Chapter 12 - Suicide, Murder, and Homicide
How does one place the words *suicide*, *murder*, and *homicide* within the same narrative context?
On that rainy night when they were both sixteen, Diao Chan had listened to Zhao Meiyou’s casual admission—that he had "eaten his father"—and asked with chilling composure, "Is this some kind of test?"
Zhao Meiyou was too busy shoveling dumplings into his mouth to look up. "What kind of test?"
"A test of my antisocial tendencies, or something of the sort," Diao Chan replied, his voice level. "To determine whether or not you’ll take my business."
"Not at all," Zhao Meiyou mumbled through a mouthful of dough and meat. "As long as the money’s right, everything else is negotiable."
"I see." Diao Chan nodded slowly. "I understand."
Then, the young master of the Diao clan walked over to the rusted sink, crouched down, and proceeded to lose his lunch with violent intensity.
"Whoa, take it easy there. You’re making it sound like you’re turning your lungs inside out..." Zhao Meiyou wandered over, watching the spectacle with the detached interest of a passerby at a car wreck. Even the sight of vomit didn't dampen his appetite; he continued to eat, clicking his tongue rhythmically. "Don't worry about the mess. The sewers here lead straight to the sea. He’s getting a free burial at sea, lucky bastard."
As if trying to offer Diao Chan some comfort, Zhao Meiyou added a thoughtful clarification: "I originally planned to wait until I was full and then go use the public latrine. Those pipes lead down to the composting vats on the lower floors. My mom always used to say she wanted to scatter my old man’s ashes into a septic tank. This is much cleaner."
Whether it was a trick of the dim, flickering light or the sheer absurdity of the statement, the boy on the floor seemed to heave even harder.
Finally, after bringing up nothing but bitter bile, Diao Chan stopped. He rinsed his mouth with cold water, his damp hair clinging to his forehead as he looked up at Zhao Meiyou. "When should I bring you the deposit?"
"Whenever. This shop offers a variety of packages: 'Early Grave, Early Rebirth,' 'Hanging by a Thread,' or the premium 'Wishing for Death but Denied,'" Zhao Meiyou said, flashing a grin that was far too sincere for the conversation. "The master’s craft is exquisite. This is a century-old establishment. You can trust us."
"You won't back out?"
"As long as the money is right, everything is negotiable."
"Good." Diao Chan seemed to find a strange peace in that confirmation. Zhao Meiyou was about to ask for the specifics of the hit when the boy suddenly rolled up his sleeves and swung a fist at his face.
Zhao Meiyou ducked with practiced ease. "Is this a brawl? Or are you looking for some 'venting' services? Those cost extra."
"I just want to punch your goddamn lights out," Diao Chan snapped, launching a kick. It was the first time Zhao had heard the refined boy use a profanity. "Don't you dare hold back."
"Fair enough." Zhao Meiyou nodded. He reached onto the counter, grabbed a heavy boning knife, and brought the blunt spine of the blade down with a sickening thud.
A wealthy scion, even one trained in self-defense, was no match for a feral youth raised in the gutters of the Lower Districts. It took Zhao Meiyou exactly one minute to teach the young master the volatile trajectory between being a "client" and being "beaten senseless."
Diao Chan returned the next day. Even when commissioning a murder, the young master remained impeccably punctual and well-funded. Zhao Meiyou counted the credits, cracked open a fresh pack of high-end cigarettes, and offered one. "Smoke?"
Diao Chan’s only response was a fit of world-shaking coughs.
"Suit yourself." Zhao Meiyou shrugged, lighting his own. "I can probably wrap up the job within a week. Any specific requests for the body?"
Diao Chan’s voice was hoarse. "...Just don't eat it."
"No problem," Zhao promised quickly. "Though, in all honesty, in terms of destroying evidence, it’s a very cost-effective method..." He saw the look in Diao Chan’s eyes and raised his hands in surrender, miming the action of zipping his lips shut.
A week later, Diao Chan arrived at the pork shop again. The corrugated iron shutter was halfway down, casting a rectangular sliver of light onto the tiled floor. He ducked inside and nearly tripped over something.
He looked down. It was a pair of high heels.
"You’re here?" Zhao Meiyou called out, a cigarette dangling from his lips. "I just got back. Haven't had time to clean up. Find a spot to sit."
