zhiwei chen, 9

zhiwei chen, 9 Sept 2, 2023 2:00:15 GMT -5

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Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Sept 2, 2023 2:00:15 GMT -5

It was spring, the snow was slowly trickling into the storm drains after a bitter winter, and Huang Sicheng was dead.

He had been killed in an explosion at one of the family production plants while on a routine inspection of the floor. Listed as an accident in the official report, but the story changed on each recount, rumours of rebel activity in the aftershock, rumours of a dispute turned murder.

It didn't matter in the end.

He was eighteen years old, the only son of the Huangs.

//

When Chen Zhiwei was a child, Sicheng sat behind her in class the year they were ten. He used to pull on her braids and kick the legs of her chair when the teacher wasn't looking. It was little things like that. He took the books out of her bag and hid them, shoved roughly past her while they were running laps during PE, grabbed pencils from her hand as she was writing her homework, the friction of the wood lightly stinging her hand. But the strange shame of flinching was worse.

One day, she stood up as he was stomping into the back of her chair, a raw, unearthly screech echoing in the silent classroom. All eyes turned to them. Sicheng looked surprised, blinking as he opened his mouth to say something. Then, she slapped him.

She got in trouble for it. She tried to protest, listing all the grievances he'd caused her. Death by a thousand cuts. She started crying in frustration, which only made her more frustrated, which made her cry more – until she couldn't even say an understandable word. There was something unspeakable about how she felt.

The teacher told her he would talk to Sicheng. But this was how boys showed girls that they liked them. Hitting him and disturbing the class was disrespectful. She should have used her words nicely.

//

Zhiwei was born first, but as she turned eleven, she began to realize that her younger brother held a position of higher importance over her.

She used to reason with herself. He got more attention because he was still a baby. She was older so she had to take care of him, be more yielding to his desires, be the more responsible and mature one because of this. He got better and brand new things because all their cousins were girls, and hence, he could not take hand-me-downs. He was a more sensitive child, and that's why their parents doted on him. She was already used to doing those chores, so why wouldn't she just continue to? But he was allowed things she wasn't because – because –

He was a boy.

//

Their family was one of the wealthier of Nine. But by the time Zhiwei was eighteen, her father had accumulated massive amounts of debt from investing in business ventures that felt more akin to a gambling habit. Each new endeavour would be the one. He was chasing his dreams of acquiring an old PVC factory, then opening a restaurant, then flipping real estate. He dragged his wife and kids along with every fantasy he tried on. It all amounted to nothing.

The same month they were about to lose the house, Zhiwei's mother had tea at the Huangs with a group of regular ladies.

"I haven't seen Zhiwei in so long now. Sicheng used to speak fondly of her," his mother had said tenderly. She looked so fragile in her grief, laid on her skin like a delicate lace.

And so Zhiwei showed up with her mother the next time. She was wearing a crepe dress borrowed from her cousin, the colour of sweet cream, a light blue sweater buttoned up to cover her shoulders. Sicheng's mother appraised her, examining her face, her posture, her hands, finally meeting her eyes with a small smile.

"You've grown up to be so beautiful, Zhiwei."

//

Her mother had the courtesy to ask if she'd do it. She thought she didn't have much of a choice.

//

On her wedding day, her mother was sobbing desperately. Her father could barely look at her as they exchange the vows. She can't remember much of it now. It felt like she was floating, strangely detached from her own body, as if her mind was someone else all together.

She had been told that the matchmaker-medium said that she was what the deceased spirit of Sicheng wanted. After all, he'd liked her since they were kids. And the dowry would be considerable, all their debts would be paid off, Zhiwei would be taken care of by the Huangs. And most importantly, the family line would continue despite his death. A minghun was the proposal. They'd discussed all of this one night in her absence, while she was sleeping.

The altar was burning. It was ladden with paper offerings.

Zhiwei bowed to the gods. She bowed to their parents. She lifted the red head covering and turned towards the effigy of her husband, constructed from paper and wood.

She bowed to him too.

//

Her father came to her with awkward congratulations. Right then and there, she swore it would be the last time she would speak to him.

"Just remember. It was your daughter who saved this family."