Depressed Chapter 9

〔When everyone has taken their seats
The ceremony begins, the sound of the drum
Heavy and powerful, beating, beating
Until my consciousness grows numb〕

He was tied to a chair, listening in terror to the footsteps drawing ever closer to the basement, as if those sounds were the death knell, the drumbeats of doom struck by Death itself.

Creak—the door opened.

The basement was thick with that musty, damp smell, and very dark. The person stood in the shadows, dressed all in black.

But even so, he saw the person’s face clearly.

His eyes widened in horror.

He tried to shrink back, but all he managed was to make the chair legs scrape faintly against the floor; he tried to cry out, but his mouth was stuffed and taped shut.

The person drew a neatly folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket with elegant movements, unfolding it with long, slender fingers, as if asking the lamb tied to the chair, or perhaps merely speaking to himself: “382, 27, 117, your student number is 27, isn’t it?”

He didn’t expect an answer from the one in the chair, only gave a lofty, superior smile, and picked up a hammer.

*

Shen Lian’s family had replaced the mirror again.

Shen Lian looked at himself in the mirror.

He wore a stern expression, while the him in the mirror was smiling.

He sat before the mirror, tilting his head.

“Hey, what exactly are you?”

The reflection smiled, saying nothing.

“Can you believe that doctor actually survived? Isn’t it amazing?”

The reflection kept smiling, saying nothing, lying down in a freezer.

Hmm… It was as if mocking him for having attempted suicide so many times and still failing, yet still having the nerve to call someone else’s survival miraculous.

Shen Lian propped his head up with his hand. “This world isn’t scary at all, not nearly as frightening as the beginner’s village…”

The reflection kept smiling, saying nothing.

“Smile, smile, smile, all you do is smile.”

Shen Lian felt the urge to remove the mirror and throw it out the third-floor window again.

Then, suddenly inspired, he sat up straight, face expressionless, and in a completely flat tone asked a question of utmost importance.

“Mirror, mirror, who is the most handsome man in the world?”

This stupid mirror only ever showed his own reflection—wasn’t the answer obvious? Shen Lian thought with satisfaction.

But the reflection suddenly stopped smiling.

Another person’s image appeared in the glass.

Shen Lian didn’t know this person, yet he looked strangely familiar.

Who was it? He couldn’t recall. The harder he tried, the more his head ached, as if someone were driving a bone marrow needle into his skull, like in the hospital.

If he couldn’t remember, then he wouldn’t bother trying.

He snapped a photo of the person in the mirror, then picked up a hammer and smashed the mirror.

“Who told you not to recognize me as the most handsome man?” he muttered.

He looked again at the person in the photo.

So familiar—he must have seen him somewhere.

“Not even that much more handsome than me,” he said, touching his own face, then caught sight of the clock on the wall.

“…Late again.”

He always forgot he was still the flower of the nation, the hope of the people.

He grabbed his schoolbag and hurried downstairs, bought a cup of soy milk on South Street, then strolled over to North Street for two beef buns, and finally ambled off to school.

“Reporting in!” Shen Lian’s shout interrupted the math teacher’s hand as she drew a circle.

The perfect circle was left with a long, trailing tail.

The math teacher pushed up her glasses and looked at Shen Lian standing in the doorway.

“Out.”

The whole class burst into laughter.

Shen Lian entered the classroom with his head held high and chest out, like a king about to be crowned by the Pope, and took his seat.

That was just the way “Shen Lian” was in this world.

His deskmate nudged his arm and slipped him something.

“Here, Little Fatty left you some almond chocolate.”

Shen Lian put the chocolate in his pocket and asked, “Where is he?”

“He had a fever last night and went to the hospital, I think. But I bet he’ll be here for tomorrow’s talent show—he loves a lively scene.”

“Mm.” Shen Lian absentmindedly flipped open his book.

The school auditorium was a decades-old building, with mottled walls, red curtains, and wooden floors. Among all the modern buildings, it stood out like a mother hen among a flock of cranes.

No one could bear to tear it down.

After all, with more and more cranes and fewer and fewer hens, it was obvious which was more precious.

A girl on stage was dancing ballet, her toes light, her movements graceful and lovely.

The boys watched the show, their eyes on the pretty girls, while the girls’ hearts weren’t on the stage at all. Their thoughts followed the host who had just stepped down, floating away to a world of pink bubbles.

That host wore a refined three-piece suit, a brass pocket watch, a handkerchief peeking from his breast pocket, a narrow waist, long legs, blending youthful innocence with a gentleness far beyond his years.

He also wore a pair of gold-rimmed glasses that gave him the air of a cultured scoundrel.

Shen Lian watched the performance, listening as his deskmate chattered excitedly beside him: “Ah, that guy’s Zheng Qing from Senior Three. He’s so handsome, I want to marry him!”

“Oh,” Shen Lian replied.

He hadn’t expected the doctor to be at this school too.

The dance on stage was nearing its end. The girl finally reached the death of the swan, mournful and beautiful, heartbreakingly exquisite.

After all, tragedy is the act of tearing something beautiful to pieces for others to see.

The performance ended.

The host returned to the stage, his magnetic voice announcing, “Next up, ‘By the Baikal Lake.’”

“He’s not a host at all,” Shen Lian complained. “He’s turned the host into a mere announcer.”

“As long as he’s handsome, that’s enough.” His deskmate continued to swoon.

The red curtain drew back. The whole auditorium fell silent.