Deathbed

You try to pick up the scattered bricks and rubble, hoping to rebuild that paradise. But you should have known long ago that it was a hopeless situation, and you knew this place was destined to collapse. You are utterly weary of the end of this long road—just as you are weary of its beginning.

I was walking in a light rain when I passed a school gate. A little girl was chasing a balloon in her hand, humming a nursery rhyme. Her appearance reminded me of myself as a child. She seemed to sense my gaze and mumbled softly to me, "Be careful not to fall." It was only then that I noticed a cover was missing from the drain by the roadside. I quickly thanked the girl and carefully walked around it.

Today was Erin's birthday, and I was going to her house with a cake and a gift. Erin’s home was in the suburban school district, where most of the residential buildings were old and dated. I walked along the outside of the school wall, down a slope leading to a low-lying area, until I reached a residential building marked with the words "Block Eight." The door to the building looked rather dilapidated and was ajar, paired with a rusty, malfunctioning electronic lock that seemed glaringly out of place. I noticed a mountain of newspapers piled up in the mailboxes inside, overflowing onto the floor and scattered messily in a corner. At the top of the pile, I could vaguely make out the characters "B101"—Erin’s home. I continued down the mouldy-smelling staircase, feeling the steps under my feet wobble, with railings missing in several places. The peeling paint and ubiquitous graffiti on the walls were particularly conspicuous, with advertising stickers pasted randomly, scrawled with various phone numbers.

I continued down the narrow stairs and finally arrived at a worn-out security door. Behind it was an iron gate, on which the faded numbers "B101" were stuck. I knocked on Erin’s door. A muffled response came from behind it, followed by a young woman in her twenties opening the main door, looking at me woodenly.

"Happy birthday, Erin," I said with a smile, holding up the cake and gift box for her to see.

"Ah, you're here! Thank you so much… Come in, please, come in." A look of surprise, as if waking from a dream, appeared on Erin's face. She hurriedly pulled the security door open and invited me inside.

As I stepped into the entryway to change my shoes, Erin softly indicated that I needed to put on shoe covers before entering the living room. A gust of musty, damp air hit me. The entire room's decor was simple and old; the paint in the corners of the walls had noticeably peeled off, exposing the damp-soaked grey plaster underneath. A large, old sofa occupied the main space of the room, and against the wall were piled various items—old books and broken children's toys. Although it was my first time visiting Erin's residence, it gave me an inexplicable sense of familiarity, as if I had been here many times before.

From the left of the entryway came the aroma of cooking food, which gently masked the surrounding mustiness. I followed the scent with my eyes and saw Erin's mother busy in the kitchen.

"Good evening, sorry to intrude," I said to her back. Her figure was hazy in the kitchen steam.

She turned around, smiling. "Ah, you've come. I'm just finishing up dinner, it won't be long. Please, have a seat on the sofa for a while." She noticed the cake in my hands, and her eyes lit up. "Oh my, you brought a cake! Do you want to eat dinner first or the cake? Erin?" she called out, letting Erin decide.

"I want to eat the cake first! Otherwise, I won't have any room for it after dinner," Erin exclaimed like an excited child, taking the cake from my hands and examining it closely through the plastic film. "Ah! It's Oreo-flavoured this time, hehe, my favourite!"

She gently placed the cake on the wooden coffee table in front of the sofa and carefully undid the packaging, taking out plates and plastic cutlery. Suddenly, however, her movements stopped. Her gaze shifted to me, and her eyes flickered as she asked, "Let me think, what kind of wish should I make this year? What do you think I should wish for? I remember last year, I wished to get rich, and the year before that, I dreamed of becoming a famous writer. And before that… Oh, right! I've got it! This wish will definitely surprise you. But I can't tell you, or it won't come true. Ah… what a wonderful moment, truly wonderful." She closed her eyes and whispered softly, as if completely immersed in her own wish.

I slowly unwrapped the exquisite packaging of the candles and carefully inserted over twenty delicate little candles along the edge of the cake. Looking around, I felt that the atmosphere was still missing something. "Right, the cake shop also included a few cute little balloons. Just a moment, I'll blow a couple up and put them beside us," I said, picking up a slightly deflated balloon and bringing its opening to my lips, about to start blowing.

"No! No balloons!" Erin suddenly screamed, grabbing the hand I was holding the balloon with.

"Please don't blow that balloon. Let it go, release your hand! Please don't blow it, just don't blow that balloon now," Erin murmured repeatedly in a suppressed tone, her hand trembling as she quickly withdrew it.

I looked at her, utterly bewildered, unable to understand why she would have such a reaction.

Erin's face grew more anxious. She lowered her head, tightly clutching the deflated balloon in her hand. She cautiously, timidly, glanced up at me before quickly looking down again. Her cheeks were flushed red, as if she had done something extremely shameful and feared being found out. "I find it hard to say… I'm just scared of balloons. No, perhaps it's more accurate to say I'm afraid of them popping. Really, please don't laugh at me, you mustn't laugh at me. Some people might be afraid of spiders, some might be afraid of heights, and some might even be afraid of being alone in an elevator. Well… I'm not like that, I'm not like them… I know perfectly well that balloons themselves can't really hurt anyone, yet I hold a deep-seated fear of them. Especially balloons that are being inflated… Can you understand how I feel? If you were to blow up a balloon in front of me, it would surely scare me to death, it's true."

Her voice trailed off, almost pleading for my understanding.

"Are you worried they'll suddenly pop?"

"That's not entirely accurate… but it could be explained that way. What's puzzling, though, is that I can hardly find any memory of a balloon popping."

Erin tilted her head, her eyes looking up and to the left, as if trying hard to recall a past experience.

"There really isn't one. Hmm… maybe it's not directly related to balloons… This scene reminds me of inflating a basketball with a pump, and car tires. The feeling is exactly the same as what balloons give me. Although others comfort me, saying, 'don't worry, relax, it won't pop.' But they ultimately have a limit… There's always one time it will pop! I'm not afraid of things that are meant to explode, like time bombs in movies. What's so scary about those! Do you know why I'm not afraid of them? It's not because I've never seen one; in fact, people can be afraid of fictional things, like ghosts. The real reason is that I know exactly when a time bomb will explode! Its precision is astonishing, and even though it brings destructive consequences—far beyond the explosion of a balloon or a tire—it can be predicted, it's under our control. But balloons are completely different. When you blow up a balloon or inflate a tire, you can't predict when it will explode. You just don't know. You can only roughly estimate when it might pop, carefully squeezing it, and then stopping. But sometimes, a balloon will burst even a moment before you expect it to, and that's something you can never control. Even if you've mastered the inflation limit for one type of balloon, what about a different material or size? It’s the same with a fully inflated balloon falling into a crowded place, like a birthday party or a wedding—though I've never experienced it myself—it's enough to strike fear in your heart! You can never predict if it will be accidentally stepped on by a passerby in the next second! It's absolutely unforeseeable."

Erin poured out her thoughts in a rush, her body trembling slightly with agitation. Her gaze was fixed on the wall behind me, and she looked like someone who had just been stunned by a jump scare in a horror movie.

She suddenly stared at me, slowly cupped her right hand over her mouth, and spoke mysteriously, her voice dramatically lowered, "...Do you know, that's the most terrifying thing about this kind of object: they are uncontrollable, or rather, they have… an extreme potential for being out of control! Ah, the balloon you were about to blow, I don't know how to describe it, that sudden tendency they have to lose control, their uncertainty and unpredictability, which means they are always a certain distance from that perfect state of stillness—they are always being driven by something toward self-destruction, toward the opposite of wholeness, always incomplete, always broken. Ah… I have this strange feeling, as if I'm constantly inflating these things that are about to explode. I'm sorry… I know what I'm saying sounds a bit absurd."

