyelashes looked like fluffy thickets.

At times like these, Tang Shaocheng’s heart would melt completely.

The good times didn’t last. That year, Yan Liao continued to win awards, gaining more and more fame. But his lack of social graces also slowly brought him malicious jealousy.

He left the celebration dinner after an art exhibition early. Before he even reached the parking lot, his head was covered with a black bag from behind. A heavy blow to his back knocked him unconscious. When he opened his eyes again, his blurry, shaky vision was filled with a dark, abandoned factory.

He couldn’t remember many of the details from that day, and he was too scared to recall them. The only detail he didn’t need to force himself to remember was the phone call he made to Tang Shaocheng after he had scraped through the rope and hidden in a trash can.

It was always a busy signal, always the cold, robotic female voice: “The person you are calling is unavailable. Please try again later.”

In the cold despair, he slowly grew numb. When the three words “I’m sorry” rang out again, he finally gave up and hung up, feeling more lost than resentful. He waited with a dead heart for half an hour, only to be found by the kidnappers who kicked over the trash can and dragged him out of the foul pile of garbage like a dead dog.

“So you were here.”

A sinister, chilling, hair-raising laugh. His words fell from his mouth like giant stones, crushing Yan Liao.

“You dared to try and escape. We have to teach you a lesson.”

The lesson was red.

The feeling of being surrounded by fear was like drowning. He heard the crisp sound of a glass bottle smashing on the concrete floor. He didn’t have the strength to look up as someone grabbed both of his hands and forcefully pressed them down onto the pile of sharp glass shards.

In the midst of the gut-wrenching pain, he screamed and thrashed like a fish dropped into a wok of hot oil. His hands were covered in bloody gashes, and the thick, coppery smell of blood filled the air. The kidnappers laughed harder. One of them stepped on his hands, grinding his shoe back and forth.

Finally, they pushed Yan Liao into a van, saying that his hands were useless, “but his pretty face is still intact, so we can still get a good price for him.”

The car sped down the highway. With the windows half-open, the wind howled like tearing cloth. The inflammation from his wounds brought on a low fever, and Yan Liao’s body was burning hot. The cold wind blowing on his flushed cheeks made him dizzy. As he listened to the vulgar laughter, he felt as if his soul was leaving his body.

His hands ached as if they were falling apart, yet at that moment, he managed to gather enough strength to unlock the door and jump from the car without a second thought.

The sudden sensation of weightlessness, as if being sucked into a vortex, was exactly like freedom.

“It’s a one-in-a-million miracle, really,” the doctor said, his voice full of joy. “Feeling pain is a good sign. You’ll be admitted tomorrow for treatment. There’s a chance you can recover.”

Tang Shaocheng sighed with relief and smiled. He hadn’t smiled so easily in a long time; it was like seeing spring after a long winter. Yan Liao sat in his wheelchair, his ugly, pale hands limp in his lap, his puppet-like legs atrophied and crooked. The only beautiful part of him, his face, was hidden behind a mask, revealing only a pair of icy eyes.

“There’s still hope,” Tang Shaocheng gently stroked his soft hair. “Let’s not give up.”

Both “hope” and “we” only made Yan Liao want to sneer.

For a time, not long after he was paralyzed, Tang Shaocheng had taken him from hospital to hospital, searching for the best neurosurgeon. During those days, Yan Liao was either having surgery or doing rehab, but besides the endless, raised, earthworm-like scars on his body, nothing changed.

But this time, it seemed that heaven had taken pity on him, giving the damp, moldy match a chance to light up again.

Yan Liao underwent four months of rehabilitation in the hospital. He had countless electric shock treatments. Tang Shaochéng came to accompany him every day after work, practicing the simplest, most basic movements with him, cleaning his body, and massaging his muscles, all with the same patience he had years ago.

Yan Liao looked down at the man squatting on the floor, carefully wiping his legs. The elegant, successful Tang, the lawyer who was so admired by everyone, had to serve him, a useless burden, like a tireless nanny every night.

The thought of it only made him hate himself more.

Six months later, Yan Liao could finally hold himself up, use his fingers to move the wheelchair where he wanted to go, and feel a little bit in his upper body.

