Chapter 97 - The Hanged Man
It took three full days for the reality of what had happened to finally settle into Pei Cangyu’s consciousness.
The event had occurred in the deep, suffocating hours of Thursday night. From that moment on, Pei Cangyu had existed in a state of ethereal suspension, as if he were treading on layers of thin, unstable cotton. His face seemed frozen in a mask of perpetual shock, his eyes wider and rounder than usual, glazed over with a hollow, haunting vacancy.
If he tried to reach back and grasp the specific details of that Thursday, the memories remained frustratingly elusive, slipping through his fingers like smoke. He could only recall the sensation of his face being pressed hard into the pillow, the fabric smelling faintly of the afternoon sun it had soaked up on the clothesline. He remembered the rhythmic, agonizing creak of the bedframe. He remembered being encircled, trapped by powerful arms that braced against the headboard. He hadn't closed his eyes; for a long time, his ears had rung with a high-pitched drone, a sound so piercing it made him wonder if he was trapped in a nightmare. He was too lucidly aware that *something* was happening, yet his mind refused to name it.
He had heard the heavy, labored breathing, a sound that synchronized with the frantic shuddering of the bed. He suspected it also matched the frequency of his own head thudding against the wooden boards, but that detail was a blur. It was as if his simplistic mind had instinctively shuttered his senses to protect itself. When it was finally over, he lay there, staring up at the ceiling. In the dim light, he could just make out the faded gold stars Pei Yueshan had painted there for him when he was a child. After all these years, the paint was peeling, the celestial map of his childhood flaking away into dust.
He stayed awake, eyes wide, until the first light of dawn bled through the curtains.
Pei Yueshan rose at six. He didn't spare Pei Cangyu a single glance as he dressed and prepared for the day. From the bed, Pei Cangyu listened to the muffled sounds of his father’s voice—a few mundane words exchanged with his grandmother, the clink of a spoon against a bowl, the finality of the front door closing as he left for work. His grandmother, heartened by the sight of her son finally reclaiming a normal life, began to hum a soft, cheerful tune in the kitchen.
Pei Cangyu sat up, his movements stiff and mechanical. He realized with a jolt of bitter irony that, had it not been for the shadow in the room, today would have been a day of celebration for everyone. It was supposed to be the threshold of a happy, renewed life.
A sharp, localized pain radiated through him. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet meeting the cold floor. When he turned to look back at the sheets, he saw the stains—blood and other visceral evidence of the night's violation.
A wave of dissociation washed over him. *What does this even mean?* He stood there, paralyzed, staring at the bed as if his consciousness had been evicted from his physical shell. He observed the scene with the cold, detached curiosity of a spectator watching a television drama. *Ah, look at that. What is that?* His mind whispered the questions, yet he still felt as though he were dreaming.
When his grandmother knocked on the door to call him for breakfast, Pei Cangyu moved with a desperate, reflexive speed he didn't know he possessed. He snatched the quilt, dragging it over the bed to hide the blood and the mess.
She nagged him in her usual way, telling him to hurry up and eat. She noted the dark circles under his eyes, asking if the exam results were out and if he’d stayed up late again. "I saw on the news," she prattled, "that staying up late for children is..."
Pei Cangyu stared at her, his throat tight, unable to find his voice.
Her words trailed off, replaced by a look of maternal concern. She stepped forward, reaching out to touch his forehead. "What’s wrong? Do you have a fever?"
Pei Cangyu brushed her hand away. "I need to change my clothes."
It was miraculous how normal his voice sounded. For a fleeting second, he almost wished she would see through the facade, that she would notice the anomaly and pull him down from his precarious perch on the cotton clouds, forcing the demons of the night into the light of day.
But she noticed nothing. She simply nodded and left the room.
Pei Cangyu remained suspended in his muffled world. He showered, changed, and noted that his forehead was only slightly bruised. The pain in his lower body, however, was intensifying, becoming a throbbing reality that demanded his attention. He stuffed the soiled sheets into the churning washing machine and folded the quilt neatly. He ate his breakfast and went to school, performing the motions of a living person.
He drifted through the school day in a daze. When the exam results were finally posted, he found he had ranked tenth in the class. His friends were more ecstatic than he was, swarming around him, pointing at his papers and joking that the teacher must have missed a few deductions. They laughed and chatted about nothing, their voices a distant clamor.
Bai Shi was acting strange that day as well. He seemed uncharacteristically restless, his legs bouncing incessantly, his hands clenching and unclenching as if gripped by a private anxiety. Pei Cangyu wondered vaguely if Bai Shi’s Thursday night had been as wretched as his own.
