She's a prostitute, and I'm a scoundrel.

She was a prostitute. A very beautiful prostitute, with a decent level of education. I was a rogue. A pretentious rogue who considered himself very clever. She earned her money through prostitution. I was a "waitress" in the entertainment venue where she worked, essentially a watchdog. We lived, just to live. No ideals, no goals, no pursuits. At least, that's how I was, because I was a rogue. We lived together. She was with me because I was a sheltering tree for her, alone in a foreign land; after all, she was a woman, needing someone to lean on. I was with her because I "loved" her, loved her body and her money. She was never stingy with me, because she was a prostitute, a lowly prostitute. I accepted it without a second thought, because I was a rogue, a shameless rogue. Rogues are heartless, prostitutes are loveless. I knew she knew it too. No one can tolerate their wife having been a prostitute unless they know nothing about her past. At least that's what I thought; rogues are human too. But we're still together. Because of her, I got into a fight, got injured, and badly injured. Fighting is like washing my face and brushing my teeth every day for me—it's a habit. Getting injured is frequent. In the hospital, she cried, saying I was stupid. I said that as long as I'm here, I won't let anyone hurt you; I'd do anything for you. She cried again, moved. But what was the truth? I fought to defend the "dignity" of a thug. She's my woman; touching my woman is clearly disrespectful and a provocation. How could I let it go? Otherwise, how could I face anyone in the future? Why did I say that? It's a joke; I guarantee any man would say the same thing. I'm not a genius at lying, but she's a fool who falls for it. I'm a gambling addict, penniless. I lived with her, like a parasite. It was a rented studio apartment, only 30 square meters, already cramped for two people. I still moved in. She wanted me to come too. She said a home isn't a home without a man, and that she loved this "home," only feeling like a "human being" when she returned. She asked if I liked her, and if I would find her dirty. I said I liked her and wouldn't find her disgusting. She said she'd work for two more years, earn enough money, and then quit, leaving this filthy city. She said she'd go anywhere as long as I was with her, to live a normal life. I said okay. In my opinion, she'd lost her mind. Can a prostitute live a normal life? Maybe. Can a thug? Maybe. Can a prostitute and a thug live a normal life together? No. What's hers is mine. My food and drink are hers, my clothes, belts, shoes, even my underwear and socks are all bought for me by her. She seemed very energetic. If she was in a good mood after work, she'd make me a "lavish" breakfast. Her cooking skills were nothing to write home about; maybe I was just used to eating out. But I still ate a lot, pretending to enjoy it and saying it was delicious. She also often dragged me shopping; it was her hobby, like all women. I hated shopping, like all men. So she'd postpone it whenever possible, and if she couldn't avoid it, she'd just go through the motions. She didn't like buying cosmetics, but they were the packaging for her body, so she had to buy them. Like a child, she loved buying toys, dolls, teddy bears, and the like. Her already cramped room was practically overflowing with these strange things, and tidying up her pile of toys took a lot of time every day, but she still enjoyed it. She also liked buying household items like a housewife, and even choosing clothes for me became a great pleasure for her. What frustrated me was that she always wanted my opinion when buying things. I just said, "It suits you," "Good," "Beautiful." Anyway, it wasn't me, a penniless wretch, paying for it, so I let her do as she pleased. The most ridiculous thing was that once she even dragged me to take wedding photos. Wearing the wedding dress, no one knew she was a prostitute; she looked like a real bride. Every time we finished, she liked me to hold her in my arms, and she'd slowly fall asleep on my chest. I asked if she did this with other people too. She said, "Pshaw, no way!" Who would believe that? I didn't really care about her. I rarely asked about her background, and she was unwilling to mention it, so I only had a vague understanding of her past. She was born in a small town, had a beastly stepfather, and ran away from home. She said she only felt happy when she was with me, and only felt pleasure when she made love to me. She said I was her only family in this city, in this world; she couldn't live without me. I said me too. I also said I would love you forever. She asked, "Really?" I said… She asked how far forever was, and I said… Addicted to gambling, I was very good at getting money from her. Once, I said… she gave it to me. Several times, I said… she said no. I