《 Special thanks to Mr. Camara》
This is my first time mentioning my creative work to others, especially foreigners, and thanks to you, I truly feel like I've achieved "connecting with others through words."
This is an original story I wrote two years ago(during Sophomore year), and it's also my first officially published piece of original short fiction.
I hope you enjoy it!
AmamiyaKiwi 21.06.2024
He was unwilling to remove his mask even when drinking. Instead, he pulled the bottom edge of the mask and lightly bit the plastic straw, allowing the black liquid to flow. The girl watched his series of actions, not yet understanding the taste of black coffee, only finding it bitter and hard to swallow. She thought it was impressive that a child of the same age could drink the dark beverage loved by adults, considering him a mature friend.
It wasn’t until adulthood that she realized it might not have been the bitterness of the American coffee but rather that life at the time was too sweet.
§§
At thirteen, he still didn’t understand life and death, only accepting everything in a daze. To outsiders, he was a well-behaved and sensible child with a gentle father and kind mother. In the eyes of teachers, he was a good student who would help out actively and had excellent grades and conduct, the kind of child every parent wished for.
He remembered it was a snowy night. His mother had never returned home after ten o’clock. He and his father were sitting on the sofa waiting. The fire in the fireplace flickered, looking like it was about to go out but remained dazzling. Usually, his father would send him upstairs to rest by nine-thirty, but that night, he allowed him to stay in the living room, a rare occurrence. He thought this was a good opportunity to bond with his father, who was usually stern and unapproachable, except at night when he would come into his room to tuck him in and leave a kiss on his forehead. He shared interesting stories from school with his father, eager to talk to him regardless of whether the memories were happy or not.
His father’s replies went from complete sentences to single syllables, and he noticed his father’s silence, slowly closing his mouth. The old record player had stopped, and his father didn’t leave the sofa to move the tonearm. They sat silently on the sofa's ends, and when the clock struck twelve, the bronze door finally opened slowly, and his mother stumbled in.
Hearing the sound, he went up to hug her. He remembered she always smelled pleasantly of flowers, but that night, his memory was filled with a pungent unfamiliar smell.
"My baby, why aren’t you asleep yet?" She rubbed his head with her small palm, a gesture she never used with him before.
"Mom—" The woman crouched down to examine him closely, quickly retracting her earlier gentle expression, her tone as cold as the snowflakes outside, saying, "No, 'you' are not my baby, 'you' are the unwanted child."
He was shocked, standing still as his mother pushed him to the ground. Everything that happened next unfolded like a slow-motion animation.
His father ran towards his mother. Something glinted in his hand. His mother slowly fell. The glint in his father's hand was now stained with bright red. His father straddled his mother, red droplets scattering around. "Now, Mommy won't leave," his father said.
The dark red spread beautifully across the floor.
§§
"Don't let her get hurt before she blooms," said someone to him. He vaguely remembered the person had the most beautiful smile in his memory. She held his hand freely, even though he disliked physical contact, he didn't mind her touch. Her hands were unexpectedly small, with the longest fingertip not reaching his first knuckle, the prettiest hands he had ever seen.
They were no different from ordinary friends, but to others, they seemed closer. He didn't understand this feeling, a growing sense of loneliness and inferiority, wanting to keep her tightly every time he saw her.
She couldn’t leave his sight, only able to look at him. Only looking at me is enough. "You really like wearing a mask," the girl once told him, "always looking mysterious." She knew his secret, kept it for him, always considering his feelings and never prying into what was hidden under the mask.
This was the third winter they spent together.
§§
This year, at twenty-seven, he finally completed another "artwork," looking with satisfaction at the woman in a pure white wedding dress, standing perfectly like a statue. A small amount of formalin kept the body rosy, just like her pale face in life, with her heart already taken out and well preserved.
This winter was still cold, and it was still snowing outside. Or perhaps his time had long stopped in the cold winter of his thirteenth year. After that day, his father grew to hate his face more and more—the face that resembled his mother's—ordering him to wear a mask to cover it, so as not to further provoke his father's annoyance. The wounds on his body grew, no longer covered by the thin school uniform, forcing him to wear two or three more layers underneath to barely hide them.