From summer to winter, the lush locust trees outside the window shed their yellow leaves, and then were covered in a thick blanket of white snow. Yan Liao sat in his wheelchair, moving around the apartment, but his favorite spot was always the window. He would often sit there for a long time.

December 9th was Yan Liao’s birthday. Tang Shaocheng spent the entire night in the kitchen, cooking a full table of dishes. When he couldn’t find him in the bedroom, he heard a sound from the study. He walked over to tell Yan Liao to come eat, but froze in disbelief at the door.

Yan Liao was standing.

The window was wide open, and the cold, damp evening breeze blew the white curtains like blurry clouds. The city’s beautiful neon lights stretched out behind him. He weakly and laboriously leaned against the railing, grunting in pain. All the weight of his lower body rested on the back of the wheelchair, but for the first time, he was standing.

Tang Shaocheng’s expression was a mix of wanting to cry and laugh. “Yan Liao,” he took a step forward, his lips trembling with emotion. He wanted to say something like, “Good job,” or “This is wonderful,” some kind of encouraging words.

Yan Liao stood facing him by the window, his black hair tousled by the howling cold night wind. He took a deep breath, his voice calm. “Don’t come closer, or I’ll jump right now.”

In an instant, the world seemed to turn upside down.

“Tang Shaocheng.”

Yan Liao’s voice was weak but firm, with a barely noticeable tremor, slightly hoarse, as if he had been crying.

“…I don’t blame you anymore. You’ve been tormented by me for so long; it’s like we’re even now.”

His lips couldn’t stop trembling, as if every word used up all his strength, broken and punctuated by difficult breaths. “Tang Shaocheng, I love you too, you know that. I’ve loved you for ten years… I don’t want to leave you.”

“But I have to leave myself,” he lowered his eyelashes, his eyes red and wet at the corners, the mist in them gathering more and more. “…I’m truly fed up with this.”

His voice was as light as a sigh.

In a flash, Yan Liao pushed himself back from the railing, and his upper body easily flipped over the window. His emaciated legs followed without effort, like a deflated balloon.

He hadn’t felt so light and agile in a long time, like a bird finally healing its injured wings and soaring freely.

“No!”

Tang Shaocheng’s eyes were bloodshot. He rushed to the window like a madman, his fingertips just a millimeter away, but he didn’t catch anything.

After the sound of a heavy object falling, there were no screams.

He must have chosen to jump from the study window because it faced a secluded area, probably to avoid scaring anyone.

But there was really no faster or better way.

After six months of rehabilitation, the first thing Yan Liao did once he could stand was to jump to his death.

Every time Tang Shaocheng thought about it, a sense of defeat would spread in his chest like a wet swamp, suffocating him.

After the funeral, he didn’t move.

A month later, he threw away Yan Liao’s towel, toothbrush, and wheelchair. Six months later, he began to sort through Yan Liao’s clothes. Since they were “relics,” he didn’t donate them, tossing them all into the trash can downstairs. A year later, all traces of Yan Liao in the house had almost vanished.

His family and friends were relieved, believing he was finally moving on and starting a new life.

A year later, on December 9th, white snow covered the outside world, a thin layer accumulating on the window.

Tang Shaocheng watched with a dark expression. He could almost hear Yan Liao’s soft laughter in his ears, “Doesn’t it look like a cream cake?” It was the voice he had before he was twenty-five, lively and vibrant.

Outside the window was a beautiful, magnificent city at night, a cold, vast snowy night, with the warm lights of a million homes.

Tang Shaocheng slowly drew the curtains and walked to the kitchen. The silent house was only filled with his steady footsteps and the strong, drum-like beat of his heart. The windows were all tightly shut, and the air slowly filled with a pungent smell.

He turned off the lights and walked slowly through the darkness to the living room. He remembered how Yan Liao used to fall asleep on the sofa while waiting for him to come home, and his lips curled into a faint smile.

Tang Shaocheng felt a little dizzy. He carefully lay down on the sofa, as if he could still feel the warmth the other man had left behind. A faint smile remained on his face as he closed his eyes in the lonely darkness.

He saw an even deeper darkness and the person who had been waiting for him in its center.