Despite the turmoil, Pei Cangyu managed to interact with them, even joining in the laughter when Pi Gou told a particularly ridiculous joke. But it felt like an out-of-body experience; he was watching himself laugh from a great distance. He tried to bridge the gap, to send his consciousness back into the boy who was smiling.
Suddenly, the sound of his own laughter hit his ears, and he stopped abruptly. *What am I doing?* he thought. *What is happening?*
It was as if he had been yanked into a dark, heavy storm cloud. A sudden, overwhelming dampness clung to his skin, and a massive, nameless shadow loomed over him. In an instant, his spirit withered. Everything felt hollow—the laughter, the conversations, the very air. Cold sweat broke out across his body. In the middle of a bright, sunlit afternoon, he felt himself shattering into a thousand jagged pieces.
At home, the charade continued.
On Friday night, sleep was an impossibility. He lay rigid on the bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady, rhythmic breathing of the sleeping Pei Yueshan. He didn't know how long he had been awake when drowsiness finally began to pull at him. But then, Pei Yueshan shifted in his sleep, and Pei Cangyu reacted as if struck by lightning. He scrambled off the bed in a blind panic, crawling away toward the corner of the room. He slammed his head against the leg of the desk, drawing blood, but he didn't stop until he was huddled against the wall. When he looked back, his father hadn't woken; he had merely turned over in his dreams.
Pei Cangyu sat on the floor for a long time before slowly standing up and climbing back into bed.
The fall from the cotton clouds finally happened on Monday morning.
That morning, Pei Yueshan had mentioned buying him a new desk lamp—one of those eye-protection models. Pei Cangyu had simply nodded. It had to be said that Pei Yueshan showed no change whatsoever. He was exactly as he had been before—no lingering glances, no suggestive words, no heavy silences. He seemed to have forgotten the entire ordeal, continuing to play the role of the "good father" with terrifying conviction. It was this very composure that had delayed Pei Cangyu’s full comprehension of the event.
But the realization was inevitable.
It arrived in the crisp air of Monday dawn. The community loudspeakers were playing a morning exercise track. Elderly residents were out for their brisk walks, students were huddled together comparing new collectible cards, and birds chirped incessantly from the power lines. A cat strolled along a wall while a dog rolled in the dirt. The morning breeze carried the scent of fresh grass and the distant aroma of oil tea. A cyclist rang their bell, signaling for him to move aside.
It was a morning bursting with life.
Pei Cangyu stood at the intersection, and the thought finally crystallized in his mind.
*Wasn't I just... raped?*
The world tilted on its axis. He wasn't a fool. He had learned about such things in school, seen them on the internet, and heard them on the legal news. He knew now—no, the truth was, he had known the moment it happened.
The cold sweat returned. A voice in his head told him that if he had fought back, things would have been different. The thought made him want to retch. Because he hadn't resisted, his own cowardice had invited this upon him. Right?
The traffic lights cycled from red to green, then back again.
Another realization struck him. If he hadn't washed the sheets, if he had preserved the evidence, he could have reported him. By hiding it, he was an accomplice to his own ruin.
He could barely remain upright, leaning heavily against a telegraph pole. He couldn't believe what he had done. It seemed he was only capable of making mistakes—doing the wrong thing, the unnecessary thing, the stupid thing.
And more importantly... *Why?*
Before that night—and even after—there had been no sign that Pei Yueshan would do such a thing. Why? There had to be a reason. How else was a human being supposed to understand it?
Going to school that day felt like a grueling trek through a wasteland. He was drained of all strength, consumed by a gnawing remorse. He felt that if he had only refused, if he had made a scene, he wouldn't be in this position. He was no longer treading on cotton; he was sinking into deep, dark water. He found himself thinking, with morbid desperation, that even if he had fought and lost, even if the outcome had been the same, at least he would have proven that resistance was futile. Then it wouldn't be his fault. He wouldn't hate himself this much.
In that moment, Pei Cangyu hated himself far more than he hated Pei Yueshan.
He was paralyzed, his spirit broken. Realizing what had happened was more devastating than the act itself. Worse still, the details of that night were beginning to resurface with agonizing clarity. Beyond the scent of the pillow and the creaking of the bed, there were more horrific things—things he could finally remember.
At school, Bai Shi was surrounded by people. They crowded around him, their voices loud and intrusive. Pei Cangyu, overwhelmed by a sudden, violent irritation, slumped onto his desk and covered his ears with his arms, trying to block out the cacophony of the world moving around him.