Zhao was standing at the butcher’s block. He reached up, snatched off a wig, and began peeling away fake eyelashes. Artificial pearls clattered to the floor like hailstones. He then unfastened a tight chest binder, walking barefoot across the grimy floor. He slipped slightly, and Diao Chan instinctively reached out to steady him.
"Do me a favor." Zhao Meiyou handed him the binder and pointed toward a nearby cold storage unit. "Put the clothes in there. My feet are killing me."
"What are you standing there for?" Zhao lit another cigarette. "This was my mom’s gear. If those pearls oxidize, they’re a nightmare to repair. Get them in the fridge, now."
Ash drifted through the air. Diao Chan watched him, his eyes narrowing against the stinging smoke. "...What exactly were you doing?"
"Taking care of your business, obviously," Zhao Meiyou said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he leaned into Diao Chan’s personal space and suggestively rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. "If you want to up the ante, we could do some *other* kinds of business, too."
The next second, he was shoved away, landing face-first on the floor with a dull *splat*.
"Tsk, you’re no fun." Zhao Meiyou didn't lose heart. He rolled over and simply lay there on the floor, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling. He heard the hum of the cold storage door opening and closing, followed by the sharp *clack* of leather heels on the tile, then the muffled sound of footsteps approaching.
Diao Chan had taken off his shoes. Wearing only grey cashmere socks, he walked over to Zhao Meiyou and sat down, hugging his knees. "So... how did it go?"
"No issues," Zhao said, wiping his lip with a finger. His hand was stained a deep, visceral crimson. "Hey, let me ask you—what are you planning for the funeral?"
Diao Chan met the question with silence. Zhao finished his cigarette and tried again. "How about this? Tell me your story. Think of tears like spit—if you spit the story out, you’ll feel a lot better."
Diao Chan glanced at him. "That doesn't sound like something you’d say."
"You’ve only known me for five minutes," Zhao scoffed. "Who knows? Maybe we’ve even crossed paths in the Upper District before." He used his toe to hook one of the discarded high heels. "Hey, did you know that one of the department heads in your Diao Clan is impotent?"
The topic was absurdly non-sequitur, but Zhao Meiyou was on a roll, his words flying like sparks. "A 'sister' of mine was on a long-term retainer just to accompany him to high-society events to save face. He gave her a monthly beauty allowance, but sometimes, instead of a mistress, she had to play his mother or his daughter... I heard she eventually went to see a doctor because she couldn't remember which personality she was supposed to be playing. Even the doctor couldn't tell if she was roleplaying a dissociative disorder or if she actually had one."
Zhao Meiyou’s network was vast. The business scope of the Lower Districts covered the entire spectrum of human suffering. If you walked down a street with the right "feng shui," you’d see the signs: unlicensed clinics, counterfeit ID forgers, back-alley dentists, herbalists, and coffin makers. It was everything a person needed from birth to burial.
By the time Diao Chan had finished listening to the "108 Essential Tips for Post-Natal Sow Care," the glassy stare in his eyes had finally softened. The tension in his jaw, which he had been holding tight for days, began to bleed away.
"...So, at four in the morning one summer, my mom dragged her suitcase out from under the bed, left a note, and vanished. My entire inheritance was a pile of expired makeup and dance dresses with oversized bust measurements."
Zhao Meiyou brought his story to a close. "She said she was going to 'commit double suicide with the Dawn.' To this day, I don't know if that was a poetic metaphor or if she had a boyfriend named Dawn."
After a long silence, Diao Chan’s voice drifted down from above. "Do you miss her?"
"I have to say, she did me a favor in the end," Zhao said, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Before that, she kept telling me I had to kill her the moment she grew her first crow’s foot. Every year, before I blew out the candles on my birthday, I had to announce my creative plan for murdering her that year."
This time, Diao Chan actually laughed. "Your mother was a real piece of work."
Zhao Meiyou gave a lazy hum, a hint of pride in his tone.
The smile lingered on Diao Chan’s face. Zhao Meiyou’s erratic, nonsensical stories acted like a mask, painting the world in garish, ridiculous colors. The mask was static, but beneath the oil paint, it carved out a zone of safety. When you wore the mask, you could finally reveal your truest expression, your truest self.