She sat on the sofa hugging her knees, her face slightly flushed, her eyes flickering, as if she regretted dumping all these strange thoughts on me, yet at the same time, she looked at me with an expectant gaze.

"Erin, there's no need to apologize to anyone for that. In fact, sometimes, overthinking things will only leave you more exhausted and mentally drained. Perhaps you just remember a time from your childhood, when your memory of everything was still hazy, when a naughty child popped a balloon in front of you and scared you out of your wits. You know, people say 'once bitten by a snake, you'll fear well ropes for ten years,' but that proverb doesn't mention how much memory or cognitive ability you need to have when you're bitten, right? Some things can have a profound and significant impact on you long before you can fully comprehend this complex world of language. You could say that these things have an even deeper impact on you when you can't yet fully understand the world, and… unfortunately, these impacts are usually negative, and their consequence is trauma. Like the first time you left your mother's warm embrace, or the first time you heard your parents fighting. If you're really afraid of balloons, then let's just try to avoid them. After all, balloons aren't essential in life, and I trust this fear won't spread to other aspects of your life. Erin, try to let go of those uncertain worries. If some pain feels unbearable, try to forget it, just like me."

"Maybe this time I can be like you…" Erin, still in the same position, forced a smile at me, then turned her head away.

"Hmm… I was thinking, why did you say that the sources of those profound influences from our early childhood are all… bad things? And it's not just us; it seems whenever people talk about profound childhood influences, they always mention the terrible things. We seem to be good at tracing back those hateful past events, and even adults often jokingly tease us about embarrassing moments that aren't even in our memory. Isn't there a single positive thing or opportunity? For example… hmm…"

Erin shook her head thoughtfully, a hint of mockery and cunning in her eyes. "Oh! I've got it, hmm… for example, I remember that time at the park, a child I didn't know at all shared his ice cream with me—that small act of selflessness made me feel the kindness between people! Or maybe I fell down when I was too young to remember, and the neighbour's grandmother picked me up, gently comforting me, giving me a sort of, hmm… lasting sense of security. Or the first time I went to the seaside, standing before the vast ocean, feeling an unprecedented sense of freedom and openness! Would you believe me if I said these things happened? ...I'm just kidding, I never actually experienced any of it… even if they did happen, I've long forgotten. I've never seen the real ocean—and I don't even like ice cream. Hahaha!" Erin's words had a self-deprecating tone, but in the end, she couldn't help but laugh, winking playfully at me.

"I don't like ice cream either," I replied, returning her smile. "But you do have a point. If you asked me to recall happy events, I could probably name a few. But if you asked me to recall those happy, blissful, standalone events from my childhood or even earlier, perhaps things I heard from my parents, to be honest, I really can't think of any. But as for tracing back traumatic memories, I'm more than happy to do it; I could probably list a whole bunch for you right now. Even in my spare time, during sleepless nights, I can't help but 'create' some, like a special kind of masochistic tendency—but humans are just that strange. That is to say, those wounds are precisely the product of being traced back. Our whole life is like sitting in a small boat; we are pierced by a sword named Pain, which then falls into the river—our so-called act of reminiscing about the past is, at best, just repeatedly trying to find a dropped sword by marking the spot on the boat. Furthermore, after people 'trace' out these wounds and become covered in scars, they often tend to repeat in life the very things that once caused them pain—this isn't a forced act, if you don't exclude a certain 'human instinct' from the human being itself—and only then can a person obtain that familiar feeling, and familiarity is security…"

"Hmm… like in a romantic relationship?" Erin suddenly interrupted me. A blush spread across her cheeks, her eyes a mix of mischief and interest as she spoke eagerly, "For instance, someone once met a very charming person in a relationship—well, charm isn't essential, as long as the other person knows how to emotionally manipulate—allow me to hypothesise such a vile person! Then, this person suffers from the other's cold indifference, developing a kind of anxious-avoidant attachment. Later, in their intimate relationships, they begin to prefer cold, emotionless partners—as if to re-experience the pain of being neglected, abandoned, and treated with indifference. If the latter becomes passionate, that person falls out of love! But speaking of which, I feel like everyone has this tendency, colloquially known as having a masochistic streak." Erin giggled at me and stuck out her tongue. "So… does this common tendency come from a trauma that everyone has universally experienced? But what could that be? Where on earth… does this inexplicable impulse come from?" Erin twirled her hair with her finger, muttering to herself.

"Birth—perhaps a person is perfect before birth, and everything that follows is a process of making them imperfect!"

Erin was perplexed by the words I had tossed out casually. She locked me with a questioning, sharp gaze for a moment, then slowly turned her head away, lost in her own thoughts.

Silence flowed between us. Erin's mother's soft humming from the kitchen made Erin peek in that direction. Then, suddenly, as if startled from her reverie, she quickly cut herself a large piece of cake and began to wolf it down. Her gaze then abruptly fixed on me, her eyes rolled once, as if struck by a flash of inspiration.

"Oh! …Oh! I haven't opened my gift yet! I want to see what it is!" Erin's expression suddenly became animated. With her mouth still full of cake, she held the plate in one hand and clamped the gift box tightly between her thighs, beginning to carefully unwrap it. She meticulously tore off the wrapping paper, gradually revealing an old book that showed the marks of time. Seeing the book, a delighted smile immediately appeared on her face—it was a manuscript by Dostoevsky, her most admired author.

Erin glanced up at me, then fixed her gaze back on the book, her lips trembling slightly. She slowly opened the book, her cautious movements possessing an almost ceremonial solemnity. Due to its age, the corners of many pages had naturally curled inward, and the pages themselves had yellowed. She stroked the curled corners of the pages, frowning. Then she carefully lifted the book, brought it close to her nose, and took a deep breath of the paper's scent. She closed the book and gently kissed its cover. Then, she ran back to her room, hugging the book.

"Dinner's ready!" After a while, Erin's mother emerged from the smoky kitchen carrying the last dish. Even as the smoke cleared, I still found her face somewhat blurry, but I could clearly feel her warm and kind smile. Hearing that dinner was ready, Erin, as if driven by a long-forgotten excitement, rushed out of her room. Her movements were swift and light; she appeared at the dining table almost in an instant, her figure settling gracefully into her seat.

Erin's mother placed the dishes on the table carefully, her movements slightly clumsy. I noticed that the top halves of her left index and middle fingers were missing. Erin sensed my gaze and explained to me in a low voice, "That was an accident when Mum used to work in a factory. Her fingers got caught in a machine and were severed."

"What kind of machine?"

Erin gave me a strange look. "Does it make a difference?" She paused, as if contemplating whether to continue, then added softly, "At the time, Mum just wanted some compensation; after all, she lost two fingers. However, the factory manager not only refused to pay a cent but also blamed her for improper operation, saying it was her own carelessness. The manager also said that her mistake could have harmed the factory's profits, almost costing them a fortune, and that not making her pay for damages was already a great kindness, yet she had the audacity to ask for compensation."

"The factory managers and higher-ups shirked responsibility, passing the buck, no one willing to take responsibility for Mum's injury. While they were busy blaming each other, Mum's fingers missed the best window for treatment. Dad had already left home by then, and Mum was truly helpless. We had nowhere to appeal and no one to support her. Not only did she not get any compensation, but she was almost counter-sued by the factory."

"That's completely unfair," I said, somewhat angry. "Did you just give up like that? You never tried to fight for it again? Even now…"

Erin's mother interrupted me as if she had read my mind, shaking her head as if to shake off the unpleasant memory. "It's too late, it's no use. It's all in the past. That's just how they are, they don't care about the lives of us ordinary workers. I felt so helpless back then. My foreman said that management had cut back on the frequency and quality of machine inspections to save money, but he, like us, had no real power and couldn't make any waves. Those machines were clearly aging and full of problems, but in the end, everything became my fault. That's just the fate of little people like us, we're bound to lose in a direct confrontation. Forget it, it's all in the past. Let's eat first. Eat your vegetables, Erin."

