Chapter Six Transgression
The night was deep like a long-rotted body forced to maintain its shape, the lights in the Wangchuan Tea Medicine Shop dim and cloying, each ray of light heavy and damp like aged sweat repeatedly kneaded by time.
Ah Meng sat in the rattan chair, her fingertips slowly sliding along the inner wall of the black soup bowl, the motion mechanical and hollow, almost like masturbation.
She felt her body unbearably heavy—heavy as if stuffed with countless strangers’ decaying memories, swollen, viscous, fermenting layer upon layer of wet, cold rotten flesh that could never be emptied, leaving only a repeatedly used, long-meaningless husk.
She felt like a womb used far too many times, crammed with others’ pain and sins, swollen to the point of nearly splitting yet terrifyingly empty, only a thin, icy membrane left gently twitching.
The bell rang.
This time the sound was low and lifeless, like something thick and hard slowly pushing deep inside.
All the bottles in the shop dimmed at once, like a group of bodies sensing their master’s anger, shrinking into the corners and not daring to glow.
Yama pushed the door open and entered, the hem of his black long coat sweeping the floor and stirring up a faint chill carrying the scent of the dead.
He stood before the counter, his tall figure casting a heavy shadow that completely enveloped Ah Meng.
Ah Meng looked up, her expression still calm.
That delicate, beautiful face appeared especially soft under the dim yellow light, yet also especially cold.
“Coming so late?”
She said lightly, “Want some water?”
Yama did not sit.
He only gazed at her quietly, his voice low as if rising from the depths of the earth, carrying suppressed heat:
“Qi Qiao. You helped her forget the murder.”
Ah Meng’s hand paused for a moment, then continued wiping the bottle in her hands, her fingertips producing a faint, sticky friction against the glass.
That bottle emitted a deep red nearly black glow, the smoke inside still slowly churning, like two naked corpses forever entangled at the bottom of a cold sea, unable to separate.
“Mm.”
She answered softly, “She begged me, so I helped.”
The air inside the shop suddenly grew stickier and heavier, like layer after layer of thick, cold bodily fluid slowly wrapping around everything.
The bottles began to tremble lightly, yet only emitted fine, weak panting sounds, like countless lonely bodies struggling while being smothered alive.
Yama’s voice held no anger, only deep exhaustion and oppression, that oppression like an invisible hand slowly gripping her throat, then sliding downward to rest on her already hollow lower abdomen:
“You know this is overstepping.”
Ah Meng finally raised her head. She smiled, the smile extremely faint and cold, like a layer of ice that had frozen for a long time and whose original color could no longer be seen.
“Rules?”
She repeated softly, her voice carrying a hint of self-mocking stickiness. “When you tacitly allowed me to descend to the mortal realm, you never said I couldn’t help people forget murder.”
She stood up, walked to the shelf, and steadily pressed that deep red bottle back into place.
Her movements were elegant yet mechanical; the cheongsam clung tightly to the curves of her waist and hips. The moment her fingertips touched the glass, the smoke inside the bottle convulsed violently as if shocked by electricity, then quickly calmed, as though long accustomed to being ignored and treated roughly.
“She was living too heavily.”
Ah Meng said softly, “Every time she wakes, she feels her body covered in her sister’s seawater, cold and sticky, seeping into her skin, into her bones, into the deepest cavity. I only… wanted to make her lighter.”
Yama looked at her, his eyes filled with pain and powerlessness suppressed for thousands of years. That pain was not sharp but quiet and persistent, like an extremely fine thing forever inserted in the deepest place, unable to be pulled out and unable to climax.
“Light enough to forget even sin?”
His voice was hoarse, carrying a trace of restrained heat.
“Ah Meng, do you know what consequences this will bring? Her sin hasn’t disappeared; it’s only been transferred. It will seep elsewhere like poison.”
Ah Meng turned around, leaning back against the wooden shelf, arms crossed over her chest.
That bright red cheongsam looked like a quietly burning ember under the lamplight, tightly wrapping her already hollowed body.
“So what?”
Her tone was flat.
“The mortal world is already full of poison. One less or one more of her—does it make a difference?”
The mist inside the shop grew thicker and thicker, like a film mixed from thick, cold sweat and bodily fluids wrapping around everything.
The bottles’ trembling gradually subsided, leaving only Qi Qiao’s bottle still faintly quivering, like a heart that refused to stop, already exhausted to the extreme.
Yama took a step forward, facing her across the counter.
His figure was tall and heavy, like a mountain forever pressing down on her, and like a desire that could never truly enter her body.
“The reason I let you come down…” his voice was raspy, “was because I felt sorry for you.
I didn’t want to see you standing by the Bridge of Helplessness every day, mechanically ladling bowl after bowl of soup, like a body repeatedly used.”
Ah Meng’s eyelashes trembled slightly, but she quickly regained composure.
She reached out, took down her own pale golden bottle from the shelf, and shook it lightly in her palm.
“Look, I can barely fit my own anymore.”
The smoke inside the bottle slowly swirled, like a void that could never heal and could never be filled.
Yama extended his hand, wanting to touch her fingers, but stopped midway and ultimately only gently held that bottle.
His fingertips were cold, yet carried a trace of restrained, almost painful warmth.
“Ah Meng…”
He said quietly, “If you continue like this, I’m afraid… I won’t be able to protect you.”
Ah Meng withdrew her hand and placed the bottle back on the highest part of the shelf.
That place was already filled with bottles of various colors, like a grave stacked from pain that would never collapse.
“If you can’t protect me, then so be it.”
She said lightly, “Anyway… I should have been forgotten long ago.”
She sat back down in the rattan chair, both hands pressing against her lower abdomen.
That place was still empty, cold like an eternally uninhabited room, only a thin, icy husk wrapping an even deeper void.
She felt that void twitching faintly again, like a desire that could never be satisfied and could never be released.
She closed her eyes, a faint, cold smile appearing at the corner of her lips.
“It doesn’t matter.”
She said softly.
And deep within the shelf, that golden bottle belonging to her suddenly shone dazzlingly tonight, as if issuing a silent, fateful warning in advance of the coming storm.
Rain began to fall outside the window again.
This time it fell denser and heavier than any previous night, like countless cold tongues licking all the hollow, swollen, forever-unfillable bodies in this city.
(End of Chapter Six)
Postscript: Sometimes it really takes courage to write something emotional.