Slowly, Diao Chan began to tell his own story. He spoke of parents joined by a cold, calculated political marriage—a union of lukewarm affection. His mother was a classic "cold beauty," her health always fragile, always convalescing. The house was too large; Diao Chan rarely saw her. She would appear occasionally, dressed in finery for a festival, or seated at the dinner table on a night when the fireplace was lit.
Guests always remarked that he had inherited her "Oriental" features—eyes like jade. Jade was an ancient mineral that once grew in the heart of mountains, but now existed only as a technologically synthesized replica.
Diao Chan was a brilliant student. He had a library that was absurdly large. Before he was formally introduced to the family business, he had secretly fantasized about becoming a scholar, perhaps spending his leisure time playing the piano.
When his mother heard this, she told him: "Having your own thoughts is a good thing. A scholar is a respectable profession."
Then came the second half of the sentence: "Provided your last name isn't Diao."
It was the expected answer. Diao Chan hadn't reacted; most youths of his station possessed a certain arrogant docility. He thought the matter was settled, but months later, a servant told him that the Madam wished for him to spend one hour in her room every day.
His mother’s room was like a sanctuary. His parents only shared the ancestral master bedroom on rare occasions; otherwise, they maintained separate quarters. In this, they showed excellent breeding—as far as Diao Chan knew, neither had ever stepped foot into the other’s private domain.
In a house governed by rigid discipline, his mother’s room represented absolute safety.
He arrived punctually, knocked, and froze.
His mother was sitting at a piano.
They didn't speak much. She demonstrated basic fingering and how to read a score. The hour passed quickly. After that, he spent an hour in her room every single day.
The change happened when he was sixteen.
Because of a minor cold, his mother passed away.
Diao Chan couldn't quite describe his feelings. She had been frail for so long, sick in fits and starts, that he had long since prepared himself. Perhaps sensing her end was near, a few days before she died, this traditionally-minded lady taught Diao Chan one final piece. It was the first time he had ever learned something that wasn't classical music.
He played that piece at her funeral. The guests whispered in shock; his father was livid. Afterward, he was forbidden from touching a piano again. Like every cliché story of a rebellious youth, he tried to run away. On the road, he encountered "strange things"—though to someone raised in a gilded cage, almost everything qualified as strange. He joined a government agency, one of the few places his father’s reach couldn't extend.
Months later, he returned home for the first time. He expected his father’s wrath and had steeled himself for it. Yet, the entire manor acted as if nothing had happened. Servants bustled about; gardeners were pruning the lilies of the valley—his mother’s favorite flower.
"Young Master," the butler said, looking surprised. "When did you go out?"
Then, the man added: "You’re going to be late today. Hurry along."
"Late"—in this manor, Diao Chan had the privilege of being late for anything. Everyone would make excuses for the Diao heir; the young master was busy, surely he was delayed by something of great importance.
Except for one thing.
Diao Chan threw open the door to the room.
His mother was sitting at the piano.
She turned her head, her voice cool yet affectionate—a tone Diao Chan had heard for years and knew intimately. She looked at him and said, "You’re late."
...
He visited psychiatrists and the most famous psychological clinics in the Metropolis.
However, everyone looked at him with a gentle, probing gaze and told him: "Young Master Diao, there is nothing wrong with your mental state."
It was as if everything had truly been a dream. From the moment he climbed over the manor wall to the moment he returned, those months had been surgically excised from reality. The lilies of the valley in the courtyard never withered; they bloomed with a cold, fierce intensity. He secretly tested people, asking about his departure, about his mother’s death. The butler would merely raise an eyebrow, his surprise quickly melting into a calm, logical certainty: "Young Master, you shouldn't think such things."
Diao Chan didn't know if his "secret" inquiries were being taken as suggestions. He once told a servant that it was best not to leave the birdcage in the hallway, as it would be easy for a cat to eat the bird.
The focus of that sentence could be "hallway" or it could be "eat."
He never saw the bird again.
A few months later, his mother caught a cold again. The exact same symptoms. No final words. The exact same death.
The funeral was as grand as ever. Well-maintained ladies whispered behind their fans. Diao Chan played that aesthetically offensive piano piece from dawn until dusk. When night fell, he packed his bags and climbed over the wall again.
This time, he only stayed away for a few days. When he stood before the manor gates again and looked at the lilies of the valley, he realized the gravity of the situation.
His mother was still waiting for him in her room.
His mother—living, and twice dead.
***
**GLOSSARY OF NEW TERMS**