"Have you considered filing a lawsuit or seeking media coverage? Something like this absolutely cannot just be dropped. Please, you must let me help you with this. Little people should also protect their rights, shouldn't they? Everyone has the right to know the truth."

Erin looked at me, her eyes filling with more and more confusion, and she began to speak slowly in a slightly reproachful tone:

"What you're saying… do you really think the so-called truth is that important? There is no absolute truth in this world, only the so-called 'facts' shaped by those in power. When you can't accurately distinguish the truth of a matter, how can you ensure that you are acting correctly, for the benefit of others or the majority—or even for your own benefit? All our judgments and actions are limited by the fragmented information and one-sided truths we have access to." Erin closed her eyes, pointing a finger at the ceiling, and spoke to me with her head tilted back, "You might think you have the truth now because you heard Mum's account with your own ears. But once you walk out that door, those so-called facts, the truth you thought you knew, will probably disintegrate in an instant. They are like a pool of pus, bursting at the slightest touch, leaving no trace behind!"

I was at a loss for words and could only remain silent. Then, I reached into my pocket, took out my wallet, pulled out a stack of banknotes, and offered it to Erin and her mother.

"Please, you must accept this gesture this time, Erin," I said sincerely, my tone almost pleading. "I know this money won't completely solve the difficulties you face, but at least it can offer some small comfort and relief in the short term."

Erin slowly turned her head towards me, her eyes wide with shock, glinting with a complex mix of astonishment and displeasure, as if my action was utterly incredible and incomprehensible to her.

"You are truly too arrogant… No. We cannot accept this money… no matter how many times you offer." Her voice grew lower, laced with a hint of reproach. "I am begging you… I am begging you to stop treating my mother and me with this kind of self-righteous, condescending charity. Although we are just nobodies at the bottom of society, my mother and I also cherish our dignity. We are already doing everything we can—and, in a predicament like this, we do not need the intervention or assistance of others."

I glimpsed Erin and her mother exchange a look. The latter, sitting at the other side of the table, had a complex emotion in her eyes. She let out a soft sigh but said nothing more.

"Erin…" I wanted to say something, but the words died on my lips. Just then, she suddenly raised her hand, shaking her head slightly, signalling for me to stop.

"Please understand, we are not seeking pity—our hardship is no reason to strip us of our dignity—this is our bottom line." She turned to face me, her eyes reflecting my blurred image—it was a look of pride, like an artist lost in a vision while creating a drama, yet it was also mixed with a sliver of fanatical despair and a kind of self-intoxicated ecstasy, as if anticipating some unknown thing or person, and the hesitant impulse to speak after experiencing some kind of redemption.

For a moment, I didn't know how to respond and could only nod silently, taking the money back. The three of us sat around the table, and the entire space fell into silence, punctuated only by the faint clinking of cutlery and an indescribable, heavy atmosphere that filled the air.

I ate very little; every bite felt like swallowing a large bone, and the air in the room seemed to grow heavy. Erin kept her head down, her gaze fixed on the rice in her bowl, her hand unconsciously gripping her chopsticks as if to find some support. Her mother occasionally poked at the dishes with her chopsticks but barely ate anything meaningful. An unconcealable exhaustion appeared on the mother's face, her eyes wandering, as if lost in some grave thoughts. Even when she had spoken of the factory accident just moments before, her expression had not been so sullen and sorrowful. I deliberately avoided making eye contact with them, and it was only then that I noticed an empty chair placed on the opposite side of the table.

I felt suffocated. I tried to find some lighthearted topic of conversation, but every time I was about to speak, the look on their faces made me swallow my words. Time seemed to stand still, with only the ticking of the wall clock mocking the silence of the moment.

The quiet was shattered by a series of knocks on the door—first two heavy thuds, followed by two soft taps. Erin's mother put down her chopsticks and got up to answer. Her steps toward the door were slightly hesitant, her pacing suggesting a premonition of the unpredictable situation she might be about to face. Her hand hesitated on the doorknob for a moment before she quickly opened the door. The instant it swung open, her body froze, her face showing an expression of pure, unadulterated disbelief.

Standing outside was Erin's father.

Then her expression returned to a calm blankness, and she sat back down at the table. Erin's father walked straight in, sat down at the table as well, filled a bowl of rice with an air of authority, and began helping himself to the dishes. Erin kept her head down, eating, as if pretending not to notice, showing no reaction at all. The entire house was filled with a profoundly bizarre silence; the air seemed to have become viscous, so oppressive it made one want to flee immediately.

"What do you want, coming back all of a sudden?" her mother suddenly demanded, her voice cold and filled with an undisguised disgust.

Erin's father pretended not to hear her. He chewed slowly and rhythmically. After swallowing a mouthful of rice, he still didn't turn to answer his wife. Instead, he silently lit a cigarette, then turned his head and asked, "Erin, how are your exams lately? Have you been studying hard?"

Erin kept her head down, not looking her father in the eye, and just mumbled vaguely, "No. I'm at home."

"Studying hard? How could she possibly be studying hard? And where would you hear about whether she's studying hard or not?" the mother shouted, her tone dripping with sarcasm and anger.

Erin's father looked up, exhaled a puff of smoke, and his voice was low and somewhat grating: "You think I don't care about Erin? That I don't care about her studies and her future? I'm driving myself to the ground, working like crazy, just so she can have a good future!"

"A good future?" As two more soft knocks came from the iron gate, Erin's mother suddenly raised her voice. "You've been gone for so long, and you come back now just so we can thank you for this so-called 'good future' you've left us? You think that's your responsibility? Acting like this, aren't you just running away?"

Her father's face darkened instantly. He put down his chopsticks, the cigarette between his fingers trembling slightly.

"What nonsense are you talking about! Where on earth are you? You tell me!" the mother yelled. "Do you think coming back this one time can make up for the pain you've caused us? Do you remember when Erin was just born? We spent almost all our money on this school-district apartment just so she could get into a good school. You beat your chest and said you had a way, then you borrowed a huge sum of money to buy that broken-down car, saying you could definitely make enough money driving it to guarantee Erin a carefree future! But what was the result? For the first few years, you barely broke even, but then you started coming home less and less. Who knows what you were doing all day, we never saw a shadow of you. I worked hard at the factory every day, from morning till night, and then came home to take care of Erin's every need. But you? Sometimes you'd disappear for days! Erin wouldn't see you even once a week! And you have the nerve to say you care about Erin? Let me ask you, what is this family to you? Do you really care about Erin's future? Look at what Erin has become now, isn't this all your doing? Isn't this all your fault!?"

Listening to this, Erin's father was exceptionally silent, his facial features contorted, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. A flash of guilt and helplessness crossed his eyes but was quickly masked by a strong, stubborn emotion, and that fleeting hint of what might have been remorse vanished. His voice, with a barely perceptible tremor, tried to defend himself, "What do you mean, it's my fault she's become like this? Erin's grades have dropped, and I don't even know how you've been managing her! Do you know how bad her grades are now? What's going to happen to her if this continues? Besides, it's not like I don't care about Erin, or that I've never been to the school! While you were at the factory, I was the one who took time off from my driving shifts to go to that damn parent-teacher conference! The teacher said Erin has serious attention problems and refuses to study properly. Isn't that because you didn't manage her well when you were at home and could have?"

