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Suicide Victim
墨書 Inktalez
In the early morning, Zhaotong City was shrouded in darkness. Occasionally, a night bus sped by on the nearby overpass, and the streetlights at the bridge cast a cold light.
I stood by the riverbank, where thick fog hung over the water, resembling a monster hiding at the riverbed, slowly releasing a stream of bubbles that floated into the air and burst with a pop, transforming into an eerie mist.
Amidst the sound of splashing water, reminiscent of oars stirring through the fog, I couldn't help but be curious. I widened my eyes, trying to see through the mist to locate the source of the sound. Gradually, I realized that the noise was moving toward me. Before long, a small boat emerged from the haze, hazy and strange. For a moment, I thought I had arrived at the Bridge of Helplessness, where an old man waited beneath with a pole to ferry souls across.
"Hey, girl, want to get on board?" As the boat approached, I saw an old man sitting at the bow, dressed in tattered clothes and looking emaciated. Beside him lay a soft, sagging burlap sack.
"What are you doing here in the middle of the night?" Driven by pure curiosity, I lifted my long skirt and stepped onto the boat.
The old man observed my movements and said, "Taking people to the Underworld."
"Huh? Are you a murderer?" I glanced at him again; given his frail physique, it would take considerable effort for him to kill someone. The possibility of being killed in return seemed high as well. I couldn't help but feel sorry for him; it's tough to make a living these days.
"Girl, you think too highly of me." The old man handed me a small stool. I took it and sat in the center of the boat. "People today bear increasing pressure; more and more are committing suicide. This river may not be wide, but it's deep enough that many come here to jump in. But if they jump from the bank, they probably won't die and will just end up choking on water—it's not worth it. I'm sharp-eyed and saw an opportunity here. Every night I set up this boat to wait for those who want to jump; I take them to the center of the river for five hundred each—no bargaining or discounts." The old man held up five fingers and looked at me, searching for pockets that might hold money.
I obliged him by pulling out my phone from an inner pocket of my coat. "Is WeChat transfer okay? I don't have cash."
"Sure," he replied as he skillfully pulled out a smartphone from his burlap sack and opened the payment page. While I scanned his QR code with my phone for the transfer, I asked, "How's business?"
"Not bad," he said with a proud smile. "At least ten people a month—guaranteed five thousand. What do you think?"
"Well, that's more than what college students earn."
"Exactly! Nowadays who doesn't earn more than college students? Let me tell you; some people come specifically for this service. For instance, when someone jumps into the river without money on them, I let them take their money and come back later. This way, it serves as publicity!" He put his phone away and returned it to his sack.
"Right," I said dismissively. "Why aren't we leaving yet? I'm in a bit of a hurry."
I had been on board for several minutes now, but there were no signs that he intended to row.
"Don't rush; another customer is coming soon," he said while rubbing his knees and gazing into the darkness.
Taxis have shared rides too; I had no reason to demand that he leave immediately. Boredom set in as I looked around at the river surface; there was no sign that the fog was dissipating—it stubbornly filled the air around us. After sitting for just a little while, my clothes were already damp with sticky moisture.
"Here they come," he called out as he waved toward the front. In an instant, a figure appeared before me as if materializing from thin air—a round face with a large belly like a roly-poly toy—wiping his forehead with a handkerchief as he hurried over.
"Sorry! Sorry!" The man stepped onto the boat's deck and caused it to sway violently. "I had to wait until my wife fell asleep; otherwise she wouldn't let me out."
Seeing his pale complexion and beads of sweat forming on his brow made me suspect he had just finished a night out and was feeling weak from running over.
I shifted aside slightly as an indistinct odor began to waft from him.
"Hold on tight; we're off," the old man called out as he grabbed an oar and paddled toward the center of the river.
"Are you also here to jump?" The man smiled at me with friendly eyes that lacked any hint of lewdness typical of middle-aged men toward younger women. Instead, his smile was warm and kind-hearted. This isn't just my imagination; every woman in her prime has likely encountered creepy stares or unwanted advances in life at some point.
"Well," as he looked at me, I was also examining him.
His shiny bald head was complemented by a long strand of hair on the left side that bravely crossed over to support the right side. He had a bulbous nose, thick lips, and his face shape was indiscernible—neither round nor flat. The only feature that seemed to have some life was his pair of eyes.
He wore an oversized, coarse striped suit, flamboyantly paired with a dark red tie that was outdated and lacked any quality.
His taste was poor, like an antique from the early 21st century, I silently judged, not wanting to engage in further conversation and shifted my gaze away.
"Is something wrong?" The man seemed quite eager to talk, disregarding my indifference as he kindly asked.
I appreciated that he didn’t say anything about turning back, but I didn’t want to answer his question because I didn’t know the answer myself.
"Nothing."
"Are you jumping first or am I?" he surprisingly asked.
Does it matter? Just pick a direction and leap down, or take a deep breath to psych yourself up, or make a smooth motion in one go; it’s not like we’re at a ticket booth where we have to go one by one.
"You booked it last night, so you go first; she arrives later." The old man's words sounded like a joke to me—did this little ferry business actually have a management system?
"Alright." As the night breeze picked up and the mist turned cool, the man’s forehead sweat had long since dried up. He habitually wiped his oily face with a handkerchief.
The more I listened, the stranger it felt; there seemed to be some hidden context between them that I didn’t know about.
"Should I go first then?" The man stretched his neck to inquire of the old man.
"What should you say?" I couldn’t help but ask.
"Don’t you know?" The man looked at me in surprise, making me feel like an idiot.
"She just arrived tonight; you just say your piece and don’t worry about anything else." The old man slowly moved the oars; under the thick fog, it gave the illusion that the boat was spinning in place.
"Oh, okay." The man wiped his palms again, seemingly becoming inexplicably nervous. His emotions affected me as well, and a strong sense of threat surged within me. Before he could part his lips to speak, I interrupted him, "Wait, let’s clarify things first. I'm just here to commit suicide; I don’t want to get involved in any other matters."
"Hey, you Girl, really have no patience." The old man lifted his drooping eyelids. "People who come here are supposed to state their reasons for suicide before jumping into the river as per tradition—to express their troubles and grievances before embarking on their journey peacefully. This guest booked last night, so he speaks first; got it?"
"What if someone doesn’t want to say?"
"That’s your own business; I’m just an audience."
I relaxed and tugged at my skirt to cover my slightly chilly ankles while watching the man with keen interest. My unwillingness to share didn’t mean I wasn’t interested in other people's stories.
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