Chapter 29: Repeated Social Deaths

Gan Ling was remarkably straightforward about her own bout of madness. After saying that, she looked out the window and righteously pushed me to close it, showing zero awareness that she was a guest in my home.

We’d been chatting for so long and watching for so long that a blue-black curtain had already draped over the sky. The wind rustled the leaves as it blew. I closed the screen window, checked the weather forecast, rummaged in the drawer for a rain-or-shine umbrella—thick and solid like a short baseball bat.

Opening the umbrella inside the house, the night immediately crept into my home.

Gan Ling steadied the umbrella frame, lowered it, pointed at the pattern on the fabric, and pursed her lips into a mocking smile that said “you know what I mean.”

The umbrella had two huge red eyes and long, tassel-like ears.

After Gan Ling scrutinizingly examined my umbrella, I preempted her inevitable mockery of my taste: “I’m childish, so what?”

She was thrown off, swallowing her subtle jab, took a sip, then shook her head in self-deprecation. She held the umbrella over her own head for a try-on, utterly unconcerned with the superstition about opening umbrellas indoors. I didn’t care about that stuff either. Upon closer look, the rabbit ears took on a somber vibe on her—probably because her graying hair made her look older.

Umbrella in hand, Gan Ling gripped the handle like she was wielding a katana, radiating a hint of murderous intent.

Suddenly, I thought of her ramshackle earthen hut. After a night of rain like this, what if the other half collapsed too, burying her inside?

“Your place…”

“It’s fine.” Gan Ling paused at the door, rummaged in her pocket with her left hand for a bit, then casually pulled out a plastic bag from her hoodie pocket and tossed it onto the sofa before leaving.

The plastic bag was all crumpled, like it had held some ancient seasoning, but when spread out, it looked clean inside. It contained a pair of new socks.

Why gift me socks? It couldn’t be compensation for stepping on and dirtying my socks earlier, right? I was just blinded by anger at the time; the socks could have been washed. I didn’t need to lose my temper like that.

I tore open the packaging, snipped off the plastic hook, and right away knew Gan Ling wouldn’t have any normal person’s ideas.

A pair of children’s socks with rabbit-head toes and pink lace at the ankles.

I was pissed.

I tossed the socks aside, thought about it, then balled them up and stowed them away out of sight. Gan Ling wasn’t just sharp-tongued and harsh-looking—her actions were pure mischief too! Even gifting something could make a person furious. I fumed for a bit before realizing that getting so worked up over such trivial bullshit so often wasn’t like me. Must be my period coming. I bolted to the bathroom.

Ever since meeting Gan Ling, my life had been a mess, even messing up my cycle. Last month, Aunt Flo had skipped town entirely, and this month she hit extra suddenly. I wasn’t prepared!

The next day, the pain had me curled up like a dead fish hacked in half, tail twitching on reflex. I swallowed some ibuprofen and drifted into a groggy sleep-in. I’d forgotten to close the window last night, and the rain chilled the room. Half-asleep, I felt like a wriggling worm rolling off the bed to shut the window when the door knocked.

No surprise, it was Gan Ling. True to her impatient nature, if I didn’t open up quick, her knocking would turn into SWAT-team battering.

I shuffled over, but unexpectedly, she stopped. I opened the door, and she held a green plastic bag containing my umbrella, still in her black hoodie and jeans, with some mud on her shoe tops.

I stepped aside to let her in. She kicked off her shoes on the mat.

Suddenly so polite—I endured my weakness and said, “No worries, just come in.” Seeing her finally minding manners, I grabbed a pair of white disposable hotel slippers from the shoe cabinet and tossed them out.

Gan Ling came in and immediately plugged in her phone to charge—but surprisingly, she didn’t turn on the TV.

I’d already curled up on the sofa, towel over my neck to block drafts. Gan Ling, acting like the host, looked around, closed the windows herself, then yanked the towel off my neck. I instantly felt the chill.

My stomach was killing me, covered in cold sweats. I leaned my head on the sofa back, forcing myself to watch TV. She still hadn’t turned it on, pushed the coffee table aside, and grabbed my ankle.

“Go easy on the pics today…” I weakly requested, hoping she wouldn’t go berserk and hit me.

The woman said nothing. Head fuzzy, I didn’t even register what Gan Ling was doing in my house. Honestly, if she’d rummaged through drawers and snatched my bankbook, I might not have noticed. Of course, opening it, she wouldn’t see much savings—I scrimped, but my salary was meager. Or if she opened my closet, she’d see a rabbit convention; the kitchen had a rabbit-shaped rice cooker; bathroom had rabbit towels and headbands. Who knows how she’d mock my rabbit burrow of a home.

I’d raised a litter of rabbits in our chicken coop. The last chicken didn’t survive Mid-Autumn Festival—it ran mad all day, meat tough as leather. Finally pressure-cooked for an hour and a half till tender, its yellow claws pointed skyward like flipping me the bird.

I had four rabbits: two males and two females. It was like a math textbook problem: if one pair breeds to twenty-something, what generation is that? I’d raised them hoping they’d multiply, pampering them in my bed, sharing food and shelter. Even so, only one survived to summer’s end.

Later I found the coop against the wall with a hole—a feral cat tore at them nightly. They bled silently, still eating. In that huge coop, they never shifted, bloody tails to the wall, till corpses. Before that, I’d only see three heads crammed together racing for one blade of grass, leaving space around—who knows why.

The last one had a notched ear and chewed like a propeller, chomping desperately. It was the fattest from a young age. I took it to the vet, medicated its bloody butt, powdered its food, and moved it to a box by my bed.