said… she said no. I said… she gave it to me again. Many times, I said… she said no. I said… she said no. I said… she said no. I said… she said no more. I said… I said… she had no choice but to give it to me. We lived together for a long time. I never expected this. Maybe it was because she spoiled me too much. She would agree to anything I asked for—money, her body. But time made me lose interest in her body; only money mattered. I sensed she couldn't live without me, so my attitude towards her changed drastically from the beginning. I stopped saying sweet words, stopped eating her cooking, stopped going shopping with her, stopped… I started verbally abusing and physically assaulting her for no reason. When I couldn't get money from her, I even beat her half to death once, and frequently kicked her out to bring other women home for the night. One time, she got pregnant and claimed it was mine. She said she didn't want to continue and wanted to have the baby. What the hell? You're quitting? What do you think you're going to do to win back all that money I've lost? I didn't deny it, but said she had to have an abortion. She was reluctant, but went anyway. Later, I found out she hadn't had an abortion. I was furious and said, "How can you be sure it's mine?" She said she could have a paternity test after giving birth. I said no, but she insisted. I hit her, relentlessly hitting her stomach, forcibly pulling her away, and coaxing her with sweet words to have an abortion. The doctor said it was too late and dangerous…I hit her. Due to multiple abortions, she was infertile for life. She cried bitterly, and I comforted her for three or four days. Not long after, I hit her again, the reason being, "If you don't 'work,' how will we survive?" I rarely visited her unless I was short of money. She also said she wanted to leave me, but she couldn't resist my sweet words and threats. She couldn't leave me, hoping I would change my mind. She was like a gambler to me, knowing there was little hope but still hoping for a miracle. Soon after, I went to jail. Four years. Harm, hooliganism… a bunch of minor crimes piled up, four years. I regretted it. Everyone who comes here regrets it. How far is four years? It depends on how you spend it. Here, four months is longer than four years. You can try it if you don't believe me. What do you hope for here? Why live? 1. Get out of prison 2. Get a visit 3. Get a reduced sentence. I have relatives, and they are very angry that I was sentenced to four years. If it were the death penalty, I think they would have a champagne party. Although friends come, it's only once every year or two. She was the only one who visited me regularly, and because she lived far away, she could only come once a month at the beginning. When she came, she brought cigarettes, food, and other necessities… naturally, there was no shortage of them, so at the time, I looked forward to her like a goddess descending to earth. Back then, I made my deepest apology to her, saying that when I got out, I would definitely take her to live a good life. I also said "I love you" and "We want to be together." Looking back now, those words were true, but their shelf life was short, and they easily spoiled. I went to the labor camp. Only a fool wouldn't want to get out. In the labor camp, sentence reductions were quick, the food was good, there was fatty meat to eat, and a small subsidy enough to buy two packs of cigarettes. We often went out to work, enjoying the sunlight and the breeze. We could also enjoy "exercise" inside. However, it was in a cage-like room, where people were confined like livestock, the purpose being to prevent us from getting moldy and growing mildew. "You only know what you've got when you lose it." Before, I valued freedom highly. But now I know how precious it is. Even a beggar is worthy of my envy, and I yearn for a free life. Inside, I thought a lot; dreaming about the "future" was a good way for me to pass the time. I really wanted to be a decent "person" and live a "happy" life with her. I'm almost out. I did well inside. I was very generous; I always shared everything she brought me, and I never bullied anyone, nor did I allow anyone else to bully anyone. They envied me, saying I was lucky. Their wives, even a tenth as beautiful as her, wouldn't have been wasted on their time together. I was proud. I longed for her. They were too; with her money, I had friends help me pull strings, I got off the plane three times, and was released six months early. We still lived together. But this time, I wanted to walk the right path. She was still a prostitute, working hard to earn money. I used her savings from selling her body over the years, plus the 100,000 yuan she borrowed from various sources, to buy a truck for short-haul driving. I drove like crazy; irregular sleep made me lose 20 pounds, just to pay off the truck money (partly her savings from selling her body, partly from her friends) and my gambling debts (from my once-loving relatives). We tried every possible way to cut back on expenses. She stopped shopping and even ate very little at meals, claiming she was on a diet, leaving the rest for me, saying she knew driving for long periods was exhausting. That period, though tough, was the happiest time of our lives. I said if we could hold on for two more years, we'd run away together. We bought a car, and I moved out of her place. I couldn't stand the hardship because I was a scoundrel. Why not enjoy the good life? Pay back the money? To hell with it. With some capital, I speculated and sewed. I'd do anything to make money; causing trouble was something only petty thugs did, and fooling around at my age was just stupid. A man's life is like a twilight, and I couldn't miss this "noon" in my life. After some effort, I made some money. If I didn't have to pay back the money, I could live a very comfortable life. She often came to see me, but never mentioned paying back the money. I tried to distance myself from her, perhaps because things were getting better and I wanted to kick her aside. Seeing her made me uncomfortable; the air seemed to reek of filth and decay, and I felt an indescribable disgust. She noticed. But what could she do? Maybe this was just my true nature. I've blamed myself before, but it's too late to change. Until one day, I lost my temper and hit her. She cried, calling me inhuman, a beast with no conscience. I fell in love with a girl. It was because she had a large family; she was a lucky charm for my financial future. But one day, this girl broke up with me for no apparent reason. After some questioning, I learned she had come to my place and told her everything about my past. I was furious. I went to find her. The entertainment center said she hadn't been to work in a long time. I returned "home." I hadn't been back in a long time, but the lock was still the same. I opened the door with the old key. The house was messy and filled with a mixture of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and perfume. She was lying there watching TV, looking haggard. Even I felt sorry for her; after all, she had traded her youth for money, and all that money had gone to me. These past few years as a prostitute had ravaged her body and soul, and I had deeply wounded her heart. I felt a pang of guilt; it was all my fault, after all, my conscience hadn't been completely eaten away. She seemed surprised to see me, but when she learned I hadn't eaten dinner, she was overjoyed and prepared something for me. In the kitchen, I explained my purpose, and we started arguing again. I said she had ruined my future, and she said I had ruined her life. She cursed at me, talking about how much she had sacrificed for me, how burdened she was by these debts… she wanted to sever all ties with me and demanded I repay her immediately. I initially intended to repay her, but living together was impossible; perhaps I would offer her some material compensation. But enraged, I smashed a teacup over her head, yelling, "Repay me? Where's the proof of the loan?" She was stunned, saying she would sue me if I didn't repay. I said, "Go ahead. Go ahead and sue me. I'll wait for you," and slammed the door shut as I left. With my current social connections, could a weak, out-of-town woman like her possibly bring me down? What a joke! I continue to live a respectable life. People used to call me "boss," now they call me "manager." I've infiltrated high society. I'm well-connected in both the legitimate and underworld circles. She didn't report me, nor did she come looking for me again. I was too busy to notice her; I forgot about her in a corner of my mind. Then, at the banquet, she arrived. She was a different person altogether. Her hair was disheveled, she had deep crow's feet and dark circles under her eyes, and a dirty bandage covered her head as she stormed in, fuming. She was there to cause trouble. She cried, shouted, yelled, overturned tables, kicked chairs, and berated me mercilessly. Anyone who tried to stop her was attacked. She acted like a shrew in the street, yelling and waiting for me to hit her. Everyone present was a respected figure. Could I possibly lay a hand on her? Embarrassed and unsure what to do, I forcibly pulled her away. She came looking for me again, this time on the street. I didn't hit her then either. It wasn't that I didn't want to, it was that I couldn't, because of my status. I took 80,000 yuan to find her. She was still living there, the locks still the same. When I came in, she was curled up in a corner, covered with a thick blanket, the bandages on her head gone, replaced by an ugly scar. Her appearance made me laugh. I threw the money on her blanket and said, "I'll pay you back, stop bothering me. Whatever you want, I'll