25 · Extra Chapter 10: Merry Christmas Mr. L
Their tenth Christmas.
Christmas is here again. It holds a deeper meaning for us than traditional holidays. So every year on this day, we do something special to celebrate. For example, last year we went to California's Highway 1. It's the most beautiful coastal highway in the world, with the cliffs of the Rocky Mountains on one side and the vast blue waters of the North Pacific Ocean on the other, full of wild and magnificent beauty. We watched the sunset at the beach, made love on the sand, and then lay side by side counting stars all night. Another example is the year before last, by chance, we found the former director of my old orphanage. To repay her for my "special treatment," Lawrence nailed her to a pair of reindeer antlers. They were specimens on the wall of her living room, their vibrant blood red and the dead reindeer perfectly matching the joyous atmosphere of Christmas.
But I probably won't be able to celebrate properly this year because I have a fever. Last night was Christmas Eve, and I wrapped myself up completely naked, stuffed myself into a huge gift box, and gave it to Lawrence as a Christmas present. While I was wrapping myself, Lawrence was robbing a supermarket and didn't return for an hour. So I was naked for an hour in near-freezing temperatures. The reason he was so slow was because there was another group of gangsters robbing the supermarket, and he spent half an hour dealing with them and the other half an hour picking out Christmas presents for me. By the time he came back carrying two whole boxes of condoms, I was so cold I couldn't feel my limbs.
Our original plan was to visit every casino in Las Vegas, but this had to be abandoned. I felt terrible for Lawrence; I had disappointed him, but he didn't say anything. He booked a suite at the Bellagio Hotel, which was far more suitable for my recovery than the cramped van or the cheap motel. Actually, since meeting Lawrence, my physical condition has improved significantly. Leaving aside murder, even having sex with him is an extreme sport. Although I'm still thinner than Lawrence, I rarely get sick anymore; the last time I had a fever was two years ago. That time, Lawrence ejaculated too deeply, leaving some semen residue in my intestines, which is why he later started using condoms.
I had never seen Lawrence sick before; I guess even bacteria and viruses wouldn't dare mess with a beast like him. It was also the first time he'd seen me so weak and pale. After he took me out of the gift box, he didn't do anything to me. Instead, he sat by my bedside all night, changing the ice packs on my forehead, which made me feel even more like a child who'd done something wrong. I woke up once in the middle of the night, and a small white moth landed on my head, itching. I don't know if it was my imagination, but for a moment I saw a hint of panic in Lawrence's eyes. Perhaps he thought I was dead; after death, without human presence, one is like an object, which is why moths land on them. It was probably just a coincidence; it quickly flew away, and Lawrence shot it dead in mid-air, then he pulled me into his arms. Until the next time I woke up, he was still in that position. So, the killer was afraid of moths.
We rarely have nights like this without sex, and Lawrence read me a bedtime story. I don't know why he called *American Psycho* a bedtime story; maybe he thought the scenes of Wall Street elites gathering and comparing their nearly indistinguishable business cards, and the protagonist Bateman's monologue about his musical tastes before killing the prostitute, were hypnotic. I preferred the scene where Bateman, wearing a raincoat, kills someone with an axe in his living room ("Hey, Paul!"), while Lawrence preferred the scene where Bateman throws a chainsaw from upstairs, slicing the fleeing prostitute in two. The book suited our tastes, but I was more pessimistic than the author. I felt that crime wasn't a societal disease, but rather a societal norm, just as atavism isn't the exclusive domain of serial killers, but rather a consequence of humanity's failure to evolve from the primitive law of the jungle. Regardless, Lawrence and I eagerly awaited the novel's film adaptation, hoping it wouldn't be turned into a pornographic film like his book.
Two days later, my fever broke. It was a windless, late night, and light snow began to fall. This was very rare, considering Las Vegas is located in an arid desert. The snowy night was beautiful and romantic, the pure white snow falling on the bright, gaudy neon lights. It was as if the sins and desires of the entire city had been purified. We strolled through the streets of Fremont, lined with casinos, but we tacitly avoided going in, lingering in the swirling snow. The air was cold; at first, we both kept our hands in our pockets to warm them, then I tentatively reached out and took Lawrence's arm. He didn't refuse. Instead, he took my hand and put it in his coat pocket. The walkway wasn't wide, and we were sometimes separated by passing pedestrians or annoying roadblocks. Perhaps I really should have put a chain on my collar, so Lawrence wouldn't have to turn around to know I was always by his side, never leaving.
We walked through the red-light district. The brothel where Lawrence was born had closed down and was now a chain of tobacco and liquor stores. We went in and bought two packs of Marlboro cigarettes, walked a few blocks, and arrived at the High Roller Ferris Wheel, where we boarded the last one. It was past midnight, and we were the only two in the spacious dome-shaped cabin. The world was so quiet, and the biting wind high in the sky could be faintly heard, but inside it was warm and cozy.
“Caesar,” I said, “I haven’t given you a gift yet.”
Lawrence turned his head to look at me, and slowly smiled, "Then give me another one."
I lit a cigarette for myself, rested my head on his shoulder, and offered him another, lighting mine for him. The orange-red embers illuminated his deep blue eyes, making them shine brighter than any other light in the world. A wisp of blue-gray smoke rose from where the cigarette butts met, blurring the complex emotions in his gaze. The soft sound of the ash falling was as gentle as falling snow, yet it paled in comparison to even a fraction of Lawrence's soft laughter. He lowered his head, his golden hair brushing against my lips like a soft feather. The smoke from our mouths mingled, the taste slightly spicy. Tears welled in my eyes, and I forced back a cough, cupping his face in my hands and kissing him even deeper.
When the Ferris wheel reached its highest point, I said, "Happy birthday, Mr. Lawrence."
Lawrence paused for a moment, then laughed.
He never told me his birthday. But I'd known for a long time, ever since that Christmas Eve ten years ago when he said that song was written for him. From that day on, I knew my love was irrational, an obstacle to my future, a loss of self-control, a shattering of hope, a destruction of happiness, and destined to bring me nothing but despair and disappointment. My lover was a serial killer, a sadist; his love bore a striking resemblance to torture, but to me, this wasn't twisted. Because love inherently implies mental superiority, it implies abuse, and loving someone is simply relinquishing the right to abuse oneself. I knew all of this. My love wasn't blind; I was a moth willingly drawn into the fire. The reason I didn't burn out but was reborn wasn't for any other reason than that the fire loved me too. It's just that his way of loving me was too violent, and his personality too wicked. "Emotion" was obscure and difficult for him to understand; "desire" was far more familiar to him, so he usually only expressed his love for me with his lower body. Fortunately, no one but me could stand him, otherwise I might not have been the one to suffer.
Although I know him far better than Lawrence thought, there are still unknowns about him. Lawrence is so profound; he is a book I can never fully read, and what I deeply love is precisely that unfathomable presence. A thousand people, a thousand faces—Lawrence alone possesses a thousand faces. He is never lacking in novelty, and every moment I spend with him is a unique experience. I am so fortunate that he feels the same way about me, so we are mutually attracted and deeply in love.
As the Ferris wheel was about to fall, the phrase "I love you" became somewhat cliché, and it's unclear who uttered it first.
But what I want to say is that getting on that truck was the greatest honor of my life, and I would never regret it even if it meant dying nine times over.
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