His friends approached him, talking about topics that held zero interest for him, their laughter endless and grating. It continued through the morning and into the afternoon. It was driving him to the brink of madness. It was annoying. It was disgusting. He didn't want to move.
They were too loud. When Pi Gou tried to playfully nudge him, Pei Cangyu snapped. Before he realized what he was doing, a string of curses had left his mouth. Pi Gou stood there with a stunned, wounded expression, as if he were the one who had committed a grave sin. The group fell silent. Even Feiji was speechless. When the bell rang, they dispersed without a word.
Pei Cangyu opened his mouth to say something, to apologize, but the words felt meaningless. He had too much of his own bitterness to chew on; he had no energy left for anyone else. *Forget it. Whatever.*
He collapsed back onto his desk, his head heavy and spinning. He didn't even know what he wanted anymore.
Night fell again, and with it came the necessity of going home.
Standing at the front door, Pei Cangyu suddenly realized what he wanted. He wanted to erase it. Not to talk it through, not to expose it, not to receive an apology or seek legal recourse. He just wanted to wipe it away, to make it so that it had never happened, so that he never had to endure this mental war.
He pushed the door open. His grandmother stood up, her voice rising as she scolded him for being late before scurrying off to heat up his dinner. His father was in the middle of removing the old desk lamp and replacing it with the new one.
As he passed Pei Cangyu, he glanced at him with a perfectly normal expression. "I picked a blue one," he said casually. "The shopkeeper said it helps prevent nearsightedness." Then he stepped out the door, his shoulder brushing against Pei Cangyu’s.
A sudden, white-hot fury erupted within Pei Cangyu.
*What the hell is this?*
He lunged forward, snatched the lamp from the table, and hurled it with all his might. It flew through the air and crashed onto the pavement below with a violent shatter. An elderly woman passing by shrieked in terror, looking up and shouting, "Who is it? Who did that?"
Pei Yueshan looked at him calmly. "You almost hit someone." Without another word, he headed downstairs to handle the situation before the neighbor’s shouting drew a crowd.
His grandmother ran out of the kitchen, her face etched with anxiety. "What happened? What’s going on?"
Pei Cangyu said nothing. He went to the kitchen, scooped himself a bowl of rice, and sat down at the table, mechanically forcing the food into his mouth.
His grandmother hovered by the door, worried that her son, who had been out of society for so long, might have caused some new trouble. She wiped her hands on her apron, standing on her tiptoes to peer down at the street, her body stretched thin like a piece of pulled dough.
Pei Cangyu watched her. Her spirit had been improving lately; she was glowing with a renewed sense of hope. Her son was back, and although he wasn't the man he once was, she accepted everything.
*She accepts everything?*
Pei Cangyu stared at her, another wave of cold sweat breaking out. A horrifying thought took root: *The sound of my head hitting the headboard that night? Did she hear it?*
He looked at her anxious silhouette, her frail, spindly legs. *Does she know? Is she pretending not to know because she chose him over me?*
The sweat poured off him. He looked down at his bowl of soup noodles; the glistening droplets of oil on the surface looked nauseating. He was drowning in suspicion, unable to trust anyone. He stood up, went to the kitchen, and dumped the food into the bin.
That night, he lay in bed, staring into the darkness. Pei Yueshan slept soundly beside him, as if his conscience were perfectly clear.
*Why? How can he?*
Pei Cangyu felt as if ants were crawling over every inch of his skin. Was that why he couldn't stop sweating? It was revolting. Pei Yueshan’s breathing sounded like the roar of thunder, a deafening noise that made sleep impossible.
The ticking of the second hand felt like a tidal wave, crashing over him again and again until the world turned dark and the sea and sky merged into one. He felt seasick, a profound nausea rising in his throat.
In the midst of this protracted torture, Pei Cangyu suddenly bolted upright. It was as if a string in his mind had finally snapped. He lost all control. He brought his foot down hard on Pei Yueshan’s face and began to throttle him with a frantic, desperate strength.
He had only one thought: *Since this happened, one of us has to die.*
Pei Yueshan woke instantly. His years in prison had honed a preternatural sharpness. He grabbed Pei Cangyu’s wrists, flipped him over, and pinned him to the bed. He stuffed a cleaning rag into Pei Cangyu’s mouth, using one of the small wooden soldiers he had once carved for his son to wedge it in place. Then, he forced Pei Cangyu’s legs apart.
Pei Cangyu understood now. At least one lingering doubt had been resolved.
Even when he fought back, it was useless.
On that level, he shouldn't blame himself.
But the thoughts wouldn't let him go; they were determined to torment him. This time, the thought was: *If I hadn't started this fight, maybe this wouldn't be happening again.*