Wearing more clothes had its benefits, lessening the damage from the blows. Only during "those times" would his father look at him directly, only then would his father touch him, even if it was always rough and careless, it didn't matter. His father said it was proof of his love.
Only ' lovers ' could do this.
The hippocampus played tricks again, reversing those memories. The sudden pain made him clench his fist, a nearby glass jar shattered with a swing, small glass shards mixed with white pills resembling the red flower marks from that night, no longer catching his attention.
Nothing was worth his attention anymore.
Wandering the streets, passing one streetlight after another, a little girl selling flowers at the corner politely asked if he needed a flower today as well. He took out thirty dollars and bought the whole basket, watching the girl's surprised expression, he lightly said, "Don't let your mom catch you sneaking candy."
The scenery on the road had never changed; his mind changed too quickly. Living aimlessly today as well, barely getting through each day. The emptiness after completing a "work" left him too exhausted to think about many complicated matters. Even thinking about dinner was a struggle. Was it a holiday worth celebrating? Fireworks lit up the sky, their explosions stimulating his ears, the vibrant colors illuminating the dark sky.
"Like fireworks, I looked forward to your love, but in the end... all I got was a fleeting shadow." Who said that? Suddenly, he saw a familiar figure. He took steps to catch up, the surrounding scenery blurring, only that figure becoming clearer. Just as he was about to catch up—
"Bang—" A sharp horn, bones scattering like fragments.
Ah... I can't catch up you... Mom...
§§
Police traced the crash victim to his residence, breaking in to find a chilling scene. A messy room with dried, dark red liquid on the floor, five lifelike mannequins in wedding dresses posing in ballet positions. When they opened the storage room door, even the lead officer couldn’t help but close his eyes.
Time inside was frozen, the eerie atmosphere nauseating. Jars containing various human organs. No one had the right to treat these girls so cruelly, their lives taken at will.
§§