As he said this, his gaze fell for a moment on the downcast Erin, revealing deep disappointment and dejection, before turning back to the mother. His voice rose, shouting with uncontrollable agitation and exhaustion: "You think I don't want to come home? You have no idea how hard I work! I leave the house at five in the morning, I even eat my meals hastily in the car, racing against time. Sometimes, to stay awake and hungry for late-night driving, I don't even dare to eat dinner! I only get five or six hours of sleep a day; the rest of the time, I'm out there driving, all to earn that little bit of money to barely support the family! Do you know how hard it is to get a single fare now? The commissions these platforms take are getting higher and higher; they're squeezing us like loan sharks. It's fucking shameless! For every single fare we work our asses off for, the pay gets smaller and smaller, more and more stingy! And recently—there are even driverless taxis stealing our fares! I really… I have to work until one or two in the morning just to make enough to subsidize our expenses, I have to keep going! So I have to be ready to live in my car at any time. The reason I don't come home is precisely for this family, for Erin! Erin doesn't see me for a week because I can only sleep in the car! Because if the platform sends me on a fare that goes off course, I end up too far from home. If I drive back empty at night, just to sleep for three or four hours and get up to drive again, it's not worth it at all! It's better to just sleep in the car, spend the night in the car! Why else do you think I moved all my toiletries into the car? …Or did you two never even notice? At least this way I can stay where the fares are plentiful and start working first thing in the morning. Do you think I don't want to come home!? All the effort and sacrifice I make for Erin, you can't see any of it? …Erin, tell her, isn't that right?"

"Effort and sacrifice? And what has your so-called effort and sacrifice brought us? A husband who's never home, a daughter who grew up in the phantom of a father's love she yearned for! Your phony efforts only tear a family to pieces, is that the result of your hard work? Do you really think that by always being away, you can make Erin trust your empty promises? Ah, you're not at home, you're not by her side, you just silently make money and then proclaim yourself a perfect father! Do you truly believe that such a cold existence is superior to a father with a deep emotional connection to his child? You make mistake after mistake, yet there are always people flattering you, your friends praising your competence, and society being endlessly tolerant of you. 'Oh, look at that silent, great father! His love is all expressed in his silence, he is as solid and great as a mountain!' To hell with you! Your narcissism is nauseating! You are so immersed in yourself, so self-inflated to the extreme, as if you are the centre of the universe. Your ego has become a prison for your soul, a poison flowing through your veins, corroding every inch of your skin, and you don't even have a shred of self-awareness! You're all a bunch of fucking narcissists, priding yourselves on your own vanity, you're beyond saving, it's absolutely disgusting! Ptooey! And what about me? You think I would fall into the same pit? —For me, that would be a sin! The moment I, as a mother, am slightly careless, I am met with merciless blame and scorn, watched with cold eyes and schadenfreude. They'll say: 'Look at this irresponsible mother, can't even do the basics right.' 'Does she even deserve to be a mother?' 'My God, how can she take care of a child like that!' …And you, weren't you the one most delighted to add fuel to the fire?"

Her voice grew louder and louder. She suddenly grabbed a bowl from the table and smashed it at her husband's feet, stomping her foot repeatedly, her body trembling with rage. Her throat began to spasm from her continuous shouting, and she coughed violently, as if trying to expel a throat that couldn't keep up with her fury. "Cough… cough! You are the last person in the world who has the right to accuse me! When I had my accident at the factory, you left! …You coward. You petty man! Get out! You still want to come home? Oh! You're so busy, driving fares all day, and you managed to run off with a woman? Don't think I don't know. At the time, I wished you and your woman would just die in that stinking car of yours! You sanctimonious bastard, how can you say these things with such a straight face? Do you have any idea that after you left, Erin stayed by my side in the hospital, asking me every day, where did Dad go? She cried, looking for you, do you know how scared she was? Do you know she thought it was all her fault? You made her feel like she was the one who destroyed this family!"

"What did you say? You damned woman! What have you been telling Erin while I was away? If Erin thinks that, isn't it because of what you told her? Besides, Erin would never think that, she knows my commitment to this family, right!? Damn you, no wonder Erin's become like this, it's all your fucking teaching! You should just die! Who knows what kind of ideas you're filling her head with, why has she become like this now? Forget it! Just forget it, let it be. Erin, right? Is this how you're going to be for the rest of your life? Then so be it!" Erin's father's face was flushed, veins bulging on his forehead. He slammed his fist into the already flimsy wall, creating a dent and scaring both mother and daughter badly.

"To be honest, you should stay!" the mother suddenly said with an unprecedented tone of resolve, a staggering request.

"What did you say?"

"I'm begging you, don't leave us."

"You…"

"Oh… you really don't understand why? —It's because you should die immediately, die right here!" Erin's mother viciously grabbed her husband's collar, screaming with a kind of sardonic hatred, "I sincerely, truly hope that you become a cold corpse right now, in this room, right in front of me. Whether you choose to stay at home or leave is no longer your decision to make, do you understand? This is my mercy to you, your good fortune, you know? For you, for people like you, the only thing you can do is find a suitable spot here, lie down, and be buried!"

I turned to look at Erin beside me. She was looking down silently, her gaze fixed and silent on the bowl of rice and fish before her, a meal she knew so well. Her face was calm and indifferent, as if she had long become accustomed to such arguments. I saw tears slide silently down her cheeks, dripping onto the rice and fish in her bowl, instantly disappearing into the bottom. Then, Erin silently and slowly squeezed out from the narrow gap between the table and her chair, afraid of making a sound by bumping the chair and being noticed, and walked towards her bedroom.

Erin's mother caught sight of her departing daughter and hastily reached out to grab her wrist. "Erin…"

She mercilessly shook off her mother's hand, shouting, "Don't touch me!" and ran back to her room without a second glance.

I followed her into her room. She strode quickly to the low wooden bed in the corner and threw herself onto it without reservation. She lay face down, clutching a pillow, burying her face deep inside it. Her body trembled convulsively, her chest heaving violently with rapid breaths. The grief, anger, and despair that had been suppressed at the dinner table now erupted from deep within her, tearing her apart. At times she let out a breath like a severe asthmatic, at others a long, drawn-out vocalisation, and then she would mumble at an extremely high frequency like a neurotic. I sat quietly on the edge of the bed, close to Erin who had her head buried in the pillow, and finally made out her intermittent whispers: "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

"It's all because of me… Don't fight, stop fighting. Don't leave, don't go. Don't break things… Why is it like this? Why is everything so terrible? It's all my fault…"

"None of this is your fault… Erin."

I wasn't sure if Erin heard me; she remained with her face buried in the pillow. After a moment, just as I felt she was about to come up for air, she suddenly shot up from the bed, almost hitting the ceiling, took a huge gasp of air, and then slumped back down as if deflated. I saw that she had bitten her lower lip until it bled. She clutched at her dishevelled hair with her fingers, held her breath, gritted her teeth, and stared at me with a desperate, ashamed, dark expression, without saying a word.

"If I… if I have done nothing wrong, why do I still feel such immense pain, such intense hatred?"

The sound of something smashing came from outside the door. Erin flinched reflexively and, in a voice almost only she could hear, spat out a long stream of words with an uncontrollable sorrow, "...No, I'm not good enough, I'm never good enough! I'm always making mistakes! No matter how hard I try, how desperately I work, their quarrels never stop, their disappointed gazes are always intertwined. Aren't they? Every time the fighting starts in this house, it's always because of me. Every one of their arguments begins with them mentioning my name, you heard it too. I am the fuse for their mutual accusations. If I didn't have so many flaws, if I could be more perfect, maybe Dad wouldn't have left, and Mum's life wouldn't be so hard, right? Every time I see Mum's exhausted face, I'm convinced it's my fault. It's me, I'm the one who placed such a heavy burden on her shoulders… And I just got angry with her, I really can't control myself… I feel so powerless, I don't know what else I can do. Every effort seems to be the wrong one! …But I'm so tired, so incredibly tired. I try to make everything better, but it always seems to fall short. Am I just a burden, a burden that disappoints them both? It seems I am the crack in their relationship, the crack that shouldn't exist. Don't you agree? …Why am I still here? The scenery before me has long vanished, the future seems to be shrouded in a thick fog, I can't see any path forward—perhaps this is the only future I can glimpse. I feel as if I'm trapped in a ruin; for long ages, this place was a paradise of laughter and joy. I see snowflakes falling, landing on the dilapidated remnants of walls, the cold is bone-chilling… I often have the same dream, a dream of a little girl, desperately picking up broken bricks and tiles in that ruin, trying to build a fortress of her own, but the bricks become even more fragile in her hands, eventually crumbling into fine powder, slipping silently through her fingers. Then she turns her head and whispers to me in a mocking tone: 'No matter how hard you try, they will all turn into dust you cannot grasp.' Can this really not be changed? Am I, in this ruin, destined from birth and for the rest of my life to weep in abandonment after being completely used up—like yoghurt in the fridge, we are all to be licked completely clean, to be utterly devoured in this absurd and cruel stage play—I even envy it for at least enjoying the cool air of the fridge before its death, while I can only protest and hate this universe with silent screams in this mouldy concrete cage—and the universe repays me with derisive silence. But the only question worth asking is, why me? Why me, of all people?"

