4. [Chapter Four: Merry Christmas]
"I am honored."
I heard the sound of a car door opening and closing. My mind went completely blank.
He let him go? Then what am I?
Lawrence opened the small tin window between us, like a prison guard peering into a solitary confinement cell. We made eye contact; his eyes were full of mockery, while mine must have been brimming with resentment and confusion, which explained his contentedly narrowed eyes. I couldn't see the lower half of his face, but I was certain he was grinning.
If I were a courageous free man, I would definitely grab him by the collar or choke him, and demand to know why he was toying with me like this, why he wouldn't let me go. But I am a coward. Perhaps, where I can't see, his gun is pointed at my chest through that thin sheet of metal.
"What are you thinking about?" Lawrence chuckled. "You're wondering, aren't you? I didn't say you couldn't ask."
I stared at him in disbelief. He was watching me intently, carefully observing my reaction. I didn't dare look at him, and after hesitating for a long time, I finally asked hesitantly in a low voice, "You...aren't you going to kill anyone tonight?"
I asked the question knowing the answer already. Stormy nights and blizzard nights were his favorites. But I asked anyway, because it was a matter of life and death. He never guaranteed he wouldn't kill me; if he felt a surge of murderous intent but had no one else to kill, I would be his emergency rations.
Lawrence sighed. He sighed often, but that didn't mean he was tired or helpless. He never sighed for himself, only for the foolishness or mediocrity of others. My heart pounded in my chest, and I vaguely heard him release the safety on his pistol. My scream caught in my throat; I thought I was about to cry.
"Kill them," he said.
I closed my eyes, so urgently, as if I were fleeing. I had no last wishes, or rather, my last wish was not to die. That moment felt like an out-of-body experience; I felt as if I had floated into the air, my spirit passing through the iron plate, seeing Lawrence's face splattered with my blood, first trying to suppress a laugh, then bursting into a maniacal laugh.
But I didn't hear him pull the trigger, nor did a bullet leave the chamber. I opened my eyes a crack, and Lawrence was watching my despair with a playful expression, his eyes filled with undisguised hunger—I couldn't tell if it was lust or murderous intent; to him, there was no difference. Just as I was about to ask something, Lawrence's eyes suddenly sharpened, and he slammed the small window shut. I froze, about to knock and press him for answers, when the car door was suddenly pulled open from the outside, and a man's voice rang out: "Great, Mr. Lawrence, you're still here!"
Rodin?! What's he doing back?!
"I can't find my car keys anywhere! I'm so sure I put them in my pocket, it's infuriating!" Rodin complained angrily. "Can I go upstairs and look for them? Maybe they fell under the seat."
“Please go ahead, Mr. Rodin,” Lawrence said rather amiably.
My soul returned to my body, and I instantly regained my breath. I was so despicable, cowardly, and selfish. Hearing Rodin get into the car and close the door, all my worry for the stranger vanished, replaced by a smug sense of relief at surviving. I even began to feel grateful to that fool; he had made such a ridiculous mistake. If he died, I wouldn't have to die.
The sound of rummaging came from ahead. Lawrence must have already put his hand behind his back, gripping the handle of his revolver. He wouldn't just kill him like that; he would take him hostage, tie him up, torture him, and then drag him to his death. This "drag to death" step was indispensable for the "highway butcher"; the victim had to die during the dragging, but before that, he had to remain conscious, feel the pain, and scream in despair. He was a perfectionist and wouldn't allow any step to go wrong.
“Strange, where did he go…” Rodin muttered to himself. My blood was boiling, and at that moment I suddenly heard a “thump, thump” sound. I steadied myself and realized that it wasn’t my heartbeat, but Lawrence gently knocking on the small tin window between us. My attention was completely drawn to him. Rodin had crawled under the chair and couldn’t see what we were doing, so Lawrence took the opportunity to open the small window and silently mouthed something to me. I opened my eyes wide in terror and quickly covered my mouth to prevent myself from screaming.
"Kill him."
He wanted me to kill Rodin! How could that be? Didn't he know how I reacted every time I saw him kill someone? I vomited uncontrollably, I cried out loud, I knelt on the ground, I begged God, I begged Lawrence, his maniacal laughter pierced my eardrums, I wrote crooked words with trembling hands, I was driven to madness by his various forms of violation. Finally, I sat blankly in the carriage, listening to the dull thud of that body being dragged on the ground, listening to his or her desperate screams, until my heart was as still as water, utterly undisturbed.
“If you don’t kill him, you will die.” Lawrence continued to mouth to me, “There’s a pistol under the toolbox.”
The small window was drawn. Rodin plopped back into his chair, grumbling, "We've looked everywhere, where else could it be?"
“Oh, perhaps,” Lawrence said in a “I just remembered” tone. “Could it have fallen into the carriage? This car is a bit old, cracked all over, maybe your key slipped down the crack and went to the back.”
Rodin, without suspicion, immediately said, "I see! May I look in the carriage?"
“That’s the only way,” Lawrence said, as if to say, “After all, I’m such a kind person.” “Let’s go look for it together; maybe it will be faster.”
