Chapter 1

Chapter 1

I am dead. I have forgotten how I died, but my soul now drifts through the air, unable to stray more than ten meters from my grave.

It took me only three days to move from initial bewilderment to acceptance.

I spent one of those days staring intently at my headstone. Carved upon it were the words: Tomb of Su Huan.

Beside those words was a date, and beneath the date, a few smaller characters.

Daughter of Su Qi.

Su Qi was my father.

I try to recall the memories of my life, but they are filled entirely with traces of him.

I didn’t like him.

He was a man of a thousand vices-a chain-smoker, a heavy drinker, foul-mouthed, and obsessively controlling. He had a ferocious look about him and a severe leaning toward violence, believing it could solve any problem.

When I was five, though I forget the reason, he took me to a small clinic in the middle of the night.

My hand was broken. The pain made my lips tremble, and tears flowed silently down my face.

He stood by the door, watching me with a volatile, impatient gaze.

With her back turned to him, the nurse asked me in a soft voice who he was to me.

I told her he was my father.

In that instant, the look the nurse gave me became even stranger.

Looking back years later, I realized it was pity.

The doctor set my bone and pointed me in the direction of my father.

Smoking wasn’t allowed in the clinic, but he insisted on it, so he had been chased into a corner. I saw him sitting there without a shred of dignity, his back to me as he puffed away.

The smell of cheap cigarettes filled the space. It was foul, but I was already used to it.

“Why did it have to be a girl? It would’ve been better if it were a boy.”

At five years old, I hadn’t heard the term ‘son preference,’ nor did I have any concept of it. But I remembered my father’s words forever-and more importantly, the irritation in his voice.

He wasn’t tall, barely five-foot-three, but he was built like a bull with exaggerated muscles, especially on his arms. He always wore a buzz cut and a face that never smiled; even when expressionless, he looked menacing.

For as long as I could remember, he always had a cigarette between his fingers. His friends gave them to him; he was thick-skinned and had many friends, so he never lacked for a smoke. Most of them were low-quality, however, and the smell was pungent.

He loved to drink. Whenever he got drunk, he would turn into a mean drunk, cursing and muttering things I couldn’t understand. That face, which already terrified me, would twist into a hideous, distorted mask, like a wild beast.

Back then, we lived in a place with only one room. As a young child, I would stand in the corner, watching as his cursing eventually escalated into smashing things.

There wasn’t much in the house for him to break, mostly just old, dilapidated furniture he’d scavenged from who-knows-where.

I would wait until he grew tired of the destruction and fell asleep. Only then would I breathe a sigh of relief and creep off to bed myself.

I never went to kindergarten; I went straight to elementary school.

Before that, I stayed home all day. He didn’t allow me to go out. Every time the thought of leaving crossed my mind, he would glare at me, looking so fierce I thought he might strike me at any second. His voice was always coarse and grating.

“What’s the point of going out?”

Yet he was out almost all day and night, sometimes not returning until the next morning. To prevent me from leaving, he simply locked the door from the outside.

He would leave some food at home-a few steamed buns, some vegetable buns, and some water.

When he returned, he would check to see if I had eaten. If I hadn’t, he would loom over me, forcing me to finish every bite before he would let it go.

But I didn’t like the food. I hated chives and garlic, but I feared him more. So, I would suppress the urge to gag and force it all down.

My father’s body was often covered in wounds-new scars layered over old ones, left behind from his brawls.

I had seen him fight.

That day, after I had tentatively asked several times, he finally gave in and took me out to where he worked.

There were many men like him there, many of whom were taller, broader, and more muscular.

And it was right in front of me that he got into a fight with one of them.

One second they were talking and laughing; the next, he swung a fist and they were locked in a violent struggle. His movements were savage and fierce, his entire face contorted.

Perhaps his fists weren’t enough, because he eventually grabbed a wooden club. Fortunately, people stepped in to pull him back in time.

He had many injuries; blood trickled down his arms and cheeks, but he didn’t seem to notice.

The man he fought was in even worse shape, lying on the ground unable to stand, eventually needing others to help him up.

My father spat viciously at the man, turned around, and dragged me away.

I was already terrified out of my wits, my face pale and my legs weak. I had to run the whole way back just to keep from falling.

After we returned, I didn’t dare say a word. My father’s face remained dark and sullen, and he didn’t look at me once.