Past Trauma

When I was eighteen, I didn’t dare push open that door. Behind it, my best friend was playing adult games with the male writer I secretly loved.

I remembered that moment for ten long years. In that decade, my friend died, the writer stopped writing, and my life was ruined.

I respectfully composed a letter and mailed it to the man I had once loved from afar: Chen Song.

I died of a sudden asthma attack while being bullied.

My family sent my bruised and battered body straight to the incinerator; no one went to my school to demand justice for me.

Later, my brother started dating the girl who bullied me.

He turned her into the blade he would use to avenge me.

[Horror Romance + damp, unhinged, obsessive male leads with lots of strange quirks + dark otome vibe]

When Qiu Rongrong met Zhou Jingxing, she thought she could start over. Later, she realized it had only been an illusion.

The gentle “older brother” tore off his disguise and revealed his cruelty. The boy at school who always seemed to protect her turned out to be the one driving the violence. The murderer’s son took her hand and said he would save her-help her escape.

They all said she should atone.

But in this grand, feverish revel, she was the only innocent survivor.

She tried to claw her way out of the mire, to struggle up onto solid ground-only for them to drag her back down into the mud.

Her beginning with him started with deception.

“Remember what fear tastes like. I don’t just want you dead-I want you to die in agony.”

Her ending with him finally came from sincerity.

“Love is the most twisted form of revenge. If you hate me, then use love as your blade-drive it straight into my heart.”

A year ago, on a whim, I told my wife a story.

Because the content was bizarre and the details were too realistic, she was scared out of her wits.

Afterwards, I deeply regretted it and emphasized countless times that the story was made up. But her trust in me had already collapsed, and the look in her eyes was filled with fear.

That night, she ran into the bathroom, locked the door, and called the police.

As a result, I ended up in jail.

Now, I am sorting out the whole incident as follows.

The day I found out I had cancer.

He Wei frowned and said coldly to me, “Do you think anyone would be sad if you died? No one would feel bad about it.”

I said, “Whatever.”

Then I sincerely wished him, “I hope you’ll do as you say.”

After all, the year my brother died saving me, everyone looked at me and said:

“Why wasn’t it you who died?”

Later, I stood on the rooftop of the abandoned building where my brother passed away and jumped off.

But He Wei, why were you crying?

I met someone named Chen Ye.

Everyone says he is loyal, kind, and a rare good person in this world.

But I think he is vulgar, hypocritical, and the most despicable and shameless scoundrel in the world.

Yet I kind of like him.

I was the unloved young lady of the Marquis Mansion.

My father gave me to my elder sister’s fiancé and forced me to bear his child.

I was compelled to write a breakup letter to the man I loved.

“How could a Mountain Village Bumpkin ever be worthy of a lady of my station?”

Later, the bumpkin from that letter had risen to the highest ranks, and he mocked me with disdain,

“And you, an Abandoned Wife – how could you ever be worthy of me?”

I fell in love with a poor boy, but later broke up with him because he was poor.

Years later, he became successful and famous, while I, serving food, accidentally stained his girlfriend’s bag.

The young girlfriend sneered, “Do you recognize this bag? Can you afford to compensate for it?”

I smiled and handed her my own bag:

“A limited edition Birkin, three times the price of yours. Is it alright if I compensate you with this?”

When I was a child, my father once gave me a ten-yuan bill as pocket money.

He said he had picked it up on the road.

I remember very clearly that on the back of that bill, written in black ink, was a line:

“There is a pyramid scheme on the fifth floor. Help.”

I took the money to show my father, and he smiled and told me,

“Who knows how many people have used this bill? Who knows when those words were written? Maybe the person who wrote them has already been rescued.”

I was in a hurry to buy chocolate, so I didn’t think much about it.

Because chocolate is sweet, after all.

Not long after, there was a piece of news on TV.

“A man mistakenly entered a pyramid scheme den, was beaten to death, and then dismembered.”

As a child, I stared blankly at the television.

My father also stared blankly at the television.

I asked him what was wrong.

He shouted at me angrily, telling me not to meddle in his business, and then left the house.

At the time, I didn’t know what was going on; I just felt confused.

It wasn’t until the New Year, at the family dinner, that my father got drunk and cried uncontrollably. In front of all the relatives, he confessed to picking up that bill.

The place where he found the money was directly below the den mentioned in the news.

In other words, the words on that ten-yuan bill were very likely written by someone who had fallen into that pyramid scheme, possibly even the person who was dismembered.

He sobbed, clutching a bottle of liquor, saying that it was his fault that the man died. The whole family comforted him, but I just stood aside, dumbfounded and at a loss.

So… I used that money to buy chocolate…

Something indescribable seemed to awaken within me.

Throughout my later life, I would often think of that ten-yuan bill.

I wondered, was the original owner of that money alright? Was he really rescued? Or… did that money really come from the man who was dismembered?

If it really came from him, he must have endured painful beatings and inhuman torture before finally seizing a chance one day to write those words for help on the bill and toss it out the window.

He must have clung to hope for rescue until the very moment he died.

Yet my father ignored that hope.

I always ask myself, if I had been the first to find that bill, could I have saved him? Or would I have overlooked the writing, just like my father?

This thought haunts me like a ghost, tormenting my mind more and more as I grow older.

Until that day.

A new “bill” appeared before me.

…

In 2004, he used my body to pay off his gambling debts.

I didn’t blame him.

I only remembered that clean-cut nineteen-year-old boy back in 1997, and the purity in his eyes when he handed me a White Rabbit Milk Candy.

Later, he became successful.

He replaced the faded fake around my neck with a heavy gold chain.

He used a three-carat diamond ring to buy my silence regarding the women he kept on the side.

Later, when a business partner groped my thigh, he simply turned his head away to light a cigarette. “It’s not like you’re losing a limb.”

I dragged my suitcase into the rain and never looked back.

After that, I went on blind dates, got married, and spent my days in a cubicle, studying for certifications and working overtime.

He eventually found me, looking like a gambler who had lost everything, his eyes terrifyingly bloodshot. “Since you’re willing to marry just anyone from a blind date… then, why couldn’t that person be me?”

I smiled.

Elder Brother, I never wanted any of those things.

I only wanted that summer in 1997, before that piece of candy had even melted in my palm.

I have become my own shore; no one can push me into the sea ever again.