When the woman opened the body bag, she couldn't help but laugh self-mockingly. There he was, lying inside, his mask has been removed, finally showing the face under it. A beautiful face, even in death looking as if in deep sleep. A scar running across half his face, from three centimeters below his right eye to the left corner of his mouth.
"This time, we are dissecting a serial killer, a twenty-seven-year-old woman." The serene face on the operating table didn’t reveal if this person was gentle or wicked in life, only representing a lost life, bearing how many lives on their shoulders.
So this was your secret you refused to admit. Your childhood shadows impacted your life so greatly, yet I couldn't do anything for you. We promised to spend every winter together, but I abandoned you.
The dull process finally ended, the woman took off her mask, breathing fresh air, white smoke dissipating into the air. Like the unspoken "I love you," disappearing before being said.
So why did you let me go?
他就連喝飲料也不願拿下口罩，而是拉開口罩下緣張嘴輕咬住塑膠吸管，黑色液體隨之流動。女孩看著對方一連串的動作，那時還不明白黑咖啡的美味，僅覺得那苦澀的難以下嚥。心想同為十四歲的孩子可以喝下大人愛的黑漆漆飲料，真是一名成熟的朋友啊。
成年才明白或許不是那杯美式咖啡太苦，而是那時候的生活太甜吧。
Xx
那年十三，還不明白何謂生死離別，唯有懵懂接受一切。
在外人眼中他是乖巧懂事的好孩子，有著溫文儒雅的父親及和藹可親的母親，在老師眼中也是會主動幫忙又品學兼優的好學生，有著如此完美的孩子是所有父母親的願望吧。
他記得那是個下雪的夜晚，母親從未在十點還未回家，他與父親坐在沙發上等候著，壁爐的火光不斷晃動，看似要快要熄滅卻又耀眼奪目，照理來說父親在九點半時讓自己上樓休息，那日卻罕見讓自己留在客廳一起，他心想這是與父親拉近關係的好時機，平日裡父親總是嚴肅不可接近的模樣──僅在晚上時會進到自己房間替自己拉好棉被，並在額上留下一吻──他和父親分享著學校的趣事，無論記憶開心與否他只想和父親講講話。
父親從的回覆從一開始完整的句子到僅剩單個音節，而他也發現父親的沉默，緩緩閉上嘴。
老舊黑膠唱機已經停止，父親也沒有離開沙發去撥動唱臂，兩人沉默地坐在沙發兩端，當時針走向十二點時，那面古銅色的大門終於緩緩被推開，母親跌跌撞撞地走了進來。
他聽聞聲音，上前抱住母親，他記得母親身上總是有著很好聞的花香味，那日的記憶卻被陌生的刺鼻味佔據鼻腔。
「我的小寶貝，怎麼還沒睡呢。」母親不大的手掌在自己頭上搓揉著，明明母親不曾這樣對待自己的。
「母──」女人蹲下來仔細端詳著他，迅速收起方才溫柔的神情，語氣冷得如同外頭緩緩飄落的雪花，隨著雪花飄落女人說著：「不對，『你』不是我的寶貝，『你』是我不要的孩子。」
他震驚地呆愣在原地，任由母親將自己推倒在地，接下來眼前所發生的一切像一部緩慢的定格動畫。
父親跑向母親。
手上閃著亮光。
母親緩緩倒下。
父親手上的亮光增加一抹鮮豔的紅。
父親跨坐到母親身上，鮮紅色的水滴不斷往周圍四散開。
「這樣，媽媽就不會離開囉。」父親如此說道。
暗紅色遍地綻放，真的好美麗啊。
Xx
「在花朵還沒綻放前，先別讓她受傷啊。」和自己這樣說話的是誰？依稀記得對方有著記憶中最美麗的笑容。
他的手被對方任意牽起，明明自己非常厭惡肢體接觸，卻不介意被她的觸碰，對方的手和自己不一樣，意外嬌小，最長指尖也不及自己的第一指節，是他見過最好看的一雙手。
他們與一般朋友並無差異，旁人看來卻一般朋友更加親密，他不明白這是甚麼情感，心中有股膨脹的孤獨感和自卑感，每次見到對方只想牢牢的拴住她。
不能離開自己的視線，僅能注視自己。
僅僅注視我一人就夠了。
「你真的很喜歡戴著口罩欸。」少女曾對他說的話，「總是很神秘的樣子。」
她知道他的秘密，替他保守如瓶，總是很貼心的顧及他的心情，不任意窺探藏在口罩下的面容。
這是他們一起經歷過的第三個冬天。
Xx
今年他二十七，終於又完成了一件「藝術」，滿意地看著身穿純白婚紗的女子，像座雕像完美的矗立在那。
