Waterbound Love - Chapter 60
Darkness, heavy with sorrow.
Like the blossoming of a flower, silent and unnoticed.
Searching for beauty beyond the palm,
Thus,
You are no longer there;
Nurturing pure emotions within the heart’s realm.
Sunshine, raindrops,
Thus,
I am no longer here.
Goodbye, take care.
Pressing the send button felt like a final farewell to her. The phone soon rang, and Du Bai smiled as she saw the familiar name on the screen. She cut it off, for the remaining words no longer mattered to her.
Sitting on the ground, it might be the last time watching the sunset. This beautiful departure felt much like herself. The difference is that the sun sets and rises in a daily cycle, while once she sinks, she won’t rise again, rendering a picturesque melancholy.
March 14th, choosing today might not be a coincidence, letting this arced number mark the end of a life that was never complete.
At the same time, Master Du carefully scrutinized the painting Du Bai had mailed him. The scene depicted in the painting was the garden of the ancestral home, with himself playing chess with his son. Sitting upright and pondering, he seemed to see those two tightly knitted brows. His daughter-in-law and wife were preparing refreshments, chatting and laughing by the side. Young Du Ruo sat on a swing being pushed by Du Xing, so light, as if she was about to soar into the sky, dancing with the startled butterflies nearby, rejoicing in the warmth and blossoms of spring all around.
Though it was a delicate and beautiful painting, Master Du felt uneasy after viewing it. He handed it to Du Xing, instructing him to place it carefully, before going for a nap.
Du Xing, seeing the painting, was somewhat dazed. He wasn’t skilled at paintings, but this one gave him a feeling of sadness masked by joy, a thick heaviness that wouldn’t disperse. The phone’s vibration shook him awake.
Unconsciously, the last ray of the sunset was not fully gathered away. Du Bai pulled her thoughts back, took a bottle of red wine and a wine glass from the cabinet, and slowly poured a glass, watching quietly, gently swirling it. It seemed she hadn’t had red wine since the accident, and seeing this color again now was so seductive, tempting one to plunge into oblivion.
The nerves, soaked in alcohol, were exceptionally sensitive. The surroundings were particularly quiet, leaving only the sound produced by the clock’s echo.
“Tick-tock, tick-tock”
“Tick-tock, tick-tock”
“Tick-tock, tick-tock”
The endless cycle seemed to narrate limitless desolation.
Du Bai selected a piece of music, the lyrics were beautiful; let this song accompany her on the final journey.
She picked up the prepared tool and cut across her left wrist. The heart is on the left side-maybe when the blood flows to the end, there won’t be any more pain, and all the filth will be washed away, leaving her clean and without regret?
She quietly watched the blood surge from her wrist, flowing calmly, turning into the murmuring sound of life, beautiful and enchanting. The dry red she couldn’t hold spilled into it, dripping down her elbow, exuding an intoxicating scent, with no fear painting it, like the footsteps of paradise approaching. The liquid spreading on the marble floor resembled a field of poppies swaying in the wind, speaking of liberation.
She liked the idea of crystallization; it was a critical moment of release. No amount of emotion could shake its purity.
Is the most beautiful way to die absent of grievances, without reluctance, silently as if falling asleep, with a smile blooming on the face like a vibrant flower? When death and life intertwine, is there no sorrow, no tears to be shed?
Consciousness drifted to the edge of dissipation, slowly rising, like a wisp of smoke, gently swirling as if ready to transform and ascend. It was as if every shackle suddenly fell away, no repression, the lightness bringing tears, and even those tears seemed to float, unwilling to fall and disturb the dust.
Who is it? Who is pounding fiercely, knocking on the tightly locked heart deep within the soul?
Who is it? Who is singing softly, chanting a tune that transcends past and present lives?
Who is it? Who is weeping quietly, speaking of the unwavering fidelity of a forlorn rock?
Whose cries are these, so despairing, seeming to wail with blood, entwining the silent footsteps I was taking away?
Who would know that the withered vine on the cliff’s edge is not hope, but a shackle?
