Echoes of the Abyss
After the winter vacation started, life felt like falling into an ice cellar.
My dad quit his new job after a short time, and the house started to reek of alcohol and filled with arguments again. My mom took out all her anger on me, smashing the paints I had saved up to buy and yelling at me, "Painting is a waste of time, just like your unreliable boyfriend."
"We've broken up," I said, head down, my voice flat.
"You haven't been studying properly even after we broke up!" Her slap landed on his face, stinging painfully. "How could I have given birth to such a jinx!"
I didn't hide, nor did I cry. It's as if when the pain reaches its extreme, the nerves become numb. The old scars left from being bullied in junior high school still ache faintly in my heart. Li Zichen's last words, "Who cares?" are like a thorn, deeply embedded, impossible to pull out, and impossible to fester.
During the day, I lock myself in my room with the thick curtains drawn, and the world is as dark as if there is no light. At night, I can't sleep, so I sit by the window and stare blankly, watching the lights in the building across the street go out one by one and then come on one by one, until dawn breaks before I dare to close my eyes.
My deskmate messaged me asking, "Why aren't you back at school to pick up your report card?" I stared at the screen, my finger hovering for a long time, before finally replying, "I'm sick."
What illness is it? I don't know. I only know that it feels like a huge stone is pressing on my chest, making it hard to breathe; I know that tears will fall inexplicably and I can't stop them; I know that when I look at the blade of the utility knife, I feel a strange calm—as if cutting into it will make all the pain flow away.
The first time I cut my wrists was on a snowy night.
Dad's drunk again, smashing things in the living room. Mom's sobs sounded like fingernails scraping against glass. I locked the door, sat at my desk, and watched the utility knife gleam coldly under the light. The skin on my wrist was so thin; a light cut drew beads of blood, like tiny red flowers blooming.
It doesn't hurt, it's even a little itchy.
A drop of blood fell onto the drawing paper, spreading a small patch of red. As I looked at that patch of red, I suddenly remembered the first red rose Li Zichen gave me, and his words, "Your name is like a summer gardenia." Tears mingled with blood, falling onto the paper together.
"Chen Zhixia! Open the door!" Her mother pounded on the door from the outside. "Are you out fooling around in there again?!"
I hurriedly grabbed a band-aid and put it on, then hid the utility knife deep in the drawer. As I opened the door, my mother's hand was about to strike again. I instinctively raised my hand to block it, but she was startled by my movement—the band-aid wasn't on properly, and blood seeped out from the edge, staining my cuff red.
"What...what did you do?!" Her voice trembled.
"I scratched myself by accident." I lowered my head, went into the bathroom, and locked the door.
The person in the mirror was deathly pale, with dark circles under their eyes and cracked lips. The wound on their wrist looked like an ugly worm, crawling there. I turned on the tap and splashed cold water on my face, trying to clear my head, but a sudden sharp pain shot through my heart, making me bend over, gripping the sink tightly, and struggling to breathe.
It was a strange pain, like someone was squeezing my heart with their hand, tightening it again and again, and my vision blurred. I squatted on the ground, trembling all over from the pain, and it took a long time for me to recover. My clothes were soaked with cold sweat.
From that day on, the sharp pain in my heart became the norm. Sometimes it would strike at night, sometimes it would come during the day when I was daydreaming, without warning, pulling me into deeper darkness.
I didn't dare tell my family; they would just say, "You're faking illness to gain sympathy." I also didn't dare tell my classmates, afraid they would avoid me like they did in junior high, saying I was "crazy."
I had to bear it all myself. When the pain came, I would curl up in bed, biting my pillow to keep myself from making a sound. I cut my wrists more and more often, each wound deeper than the last, as if only by watching the blood seep out could I confirm that I was still alive.
I didn't go to school on the first day of school.
My homeroom teacher called, and my mom answered. She yelled at me for a long time, saying I was "immature" and "going astray." After hanging up, she slammed the phone in front of me: "What do you want?!"
I looked at her and suddenly laughed, laughing until tears streamed down my face: "I want to die."
She froze, a flicker of fear crossing her eyes, quickly replaced by rage: "You dare! If you dare to die, I'll disown you as my daughter!"
“That’s perfect.” I looked down at the crisscrossing scars on my wrist. “I don’t want a home like this, or a life like this.”
That afternoon, I locked myself in my room and found the hidden craft knife. This time, I wanted to cut deeper, much deeper.
The snow was still falling silently outside the window. The room was dark, with only a sliver of light filtering through the curtains, illuminating the blade and making it gleam coldly.
Just as I was about to swipe down, my phone suddenly rang.
It's an unfamiliar number, but the location is local.
I hesitated for a moment, then answered the call.
"Is this Shen Zhixia?" A boy's voice came from the other end of the phone, clear and bright, like the sky after a snowfall. "I'm Zheng Yiming from Class 3, Grade 11. My homeroom teacher asked me to deliver your winter break homework and report card to you... Are you home right now?"
I tightened my grip on the utility knife, my nails digging into my palm.
"Yes." The voice was hoarse, like sandpaper being rubbed against the skin.
"Shall I come over now? I'll be there in about ten minutes."
"……good."
After hanging up the phone, I hurriedly hid the utility knife, covered my wrist with a scarf, and drew back the curtains. Sunlight flooded in, so bright it made me squint.
The person in the mirror still looked haggard, but there seemed to be a faint light in their eyes.
Perhaps... we can wait a little longer.
Wait for that guy named Zheng Yiming to deliver the homework, and then make a decision after he leaves.
Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang.
I took a deep breath and opened the door.
A tall boy stood outside the door, wearing a clean school uniform, carrying a backpack, and holding a stack of books. Sunlight fell on him, gilding him. He smiled at me, his eyes bright: "Hello, Shen Zhixia. I'm Zheng Yiming."
That was the first time I met Zheng Yiming.
Like a ray of light, it suddenly shone into my dark abyss.
At that time, I didn't know that this light would one day pull me out of the darkness, but also... push me back in.
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