少量的福馬林讓屍體保持紅潤的氣色，如同生前那副白皙面孔，心臟已經被他取出，好好收藏著。
這個冬天依舊很冷，外頭也仍下著雪。
又或者，他的時間早已停留在十三歲那年的寒冬。
那日過後，父親愈發討厭自己的臉龐──那張與母親相似的臉龐──命令他戴上口罩遮住少惹得父親更加厭煩，身上的傷痕也越來越多，僅靠單薄的學生制服是遮不住的，他只好在制服內又追加兩三件衣服才勉強遮掩。
衣服穿得多也有好處，這樣拳頭下來時所受到的損傷可減少些。
唯有「那個時候」父親才願意正眼看向自己，只有這時候父親才會觸碰自己，即使父親總是粗暴胡亂，這樣也沒關係，父親說過這是他愛自己的證明。
僅有愛人間才能這麼做。
海馬迴又再作祟，擅自將回憶逆流，突如其來的疼痛讓他握緊拳頭，一旁的透明玻璃罐被他隨手一揮，碎裂在地，細小玻璃碎塊混著白色藥丸恰似那夜的紅花印記，卻已經不再引起他的注意。
沒有任何事物值得他關注。
漫步於街頭，走過一座又一座路燈，位於街角賣花的小女孩今天也很有禮貌地詢問需不需要一朵鮮花，他掏出三十塊錢買了小女孩整籃花朵，看著女孩詫異的表情，他淡淡地說到：「不要被媽媽發現偷吃糖哦。」
路上景色不曾改變，是他的心境轉變得太快。
今天也是漫無目的地活著，苟延殘喘度過每一日。「作品」完成後的空虛感令他過於疲憊，不願去思考太多繁雜事。
連想頓晚餐菜色都費勁。
不知道是哪個值得慶祝的節日嗎？天上居然放起繽紛的煙花，爆炸聲響刺激雙耳，突兀繽紛絢爛的顏色照亮本是昏暗的天空。
「像煙花一樣，我期待著你的愛，最後……得到的卻是泡沫一般的掠影。」說這句話的是誰？
驀然，視線中映入一道熟悉的背影。
他邁開步伐想要追上，周圍景色變得模糊，只有那道背影越發清晰，就在他快要追上時────
「砰──」刺耳喇叭聲，骨頭瞬間像是散開般。
啊啊……沒有追上呢……媽媽……。
Xx
警方循跡找到了車禍死者的住處，破門而入時屋內擺設令他們毛骨悚然。凌亂不堪的房間，地板上紅褐色液體早已凝固，五具栩栩如生的婚紗模特擺著各樣芭蕾舞姿勢矗立著，儲藏室門推開，連帶頭警官都忍不住閉上眼。
屋內的時間凝結成冰，詭譎氣氛令人作嘔。
一個個玻璃罐中是各樣的人體器官。
誰也沒有權力對這些少女恣意妄為，她們的生命卻被誰任意剝奪。
Xx
當女人拉開屍袋的那一瞬間，她不禁發出自嘲的笑聲。
那人就躺在裡頭，口罩已經被取下，如今她終於看到口罩下的面容。
艷麗臉龐，就連死去的模樣也彷彿是在深深沉睡。
橫跨半張臉的撕裂傷，傷口從右眼下三釐米到左邊嘴角。
「這次要解剖的是連續殺人犯，二十七歲女性。」手術台上安詳的面龐看不出這人生前是溫良敦厚亦或是作惡多端，躺在這裡僅代表有生命的逝去，而眼前這人身上又背負著多少條生命。
原來這就是妳不願承認的秘密。
妳的童年陰霾竟對妳的人生造成如此大的影響，我卻不能為妳做些甚麼。
明明約好了要和妳度過每一個冬天，我卻將妳拋棄。
沉悶的過程終於結束，女人拉下口罩，呼吸著新鮮空氣，白煙消散在空中。
如同那句不曾對她說過的「我愛妳」一樣，再尚未說出口前便消失無影無蹤。
那你為甚麼要放過我呢。
【人物介紹】
鍾季軒 27歲 女性 職業：獨立工作室的婚紗設計師 (連續殺人犯)
總是戴著口罩，口罩下是橫跨半張臉的撕裂傷，傷口從右眼下三釐米到左邊嘴角，幾乎沒有人看過她拿下口罩的樣子。
栗色俐落短髮，黑眸。
身高178公分，49公斤左右(看起來有些營養不良)
身上有許多傷口，曾經歷過「燙乳」，都穿著長袖來遮掩，小時候被當作是男性來照顧，成人後仍會被誤認成男性。
繪師：梅羅 (https://www.plurk.com/a12352yy)
§§
【Character Introduction】
Name: Zhong Ji Xuan
Age: 27
Gender: Female
Occupation: Independent Bridal Gown Designer (Serial Killer)
She always wears a mask, hiding a scar that stretches across half her face, from three centimeters below her right eye to the left corner of her mouth. Hardly anyone has ever seen her without the mask.
Appearance:
- Short, neat chestnut hair
- Black eyes
- Height: 178 cm ( 5 feet 10 inches )
- Weight: Approximately 49 kg (appearing somewhat malnourished)
- She has many scars on her body and has experienced " Breast ironing ", always wearing long sleeves to cover them.
- As a child, she was treated as a male, and even as an adult, she is often mistaken for a man.
Illustrator: 梅羅
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