But barely three steps from the coop, it got sick—diarrhea and faint screams at night.

It was my first time hearing a rabbit scream. I panicked and woke my parents—we had no pet experience, but we dosed it with everything. I watched by the bed and dozed off. That weak scream was like a dream-cry, a hoarse hysterical shout reduced to nothing. By dawn, it was stiff, cold, and dead in the box.

To me, life was sounds: bamboo growing, rabbit screams, prayers and cries as curses, hang-up tones, night winds whistling bones. Rabbits perked ears to all, but slow, gentle, silently suffering till snapping with a negligible screech.

Lost in rabbit memories, I dozed—Gan Ling shook me awake mid-dream of feeding them. My rabbit days didn’t make me love them; they were too cute, not sly like cats, not sturdy like dogs—just blobs lost in their world. I didn’t mean to pick rabbit patterns, but I was suddenly surrounded by them.

I’d prepped these confessions for Gan Ling, but she didn’t mock my rabbit nest. Seeing me pale like my three souls were stolen, she went straight to the kitchen, rummaged, steamed two eggs in my rabbit egg steamer, dug out ginger and brown sugar for a pot of spicy-hot ginger sugar water, boiled more for a hot water bottle.

I ate the two eggs while she sat leisurely peeling them. She stretched my arm like rubber to the table and shoved a spoon in my hand for the sugar water. Then she lifted my right arm, hiked my tank top, and jammed the fuzzy hot water bottle onto my belly like she was stabbing me.

Handling me like a corpse, she rinsed her hands, then helpfully refilled my cup as I struggled through the drink, grimacing: “They say… period ginger sugar water’s just placebo…”

“Plain water’s there too—unscrew the one on your belly.” Gan Ling coolly pointed at the hot water bottle. I finished it; she cleared cup and spoon, sat beside me, legs tucked on the sofa, eyes narrowed watching.

Sweating all over, uncomfortable, I fidgeted: “Look at pics.”

TV lit up. I psyched myself, rubbed my face, shuffled to bathroom to wipe, grabbed a blanket over shoulders, balled on sofa. She’d screen-mirrored already. I put in my eyedrops and shook my head at the screen—Gan Ling held her arm outstretched: “C’mere.”

I wormed over, head down, bracing for her move, brain lagging on counters.

She just undid the blanket, folded it impossibly quick into a long rectangle at my waist, securing the hot water bottle— no stuffiness.

Truly impressive skill.

“I’ve worked as a cleaner in a hotel before, so I’m great at making beds,” Gan Ling said, shifting her legs and pulling me closer against her body. “Pour yourself onto me—don’t cramp your neck.”

The album full of unfamiliar men’s faces made me tired. I flipped through photo after photo, my eyes watering more easily than usual, or maybe it was the meds kicking in and making me drowsy. I don’t know which one it was when I fell asleep again.

“I’m going to smash your TV.” Gan Ling warned in my ear, jolting me awake. I rubbed my eye sockets and forced myself to watch the TV. Gan Ling’s screen projection had ended at some point, leaving only a black screen reflecting me and her. Gan Ling was leaning against the sofa armrest, one hand pressing my shoulder, while I sprawled on her like a large dog, eyes bleary from sleep.

“…Don’t smash it.”

Gan Ling: “My legs are numb. Move over a bit.”

I scrambled up in a hurry, feeling waves of blood rushing downward with the motion. The heat on my body was slowly fading. I quickly grabbed the hot water bottle again—it wasn’t very warm anymore—and my teeth ached faintly from the sugary drink. I ducked into the bathroom.

When I came out, Gan Ling had taken an umbrella from the plastic bag, wiped the surface moisture with tissue, and placed it on the coffee table.

She looked like she was about to leave.

Actually, I felt much better now and could’ve kept looking at the photos, but I didn’t speak up first and just retreated again.

Gan Ling yanked off the sofa cover with practiced ease, confirming she did have plenty of experience. Suddenly realizing something was off, I sat on the toilet, pulled down my pants, and sure enough.

I was mortified, wanted to die. I shouldn’t have been lazy about the rain yesterday—I should’ve gone out to buy night-use extra-long pads.

After holing up in the bathroom feeling dead inside for a bit, I heard Gan Ling moving around in the kitchen, the washing machine beeping as it started. I was even more ashamed to face anyone. After some mental pep talk, a faint voice drifted in from outside: “If you’re constipated and forcing it, you might strain too hard. If you can’t, just come out.”

I wasn’t coming out.

Even with my period here, the world felt chaotic. Gan Ling’s actions and words always carried the heavy duty of biting mockery.

I’d died socially in front of Gan Ling so many times already. If I went out rashly now, my shame would make me babble incoherently, and the sharp Gan Ling would surely pick up on some clue, creating trouble out of thin air.

After calming down for a moment, I finally sorted myself out, bracing for a prolonged standoff with Gan Ling.

But the only proof that Gan Ling had come over this morning was the scattered items on the coffee table and the sofa cover drying on the balcony. When I emerged, it was already noon at twelve. I had no idea when Gan Ling had left—only that she was efficient. Knowing I was basically useless right now and couldn’t look at many photos, she’d immediately gone off to find other avenues.

I didn’t even know where she’d gotten a replacement sofa cover to swap on. I changed my pants and sat back down, reflecting on my mood.

I really was pretty useless.

I flopped onto the sofa, and my head suddenly bumped into something hard.

Sitting up again, I saw Gan Ling’s new phone had slipped into the sofa crevice.

Eh?

I fished out the phone, and the screen lit up, prompting for a password.

Some weird impulse drove me to punch in Zheng Ningning’s death anniversary: 0522