"Erin, you are not the reason they hate each other; you should be the reason for their happiness. But this despair isn't their fault either… We are all just mud under the wheels, all of us are wounded in the ruins. All we can do is try to dilute each other's malice, try not to let the pain and misunderstanding show, to avoid hurting each other," I said to Erin. "Your parents haven't found a proper way to face the misfortunes in their own lives. Projecting their powerlessness and frustration onto each other wasn't enough, so they had to pile it onto you. But it's not your fault. You are innocent. Their arguments shouldn't make you feel like the culprit. You shouldn't have to bear all of this, Erin."

"Do you think I don't want to get rid of this burden? I hate myself, can you understand that? How can you not see that I am just a giant container filled with negative emotions? No… this malice was formed detached from any specific factors, it's a kind of evil and hatred that transcends my experiences, like the infinite reflections between two parallel mirrors—but it's not like I haven't yearned to discard this malice, this hatred, this self-loathing, and this prejudice! Yet whenever I sense them stirring deep inside me, they become even more intense, like a disgusting and evil clown. I only need to glance at it, and it stares back at me with ten times the intensity—as if it wants to crush me completely with its gaze! It constantly tells me, 'Go down, go down'… I also long to have beautiful qualities, so that when they see me, they won't feel disappointed, but proud of me. I long to pursue the things I love without reservation, to think, to create, to love life. Yet whenever I try to put it into practice, those vile traits deep inside me jump out to torment me, making me irresistibly imagine that there are happy people in this world who can do what they love without enduring hardship, but that person is not me! Can you tell me if this is fair? The hatred and jealousy born from my inner wounds are like vipers coiled tightly around me, not only strangling me but also biting me viciously, leaving a new wound that is forever painful and itchy! Even when they temporarily leave me, I will still forever feel the tearing of the wound uncontrollably. I can't get over it, I can only try to distract myself, but that's only a brief relief before they drag me back into the abyss of self-hatred like a black hole. And so, a vicious cycle is created, one that doesn't stop even when I'm covered in wounds. …Ah, they're coming again, these wounds are starting to fester and ooze pus, and I can only lie in bed and let them ravage me, plunging me into complete helplessness, unable to do anything else… let alone… being in this incomplete state for so long, what right do I have to pursue happiness?"

"I think you just have too much time on your hands, Erin. You do too little and think too much, you overthink, and that's why you have so many complaints. People are adept at counting their own sufferings while turning a deaf ear to the happiness they possess. We love to take out the hardships we've been through and chew on them repeatedly, like licking an inflamed wisdom tooth, knowing it will hurt like hell—yet we uncontrollably, as if possessed, crave that pain! Or take an embarrassing, awkward memory; people just love to bring it out and savour it again and again, adding more fuel to the fire each time, as if the more mortifying, the better, relishing it with gusto. And then, just remembering isn't enough; adding to the things they can't remember, people often have to repeat their past mistakes in reality! This isn't a forced misfortune but one that is actively pursued, like Kuafu chasing the sun, except we are Kuafu, and the sun rises from a sea of suffering—because it is only in the suffering of this repetition that people can survive and feel comfortable, like it's a safe harbour! You say that suffering is incomparably real compared to happiness, and that is true, Erin. But happiness is born from suffering before it can descend upon people. The human yearning for pain, under some inexplicable driving force, desperately rushes towards suffering and destruction. This is a nature that cannot be changed even when one is in a state of great happiness, just like how people want to eat when they are hungry or want to procreate. Erin, I understand what you just said, but don't you know that this feeling of deep pain and its constant rumination can make you obsessed, addicted?—Even to the point of being trapped and unable to break free? This state allows you to find a seemingly noble sense of superiority in your pain, creating your unique sense of self-satisfaction from it? Do you think that this rumination on pain gives you the right to pursue justice and equality, to judge the injustices and sins under the sun? Let me tell you, it is precisely this rumination on pain that makes you feel you are more profound and distant from the worldly clamour, allowing you to unreservedly criticize your own parents and the actions of everyone around you, making their actions seem reasonable and just in your eyes! But Erin, this sense of superiority is actually deeply buried in the belief of your own inferiority, hidden in your resistance to and rejection of the beautiful things in life. Your penchant for self-pity prevents you from escaping this predicament, just like watching one tragic movie after another. You are heartbroken by the tragic plots in the films, just as you are now gazing at your own reflection and pitying your circumstances. Once you fall into your own weakness, you are no longer yourself, but merely a vessel carrying your own pity. Erin, I must tell you, it is precisely because you focus too much on the emotion of pain that you are unable to take positive and effective action to change your situation. Instead, you become more and more sensitive, overly dependent on those emotions of sadness, disappointment, and hatred, and then you seek so-called comfort and shelter in this victim mentality!"

Erin remained silent, her eyes glancing elsewhere. Her mother stared hard into her daughter's eyes, the intensity in her gaze gradually fading, turning into a hazy, warm light.

"Erin… you have to know, do you really think a mother would want her child to experience pain? I dare say there isn't a single mother in the world who would wish suffering upon her child. Every mother loves her child in her own way, and I am the same, Erin. The forms and methods of love may differ… but you must understand that I love you, I truly want you to be well. I don't want you to hold any hatred for me… I don't want you to experience more pain for no reason, to suffer more, but rather I hope my dear daughter can, through suffering, gain the courage and perseverance to fight against unforeseeable hardships in the future."

The mother paused for a moment, then sat down on Erin's bed, her face showing a timid, guilty, yet stubborn expression. She looked up at Erin, who was sitting on the chair and was a head taller than her. As if suddenly stung by something, the stubbornness in her eyes instantly vanished. The next second, her eyes filled with hot tears that flowed freely, streaming down her cheeks, converging at her chin, and dripping onto the bed. The tears blurred her face and her expression.

"…You could say that… when you were still in my belly, or even earlier, I imagined I would have a daughter named Erin, and every day I dreamed of her future happiness. …You have more right than anyone to have happiness—that is also why I brought you into this world. I know our family is not good, your father and I have also suffered unspeakable, inconsolable pain—like a permanent shadow over our lives. In the dead of night, the sounds of struggle and crying were enough to tear one's heart out, you just didn't know. This kind of pain is a heavy burden that people like us must bear; it is part of our fate… part of life. We are powerless to change a fate already cast; we can only struggle continuously in a sea of bitterness. But more often, we just sink deeper and deeper into the abyss of suffering—but this is precisely the true picture of people like us, this is the life of ordinary people. We are helpless, we can only accept this cruel reality. Every day, we are trying our best to survive. You know, this is our first time being parents… but we only hoped to provide a slightly different future for you, hoping you could escape this inherited suffering and find your own happiness. I hope you can understand, Erin, all the suffering is meant to make you stronger, not to make you submit."

