Chapter 28: Empty Words

A guardian locked away in prison is supposed to be educating his child, yet he himself is under discipline. When a father tells his son, “You must study hard,” he can barely muster any conviction. For Wen Xinwu, even saying these words leaves him trembling, terrified that his son might retort, “You should behave and reform yourself in there,” leaving him utterly speechless.

But really, what is there to reform? Wen Xinwu was never a bad man—he just lost his head for a moment. In prison, however, he’s brushed shoulders with all kinds of lowlifes; compared to the upright senior teacher he once was, he’s grown a little rougher around the edges. Human beings are remarkably adaptable. Five years behind bars, and one grows used to it all: calling out before speaking, ducking and covering at the sound of a whistle, learning that the sky beyond the iron bars isn’t necessarily blue. Since there’s no getting out, there’s little point in dwelling on it. The only thing he still can’t get used to is the awkwardness between father and son—his boy’s resentful gaze makes him nervous.

Having a father who’s a murderer is nothing to be proud of.

One by one, the food containers came out and were set on the table: pork in brown sauce, cumin lamb, and slices of ham shank, even with a little packet of garlic paste and soy sauce. Usually, when Xiao Cheng visited, he’d bring a treat, but a roast chicken was about as good as it got. Today, there were three meat dishes alone. Wen Xinwu knew exactly what their home situation was. He glanced up at his son—what’s gotten into him today? Some good news?

“There’s another three hundred yuan in your card for you. Buy yourself something nice. If it’s expensive, so be it—don’t shortchange yourself.” Grandma had given Xiao Cheng two hundred; the extra hundred was from his own pocket money.

“You don’t need to send me money. I still have over a hundred left from last time.” Wen Xinwu replied.

His mother, over sixty, was raising the boy by herself, scraping by selling candied hawthorn on the street. That money burned in his hands. Aside from buying essentials like toothpaste and soap, he’d hardly touched it. Every day was rice with soup. Anyone would crave the beer and roast chicken at the prison supermarket, but Wen Xinwu hadn’t even bought himself a pack of instant noodles.

“I’ve got good news—my sentence reduction has come through. Ten months off!”

This was his second reduction; last time was also ten months. Xiao Cheng had seen the ruling: “The court finds that the convict Wen Xinwu has abided by prison regulations and accepted reform and education during his sentence, showing genuine repentance, and thus meets conditions for sentence reduction. However, as he has not fulfilled the civil compensation ordered by the court, the reduction is limited to two months less than the maximum permitted…”

Twenty years, and now a total reduction of twenty months; it was hard to do any better, unless he could somehow come up with the hundreds of thousands owed in civil compensation.

Xiao Cheng sat with his father, moving his chopsticks a few times but mostly just watching. Wen Xinwu devoured the food hungrily. Calling it a family lunch was just a polite fiction—it was really an excuse to let inmates enjoy something good, something to look forward to each month to make life a little easier. Scenes like this were routine in the dining hall. Even without prison uniforms, it was easy to tell the inmates: the ones eating ravenously, while their families barely touched their food.

“Dad, Zhang Peiyue, Qiu Hui, Lü Qi, Ding Sina—they all go to the same school as me. Did I ever tell you that?”

Wen Xinwu froze. His son had seldom mentioned school before; when he’d come in, the boy was still in elementary school, and now he was about to start ninth grade.

“Who are they?”

“Zhang Peiyue—his uncle was Zhang Weihai, the one you killed. The others—well, their surnames should say it all. Qiu, Lü, Ding—they’re all relatives of the injured parties.”

Wen Xinwu’s chopsticks paused midair. The families of the dead and wounded at the same school as his child—what did that mean?

“Ever since I started junior high, I get beaten up every week. They do it under the banner of avenging their fathers, and they make it seem so righteous.” Xiao Cheng’s voice was curiously flat, devoid of strong emotion, carrying a chilling numbness.

“Last week, Grandma bought me a new backpack. My old one had lasted four years, since third grade—it even had a Mickey Mouse on it. The new bag lasted one day before they stole it, beat me up, and then peed all over it…”

Wen Xinwu’s hand began to tremble.

“I used to hate you. Hated you for being a murderer, for the debts you left for Grandma and me to pay. But now, I understand a little. Sometimes, there just aren’t many choices. Kill or be killed—those are the only two.”

To hear such words from a fifteen-year-old would chill anyone to the bone.

“Xiao Cheng, don’t do anything rash. Don’t do anything foolish!”

“What else can I do?” Xiao Cheng gave a bitter smile. “They yank me by the hair, pin me to the ground. The new bag Grandma scrimped and saved to buy is just out of reach above my head. My books and pens scattered everywhere. Then a bunch of them piss on it right there. What am I supposed to do? Wash it, dry it, and keep using it? Or have Grandma go out earlier, come home later, sell more hawthorn, and buy me another one?”

“Son! Son! Listen to me—there are many ways to solve problems. Don’t follow my path. If they’re bullying you, tell your teacher!”

Xiao Cheng rolled his eyes. “Did telling someone help you before you killed? Did it work?”

Wen Xinwu fell silent, pressing a hand on his son’s shoulder, biting his lip, hesitating for a long time, as if making a momentous decision. In a low voice, he said, “Xiao Cheng, remember this address: 89 Maple Leaf Road, at the county Red Cross Hospital. When you get out, go there and find a man named Tai Hu—he’s got a scar on his face, looks fierce. He got out two months ago. He’s a big name in the area; your problem, he can settle with a word. But listen, he owes me a favor. You only need to use it once. After that, stay away from him. Never get involved with people like that. Promise me!”

Xiao Cheng laughed. He’d put on this act for so long just for this connection! Five years in prison, and his old man had become something of an elder statesman—how could he not have some underworld contacts? Some joked that doing time was like further study; there was some truth to it. Wen Xinwu might not have been top dog, but he got along well enough.

Even the son of a murderer isn’t entirely without resources.

“What are you laughing at?” Wen Xinwu asked, nervously, bewildered by his son’s bright smile.

“Dad, let me be honest. I have been bullied, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as I made it sound. I exaggerated to get this connection from you. Actually, I’ve already taken care of it myself.”

“You’ve solved it?”

“Pretty much. But just to be safe, I need a trump card.” Xiao Cheng gave a brief account of the past couple of days: how he’d fought Zhang Peiyue, set up a decisive showdown, provoked a street scam gang to instigate a dog-eat-dog brawl between the two groups. As for the changes in his own thinking and the chance meeting with that ‘old friend’ Professor Dai, he left those parts out.

When Wen Xinwu finished listening, his expression grew somewhat bitter.

“Son, since you’ve got it handled, don’t go looking for Tai Hu. I don’t want you mixed up with people like that.”

Xiao Cheng laughed to himself. The son of a murderer—what right did he have to be picky about his friends?

“Why not?”

“He… he’s not a good man.”

“And are you?”

The question left his father speechless.

“To most people, anyone in prison isn’t a good person. And you, Dad, are the highest grade of all—a murderer.”

In this world, being a good person just means getting bullied, Xiao Cheng thought helplessly.

——————

Read through it again before sending, and I have to say, I really did a good job. That’s not just my imagination, is it?