They got out of the car, and I heard the sound of shoes crunching in the snow from both sides. They were getting closer, as if brushing past me. Lawrence tapped rhythmically on the metal sheet beside me with his fingers, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes soft, sometimes heavy, just like the piece of music he had been playing. I could even hear him humming softly, his voice low and slightly husky, creating an odd harmony with the beautiful melody. I knew he was laughing.
“Let me open the door, Mr. Rodin.” They reached the door. “The air inside isn’t circulating well; it might be a bit pungent.”
The key turned, and the metal door creaked open slowly. The sunlight dispelled the darkness, the moonlight was so bright, and the snow-covered ground was bathed in clear light; for a moment, I could hardly open my eyes. My frozen fingers trembled violently, but I gripped the gun tightly, staring intently at the narrow opening that was slowly widening. I was waiting for the man's figure to appear, and then I would… make a choice that could change my life forever.
Like a revolving lantern, scenes flashed before my eyes: my father's headless corpse, the cleaver on my mother's face, Sarah's laughter and sarcasm, Orwell's room filled with animal carcasses… and finally, Lawrence's face—grotesque, calm, playful, gentle, brutal, and lustful. He was so vivid in my memory, and now he overlapped perfectly with the one before me, within reach. He smiled, full of anticipation, the upturn of his lips not as exaggerated as during the killing, but his eyes held an even more intense, boundless ecstasy. He was waiting for my bullet to pierce his chest; I saw the dark muzzle of my gun in his pupils, and my tearful yet resolute face.
A gunshot rang out. His heavy body thudded to the ground, Rodin's face contorted in terror and agony. He let out a scream like a pig about to be slaughtered: "Aaaaaah!! My leg!! It hurts so much!!!"
Blood gushed from the gaping hole in his leg; I had struck his carotid artery. A wave of nausea surged through my nose, and I felt dizzy, losing my balance. Lawrence rushed forward and caught me. The man's screams were shrill and piercing; I had nearly killed him, and he might die at Lawrence's hands any moment now. Knowing I was doomed and in grave danger, I still struggled free from Lawrence's embrace and stumbled toward Rodin. I draped his arm over my shoulder, using all my strength to lift him, and staggered forward, futilely and hypocritically trying to comfort him: "Don't be afraid, it's alright, we'll escape... I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."
Rodin was on the verge of a mental breakdown; his already grotesque features were contorted in agony. Without a second thought, he clung to me as his lifeline. He desperately kicked at the ground with his still-intact right leg, like a lamb unable to stand, pleading as if afraid I would abandon him or shoot him again: "Hurry, hurry! I'm dying, it hurts, ahhh..."
We helped each other along through the snow. He was too heavy for me to carry, and then I heard a muffled laugh behind me. My scalp tingled, and I turned around in a panic. Lawrence was still there. His head was bowed low, the stray hairs hanging down his forehead completely obscuring his expression, but I knew he was suppressing a wild laugh. His back was bent, his shoulders trembling, a posture that resembled both worship and a hungry cheetah lying in ambush in the grass, watching the grazing antelope in the distance. Suddenly, he moved. His taut back arched like a bow, his long body began to rise and fall slowly, his thighs thrusting, his muscles heaving like waves, an astonishing power and beauty erupting from him simultaneously. The cheetah began to run.
We fled in a panic, like two defenseless antelopes. He was the apex predator; no matter how sharp our horns were, we could only harm our own kind, weaker than ourselves, and were utterly powerless against his mighty predator. The laws of nature are cruel and unreasonable; from the moment I was born, I was destined to be Lawrence's prey.
The sound of a machete slicing through the air came from behind me. I turned around, tears scattering in the cold wind like falling snow. Large swathes of bright red blood shot into the air, and a gleaming blade flashed before my eyes like a rainbow in the moonlight. Rodin's head fell to the ground with a thud, the blade stopping just a hair's breadth from my throat.
Lawrence, his face covered in blood, smiled and said to me, "Merry Christmas, Mr. Mel."
I wanted to swallow, but my Adam's apple was stopped halfway by the razor-sharp blade, trembling awkwardly. He moved the blade away, placing it on his shoulder, and pulled me into his arms, kissing my hair with tenderness, as if I were a lost treasure he had regained. I looked at the lifeless head lying in the snow, bewildered, then at Lawrence, even more bewildered. In the snow's light, his azure eyes were crystal clear, almost colorless.
“I told you, you can ask me questions.” His lips pressed against the top of my head, his voice piercing through my skull and reaching my eardrums. I was speechless, so he continued, “You never even considered killing me, did you?”
I suddenly jolted awake. Lawrence's smile deepened. "You're jealous. I never let you hear that song, but I had a stranger listen to it with me the whole way."
“You are special.” He held me, the blade only an inch from my nose, yet I felt incredibly safe.
"I..." I burst into tears, "I am so honored."
A note from the author:
The song is "Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence" by Ryuichi Sakamoto, the soundtrack for the 1983 film of the same name, also known as "The Prisoner." The seme's name comes from this song, while the uke's name, "Rain," is from another song by Ryuichi Sakamoto, "Rain," a theme song from the film "The Last Emperor."
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