"Then do you know what my greatest happiness is? Mum, what kind of happiness do I deserve? —Never to have been born, never to have existed. That is my greatest happiness, that is—bliss! I don't hate you and Dad at all, really, although I know you are both very disappointed in me… You are just vessels for the continuation of the previous generation's suffering. Grandma and Grandpa, both maternal and paternal, vomited the inherited pain, stress, anxiety, and dreams into your bodies as a continuous stream of bitter water and poison, and now it flows in my blood. I… I am just a vessel named Erin, a vessel carrying a collective belief. And this trauma of generations connects and identifies with my subconscious, then manifests eruptively through me. I can't control it! It's a curse and poison that cannot be filtered and purified by generations of people coming one after another. Accompanied by the convulsions of the era and the pains of society, this experienced but unhealed trauma accumulates layer by layer and reappears ever-fresh in me! These toxins have not left me without pain for a single day since I can remember, tearing me into pieces. Perhaps… you once had the idea to change, just like I do now, but there are always countless people in the family who accuse you, hold you back, and forbid change. And I am just desperately longing to mend these cracks that are now pouring onto me, to fill these voids. But from the moment I was born, from my separation from you in your arms and my contact with the world and its myriad symbols, all possibility of healing seemed to have vanished. But a baby must always be separated from its mother. So in this world, if anything can bring me true peace, the only answer is 'to have never existed'! …You say you love me, but it feels like you're squeezing my neck so hard I can't breathe at all. Is that what you call love? Mum, when we talk about love, that love can only be called love the moment it is felt by the one who is loved. Love only blossoms on the beloved, and only then does the light of that love shine on the lover, dancing between them. Otherwise, it's just self-deception—love is never a product of self-admiration, it can never be just a projection and an expectation, otherwise you are only satisfying your own definition and expectation of love! Love should be two-way, a mutual understanding and respect—finding balance in care and concern, not one-sided demands and control. Mum, you said my name was chosen long before I was born, and you hoped for the happiness of the girl with this name. But did you start loving me from that moment?"

Erin paused for a moment, slowly closing her eyes. The teardrops gathered at the corners of her eyes were particularly noticeable on her pale face, hanging on her eyelashes, not falling. Her mother's lips parted slightly, but suddenly Erin's words, like a sudden winter gale, were rapid and loud, cutting her mother off.

"...No, that was just a symbolic existence, like my presentation in your eyes at this moment, or the depiction of my future in your expectations—merely a meaningful symbol! This symbol was carefully nurtured by you and Dad during my fetal stage—or even earlier—but that was not the real me. And I believe the image of my happiness you longed for was, in the end, not my true nature! Mum, am I just a projection in your dream? A character you meticulously crafted to fill the void in your inner life, to prove you have the capacity to give love? But do you really have the ability to give love? Did your so-called proof really achieve the expected results? Do you… truly possess love? You created a symbol, a symbol you thought you could understand and control, but you never truly understood me deeply, never truly and deeply loved the real me—the me who, outside of your expectations, held my own dreams and pains. This name, Erin, this identity as the continuation of your bloodline, they have already become an invisible cage, a pair of shackles, a framework of expectation! And the real me has had to struggle desperately within it, trying to break free, to become a true self, and not just… a symbol! A pre-set character! …Mum, I am a complete living being, an individual who enjoys all the dignity of being human, a soul that longs for your care and to be deeply loved by you. Look! Look at my heart! I long to be loved, to be understood—in my truest form! Neither the empty shadow you project, nor the idealized image in your heart!"

Erin's words grew more impassioned, her body trembling involuntarily, her face flushed red, but even in such agitation, not a single tear fell from her eyes. Her gaze was resolute and fiery, locked on her mother's eyes. Her fists were clenched so tightly that her knuckles turned white, every sinew trembling slightly. She tried to control her breathing, waiting with a slight anxiety and full of longing for her mother's reaction, but then she immediately looked away, as if not wanting to see any reaction her mother might make.

Erin's mother stood frozen on the spot, seemingly stunned by her daughter's sudden torrent of emotion. Her hands trembled slightly, her eyes revealing a complex mix of sadness, confusion, and helplessness. Her mother's lips quivered, trying to speak, but ultimately no words came out. She took a deep breath, as if trying hard to digest Erin's every word, her eyes gradually welling up with tears.

A repressive silence filled the air, with only Erin's rapid breathing echoing in the room. The mother finally took a slow step forward, her expression looking exceptionally weary. She gently stroked Erin's hair, her voice low and hoarse: "Erin, I… I didn't know you were feeling so much pain, I…"

Her mother's voice choked. She seemed to be searching for the right words to respond to her daughter's emotional catharsis but found that any language seemed pale and powerless. "I just wanted to give you the best… I thought…" Her mother looked deeply at Erin, whose gaze remained firm but also showed a hint of pleading and vulnerability. The mother continued in a near-whisper, "I want to know the real… you, and then love you… What is the real you like, Erin? …Can you give Mum another chance this time?" Erin's mother, holding back tears, caressed her hands.

Heavy, extremely regular knocks came from the door outside. Erin was silent for a long time, the longest yet. "I… cannot answer you, Mum. I actually don't know. Perhaps in the past, I had the chance to know the truth, but now, I may never know. I… When the burdens of the family, the identity of the nation, the labels of society, the collective unconscious of humanity—when all these are stripped from me, what will be left of me? Who am I, really? If I abandon being a vessel for various collective beliefs, will all my emotions, my will, still truly exist? Maybe I will discard them, and will you love me then? Don't be ridiculous! Is there another chance? The chance was destroyed by your own hands the moment you decided to let me be born. Even you yourself were pushed into the grave at that moment, burying your own love along with it! As for the real me—that is a phantom that never existed. When can the real me finally break out of the cocoon? Not at the moment of your labour, when I cried out as a baby, but at the instant when a new love sprouts in both our hearts! A new—love!" Erin gently stroked her mother's hands, then arranged them into the shape of someone cradling a baby. She then rested her own head gently upon them and laughed neurotically, laughing so hard that tears came, making her whole body tremble convulsively. Her laughter formed a rhythm with the knocking on the living room door.

The mother was not startled by the sudden commotion. Instead, she gently rubbed Erin's head, her head bowed, looking at the hysterically laughing Erin with an extremely gentle gaze. Her voice was like a murmur lulling a child to sleep, full of endless love and expectation, "There will be a chance, there will definitely be a chance, one more time. If I could live this life again… there will be a chance, we can do it again… there will be…"

Erin sat up, laughing, and suddenly stopped her exaggerated and theatrical performance. She began to speak slowly:

"It would be the same no matter how many times we do it over. Do you know why? And you?" Her gaze locked onto me without hesitation, then quickly jumped away, no longer focused on either of us. "People… should avoid causing pain to the innocent as much as possible, far more so than pursuing happiness. In other words, our avoidance of suffering is always more important and urgent than our pursuit of pleasure. From the perspective of procreation, Mum, from the moment you gave me life, I was already placed amidst endless possibilities, unable to predict whether my fate would be pain or happiness. But we must not let this ignorance become an excuse for creating life—should we really bring an unknowing life into this world to bear uncertain pains and accidents? Using the creation of new life as a pretext to experience happiness, to fill an inner void, to kill time, to satisfy vanity, to have company in old age, and to increase the labour force—this is the truest picture of people like you! Let me ask you, we feel sympathy for a child born in a slum, but do we feel regret for the unborn child of a noble family? Taking it a step further, even in an extremely happy and perfect family, the eternal human problem the child will face—death—is unavoidable. At least so far, we haven't found a way to escape it—people do not yet have the ability to build a utopia where everyone can enjoy eternal happiness—forgive my pessimism, perhaps people will never reach that ideal shore! Allow me—

Never to have been born is best.
And if we must see the light,
the next best thing Is to return whence we came with all speed.
When youth passes and its follies spread,
What man is not limping in the devil's shadow,
Who can escape it?

