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墨書 Inktalez
When I woke up again, I found myself in a hospital room. The ceiling was stark white, the soundproof door heavy, and the windows were barred shut. I heard a nurse whispering, "The gentleman instructed that she is not to leave."
I looked down at my wrist, wrapped in thick bandages. I knew this wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last. The doctor had diagnosed me with Borderline Personality Disorder and mentioned my tendencies for self-harm.
But what did they know? When I cut my wrist, my hand trembled—not from pain, but from fear that I wouldn’t cut deep enough, that my performance wouldn’t be convincing enough. I was afraid he would see it as merely a cry for attention. A madman wouldn’t measure angles with precision.
I remembered him saying, "My mother wore a white skirt when she cut her wrists before she died. That day, my father didn’t shed a single tear; he only asked, ‘Why did she have to threaten me?’"
When he said this, his face was devoid of emotion, as if recounting someone else's story. He was a child raised by power. His trajectory of growth was about suppressing feelings and gaining control; the only way he could express emotions was through the rationality of dominance.
He allowed no surprises, no questions, no chaos. He claimed that if his mother hadn’t insisted on going to work, his parents wouldn’t have reached that point. That fragile mother ultimately vanished within the confines of twisted love and violence.
So he bound himself and wielded the whip against me, as if trying to reverse the scenes he had witnessed in his childhood. And I was the greatest chaos in his eyes.
My mother was a woman who always said, "It’s okay."
"Dad got angry? It’s okay."
"I’m sick? It’s fine."
"The neighbor scolded you? It’s fine."
Her "it's fine" was a form of self-protection, and it taught me to use it as an excuse to escape.
My mother never blamed me; she just kept saying, "Endure it. Don’t make a fuss; we can’t argue with others."
I learned to be perceptive: "If you don’t speak, you won’t be disliked," and "If you’re sensible, you’ll be kept around."
I became a human projection, a compliant being without needs or self.
During this time, I repeatedly reflected on how we ended up like this.
When I was young, I was a good child.
Obedient, sensible, never crying or making a scene.
Because only then would my parents not direct their anger at me.
He said he learned to lie as a child because the truth was useless.
If you say "I’m scared," they call you weak; if you say "I’m sad," they say you’re being dramatic.
He knew early on that control was more useful than confiding.
So he chose to take control, while I chose to comply.
We are not mad.
We are each other’s childhood ghosts, haunting one another for our pasts.
This is not love; it is a disaster of mutual projection.
They say if a person receives saline for seven consecutive days, their veins will swell.
When the nurse changed the needle, I heard her mutter under her breath, "What kind of melodrama is this crazy person playing? We have to clean up after them."
I didn’t blame her.
After all, I became who I am today because it all started with the fear of being disliked.
Cheng Jingyi might be looking at me with such calmness for the first time.
He stood at the door of the ward, looking at me with an indescribable disappointment in his eyes.
At that moment, I suddenly felt as if I were being completely seen through, as if all my disguises were utterly powerless before him.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked gently, "Haven't I treated you well?"
I stared at the railing of the window, unable to look at him, when I suddenly heard him laugh softly.
"White Skirt, self-harm—it's exactly the same."
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