"Let me tell you, on this journey, I would rather choose to kill the sun! Look at all the oppression under the sun! Look at the tears of the suffering, with no one to comfort them! I will pay my most sincere respects to the deceased, even more than to the living in this life; and I believe that the one who was never born—who never witnessed the evils under the scorching sun nor endured the ocean of suffering—is more powerful than both! …Mum, allow me to ask you a question. If a choice had to be made, would you choose for there to be one more happy person in this world, or one less suffering person? No, I don't expect to hear your answer, because I know very well what answer you, as a mother, would give. However, I hope… that you will answer it personally." Erin, without any warning, suddenly turned to me, her gaze burning into me.

Erin's eyes were bright and full of pressing expectation. She waited for my answer.

I was silent for a moment, took a deep breath, and then spoke slowly:

"Erin, please forgive me, but this time I cannot be certain what my answer is. If I were to think about it just for a moment, I would unhesitatingly choose the latter, because as a human being, the humanity and moral principles we possess should, at the very least, be based on minimizing the pain we cause to others. That is a matter of course. Indeed, we have an obligation to avoid actions or activities that cause others to feel pain and suffer because of us, but we have no obligation to engage in activities that make others happy; we cannot deprive a non-existent person of happiness, but we can concretely avoid the suffering a non-existent person would endure." I nodded at Erin in agreement, but then gently shook my head.

"…However, after pondering this puzzle for a moment, I think I would probably just pace around the room endlessly, delving into the deepest part of my soul to scrutinize the bleakness that comes after such thought, struggling to make a choice—to choose answer A or answer B, wringing my hands, my palms sweaty, and finally confessing to you with helpless shame: 'I don't know.' And yet, this is truly the only thing I can say. Because the very nature of this question, in fact, already makes its own existence impossible. And the process of us asking the question and reflecting on it, or rather, touching upon the realm of tedious deep thought, is actually a very absurd act. So, should we or should we not grant a new life its arrival into this world? A world full of pain, injustice, and uncertainty? This is undoubtedly both an ancient and a complex question. If we must choose between 'adding one happy person' and 'reducing one suffering person,' that in itself is an oversimplification. In fact, the reality is far more intricate. First, let's temporarily set aside the various possibilities this question might generate when faced with other situations, and focus solely on the perspective of human procreation and the birth of a newborn. For a human being, their mission to reproduce is not solely dependent on their personal perception of happiness or pain; in other words, even if the suffering people endure in life is immense, and the world is like a living hell, as a species, humans will still choose to bear the next generation, perhaps even having more children, to maintain a broader continuation of their lineage in this infernal world. As beings whose foundation is abstract thought, humans fundamentally need some ultimate and basic values to validate all other meanings, thereby realizing the value of life and gaining a sense of achievement and control, satisfying their personal sense of existence. As the only species on Earth capable of rationally recognizing the possibility of our own self-destruction and being aware of it, the vast majority of individuals possess unique cognitive abilities that transcend the needs of survival, including symbolic thought, extensive self-awareness, and a fleeting perception of our own finite existence. We are deeply aware of the inevitability of death, and the desire to coexist with it ignites a deep-seated fear within us. Countering this fear has become one of the main drivers of our actions. To escape this fear, we build defense systems around ourselves at all costs, creating strong ideological barriers to ensure our symbolic or literal immortality, thereby making us feel that we are valuable members of a meaningful universe, wholeheartedly protecting ourselves from direct external threats. One of an all-encompassing, sacred, and meaningful belief is: life is a precious thing that needs to be possessed and is desirable to be given to others. It is precisely because of this sacredness that we are unable to think clearly about the relationship between suicide and birth. When we try to debate and overcome views on happiness and suffering through rational thought, this sacredness always causes the debate and struggle to fall into an endless loop. The final result can only be a change of mood, and a continuation of the activities that have allowed humanity to persist to this day…"

"And yet this thing that is considered sacred is not in fact a manifestation of morality; it cannot even be called mo—ral—i—ty—" Erin cut me off eagerly, emphasizing her point word by word. "The sanctity of life does not originate from any innate human trait. Even if we retreat ten thousand steps and admit it might be some kind of ideological imprint that life uses to sustain itself, it has not held a supreme position from the very origins of morality. In fact, this sanctity of life has allowed human civilization, through its repeated self-iterations, to constantly elevate its own status, pushing aside all true love and great, courageous thought. And all the brave souls and thinkers who questioned and opposed it have been washed away in this sacred flood. This cannot truly solidify its non-existent sanctity—because it is itself immoral. The morality spoken of here is not the morality of a human social system built on the foundation of reproduction, but the moral code of one who truly loves humanity itself! Only this level of morality makes humanity great, makes fragile human nature and the unyielding soul shine brightly! And yet, ever since humans gained the ability to think, heroes who dared to question have continuously emerged. When this unquestionable premise—that we must reproduce and continue a life to which we can only submit—became increasingly clear, all the most important questions instantly came to the forefront—because we no longer view life as a given fact! However, as a collective, we ultimately have to start operating. Look at all those brilliant and unyielding souls, willing to exhaust their entire lives to maintain that ever-changing, massive system—the social machine known as 'human civilization,' spending their entire lives conducting cold, rigid deductive reasoning within a pre-determined ethical framework! To be reduced to a machine or a screw is one thing; but the hardship and evil under the scorching sun, and even the heart-wrenching pain of thinking about this very problem, this very act of struggling, like mine… no one can escape it. Please, reflect on this question again. This time, I do not expect your answer…"

"Every cradle is a grave—what you have posed to me is, without a doubt, a heart-wrenching, guilt-ridden enigma…" I murmured, falling silent for a moment to choose my words. "Perhaps we, with our finite ends, can never see through this great fog, can never see the sun behind the thick clouds. But please, allow me to return to the puzzle itself, Erin. We must be clear: in your question 'to reduce one suffering person,' or rather, when you suffer from engaging in this struggle-filled contemplation, where does this imagined suffering truly come from? Is it from others, society, exploitation? Or is it from the eternal misunderstandings between people, endless desires, or the limitations of free will and self-awareness? Erin, please ask yourself honestly, does your pain stem from thinking, or from enduring? Or both? I do not believe that creatures incapable of thought do not suffer. Even livestock awaiting slaughter allow us to feel their fear and their pain during the process. The effect of the anaesthetics given to these poor creatures is no different from the religions that served as a false happiness and ruled humanity for thousands of years—that was the sigh of the oppressed—or the current state of addiction to various forms of entertainment! However, setting aside such spiritual drugs—which I believe you would disdain to seek help from—what is more critical is that if we feel suffocated by this unsolvable, painful contemplation, if we suffer a Socratic torment from the meaninglessness of the so-called 'truth of the world,' it is precisely because we have constructed a cognitive closed loop with human morality and happiness, and we expect to break this shackle with a rational and objective model—yet it is nowhere to be found—thus we once again become prisoners of morality and happiness. Forgive me, Erin, this may sound arrogant, but it is the only truth. We indeed cannot predict the future, cannot guarantee that every moment in life will be happy or painful, cannot escape the pursuit of suffering, or, as your mother said, suffering is an innate part of being human, like human desire, human reason. This is the primordial sin of being human! I use 'primordial sin' not because we have truly strayed from a Lord worthy of faith or a more metaphysical being, but because people driven by the 'desire to know' will, upon touching the boundaries of absurdity and rationality set by or inherent to this universe, have this primordial, sin-like suffering befall them. This is the unpardonable punishment—to suffer from the inability to understand and explain the world—the result of which is the maximization of suffering, suicide, thereby completing one's own objectification."

"Wait, allow me to point out that the cause of human suffering is not limited to ways of thinking or societal shackles," Erin interrupted me again. "The true source of suffering is like a venomous snake hidden in the dark depths, sometimes stemming from fated illness and hardship, sometimes from the unpredictable whims of fate, and sometimes constrained by the ever-changing environment. Admittedly, when I contemplate the puzzle I posed to you, I often tend to draw conclusions from a grander perspective. However, when we are in this world, death is undoubtedly the most lamentable choice—especially self-inflicted. As for the 'desire to know' you mentioned, your view of it as a primordial sin is overly pessimistic. In my opinion, it is quite the opposite. This desire… is precisely the last lifeline supporting a soul like mine, struggling in predicament, to this day. May I ask, without this desire, how could humanity have progressed from barbarism to civilization, from ignorance to wisdom? To regard the pursuit of knowledge as a primordial sin is tantamount to shackling our steps forward, causing us to stagnate. You say that thinking and seeking truth will inevitably bring more pain, as if Socrates' fate is the final destination for all philosophers. However, thinking is not only a source of pain but also the key that opens the door to liberation. Without the light of reason to illuminate the way, humanity would have long been mired in the dark abyss of ignorance. It is this light that guides us towards freedom and progress. Although free will does bring the heavy burden of choice, it also endows us with the powerful strength to resist suffering. Let me ask you, if the 'desire to know' is regarded as a primordial sin, is that not stifling the flame of human hope in its cradle? Is that not a cowardly act of escape?"

"Suffering in the human journey is like a colourful tapestry, inescapable. However, it must be clarified that dissecting and reflecting on suffering may, on the contrary, cause it to evolve and worsen, forming a vicious closed loop. This is your current situation, no offence intended. From this, it is clear that the most profound and expansive factor lies herein, because people cannot tolerate the unbridled encroachment of things they do not know, and thus primordial sin came into being and became deeply rooted; furthermore, precisely because this is an unavoidable primordial sin of humanity, we are always unable to resist challenging it, violating it. This species has always been skilled at crime, whether it be trivial misdemeanours or earth-shattering atrocities! From stealing the forbidden fruit to stealing the heavenly fire, from patricide and incest to the slaughter of the masses, what does this little curiosity count for now?—This is the only species in the world that, at all costs, transgresses everything, abandons paradise! They never deign to escape! Do you think humanity really cares if they can continue in this absurd world? And also, that flame of human nature you so cherish, when human civilization comes to an end, who will be fortunate enough to appreciate it?"

"How can you say that the brilliance of human nature must have the admiration and attention of others to be revealed? Isn't that precisely a reflection of humanity's own pride and arrogance? It is merely because humans exist that they have the ability to think, giving birth to the light of reason! However, this thinking, though full of struggle, also pushes this ravaged civilization forward. The value of human nature lies not in being appreciated by others, but is hidden deep within humanity's own thought and struggle. Why do we always expect this flame to shine brightly only under the gaze of some audience?"

"So in your view, even in an environment without any external recognition, human thought and struggle still have their unique value? In an unknown corner, those lonely thoughts and efforts—no offence, they are your lifeline, but when you touch that boundary, they bring even deeper pain—this is what you have truly felt, please allow me to mention it again. If all these efforts ultimately cannot be passed down and recorded, if human wisdom and achievements scatter like dust in the wind, then what meaning does such an effort have? Even if their meaning is to feel one's own powerlessness and pain, is it really worth it? I must point out that there is a huge chasm between the self-righteous reason we humans use to think and the essence of this world. In short, Erin, our reflection has boundaries. This enigma touches precisely on that line between the rational and the absurd. If a rationalist were to answer it, it would likely plunge them into the abyss of nihilism, which is precisely the predicament you currently face. Even if I could truly provide a solution, or suppose there were an omniscient, omnipotent sage who could solve this problem, or even propose a more comprehensive and perfect form of the question and a strategy for its solution, that would still only be an insight within a defined scope. The explanation of the omniscient one is nothing more than interpreting observed phenomena based on summarized patterns of observation. The earth we touch, the ground we walk on, is but a reflection of the sky's image and form. We cannot use these reflections to reflect the truth behind the truth. Erin, returning to the puzzle you first proposed, your reflection cannot have a flawless 'true' answer, and I cannot simply answer you with 'I choose happiness,' 'I choose pain,' or this or that. True human nature can never be constituted by a simple binary opposition of right and wrong, black and white, happiness and pain. All deep reflections on them will ultimately dissolve into themselves, always revealing the reflection's own fundamental dependence on the un-reflected thing. Thought sets our distance from the world, replacing the sensual encounter of our flesh with reality—that Dionysian, primitive, and profound embrace—with the tension of reason. …And yet, Erin, in the end, every one of us is a living being. And we, of flesh and blood, in the face of this intricate reality, are like being immersed in a sea of stars, where everything we touch carries infinite meaning and possibility. Our existence—those that have existed, those that still exist, and those that will exist—is not just a biological continuation, but a narrative that escapes narrative—an exploration of the ever-changing relationship between us and the universe. And this cosmic narrative makes us realize that whether it's tragedy or comedy, they are just two of the many faces of existence, fundamentally no different from each other. In this sense, our lives are an exploration of the fundamental elements that make us human: love, pain, loss, joy, growth, and decay. All these elements intertwine in the long river of time to create the rich and colourful tapestry of human experience—all of this comes down to human existence itself—which endows humanity with its great meaning."

I looked directly into Erin's eyes, and in her pupils, my own blurry figure gradually appeared. The noise from the living room door grew louder and louder, as if some colossal beast were violently ramming the iron gate, sending huge vibrations through the house. Erin looked at me with an expression of compromise, of comfort, and yet full of despair—perhaps she was looking at the wall behind me. Then she suddenly began to look around—her mother, who had been blocking the door, was now gone.

Erin immediately rushed out of the room. The sound of the iron door being rammed was about to shatter my eardrums. On her way to answer the door, she found that this small basement and the short few steps had become like a labyrinth. She suddenly stopped and stood before the half-open door of the bathroom next to her room. She took a deep breath and carefully pushed the bathroom door open. In that cramped space, a small wooden stool lay tilted on the floor; and from the water pipe on the ceiling, a thin rope hung quietly, with the person Erin loved most—her mother—tied to its end. Her mother's face was as peaceful as a sleeping baby's, and her clothes seemed to have been freshly changed, clean and pristine. With a final, heavy crash from the iron gate, the sound abruptly stopped. She turned her head to look in the mirror; the reflection showed only her, alone. Then, she rushed towards the main door, and just as she reached it, she heard heart-wrenching crying from outside. The moment she opened the door, what met her eyes was a little girl, her face streaked with tears and snot. Her face was pale, her lips and fingernails almost cyanotic. She was sobbing so hard that her breathing became difficult. Suddenly, she pitched forward into Erin's arms, as if falling asleep.

"What's wrong with you? What happened this time? Where's your mother?"

The little girl made no response. Erin gently shook her a few times and asked again in a soft voice. The little girl, as if suddenly waking from a deep sleep, reacted slowly, her pupils shrinking to the size of a needlepoint, her breathing almost stopped. She just stared intently at Erin.

"Boohoo… my mum… my mum she… is hanging in the toilet… with… a rope…"

"And your father?"

"My father… he left us a few years ago…"

"Don't worry, I will take good care of you. I will do my best to take care of you."

"Will you take care of me like that person took care of you?"

"Who… who are you talking about?"

"Don't you know yourself? Have you forgotten? Today is your birthday. Wasn't this the wish you made?"

"Mother, Father, Messiah… even you and I, are in fact no different."

"What on earth are you talking about—please don't… don't you leave me too—"

"You try to pick up the scattered bricks and rubble, hoping to rebuild that paradise. But you should have known long ago that it was a hopeless situation, and you knew this place was destined to collapse. You are utterly weary of the end of this long road—just as you are weary of its beginning. Only by lying in the gentle bed of death can you vaguely feel as if you have returned to that once-familiar place—only then do you feel alive."

"Please don't say any more… I beg you, it's shaking—it's about to fall!"

"It has already fallen, Erin, many times."