compensate you." Then I turned and left. She threw money at the back of my head, scattering it everywhere, coldly saying, "You think you're so great just because you have money? You'll never be able to pay me back..."She didn't come looking for me again, as expected. I dated several other women. The wealthy ones cared about my background, the poor ones about my wealth. They were worldly-wise, making me think only 16 or 17-year-old girls were truly innocent and adorable. But I was already 30. I was scammed. Someone I considered a brother swindled me out of almost half my savings. From then on, I stopped believing in any feelings; they were all based on self-interest. I fell ill. Although many people came to see me, they were all there for work; the insincere small talk wasn't what I needed. What I needed was genuine care, from the heart. I felt a sense of loneliness. I thought of her, but I was rational; I knew our relationship wouldn't end well. I went to see her again, this time with 40,000 yuan. I wasn't exactly well-off after being scammed, but this would give me some peace of mind. This time, she didn't say anything. But she didn't even glance at the money. I thought it was over. But no. She came again. I was having dinner with clients. To my surprise, she was still somewhat disheveled, her face expressionless. She didn't bother me. But I was afraid she might cause trouble, so I forcibly pulled her out. I talked to her a lot, but she seemed to be ignoring me. I continued talking, and suddenly a gleaming sharp knife appeared in her hand, which she swung at me, saying she would kill me. A dagger can be deadly, but she was, after all, a woman. She only swung it at me. I was cut by her sudden attack. But I still managed to knock her to the ground. I hit her hard. Because I only cared about myself, about my own life. She couldn't hurt me anymore. She committed suicide. She cut her wrists and brandished the knife to prevent anyone from approaching. Blood was everywhere. Everyone present was stunned, including me. At that moment, I realized that there was still someone willing to risk their life for me. I rushed over, getting cut several times before I managed to take the knife from her. I held her hands down, hoisted her, who was almost as light as a chicken, onto my shoulder, and had only one thought: get her to the hospital. Reaching my car, I realized I couldn't drive because I had to hold her wound in place with one hand. Driving with one hand? No way, she wouldn't obediently come to the hospital with me. I flagged down taxis several times, but who would dare take two blood-soaked people in a car? I was still carrying that sharp knife; I'd probably forgotten to throw it away in my nervousness. I was going crazy. Luckily, a knowledgeable friend from the underworld came to my rescue. At the hospital, she still refused to cooperate with treatment and was forcibly injected with sedatives… For the next while, I quit my job and stayed with her every day, afraid she might do something foolish again. But we rarely spoke. Because I didn't want to deceive her anymore; without lies, there was nothing to say. I had forgotten how to tell the truth. I only wanted to show her through my actions that I accepted her. I said that as soon as she recovered, I would take her far away. She laughed and said, "Are you willing to give up your current achievements and start over with me in a strange place?" I said yes, and she laughed again. I told her to trust me, I wouldn't hurt her again, I would take her with me, for the rest of my life, and to give me one more chance, the last one. She smiled happily, a smile that left me somewhat bewildered. She was almost fully recovered, looked healthy, and seemed to be in good spirits. A big, lucrative business opportunity came my way, but I didn't pursue it; I stayed with her. She urged me to go back to work, not to worry about her, saying it was just a momentary impulse. I told her I would pick her up from the hospital. On the day of her discharge, I went to pick her up, and the nurse told me she had left that morning. I asked who she had gone with, and the nurse said she had left alone. She had gone "home," I knew her. I returned "home," and the house was still so messy. The landlord said he hadn't paid rent in a long time and asked if I still wanted to stay… I searched everywhere for her, but she seemed to have vanished into thin air. Perhaps she had gone to clear her head; she would definitely come back, I knew her. I found the nurse and asked if she had left anything behind. The nurse shook her head. I thought she would come back, I knew her. I returned to my busy work, but I thought of her constantly. It's been a long time; I should go back "home" and see. I found the house tidy and spotless. I was overjoyed—she had come back! I waited for her "home," knowing she would return; I understood her. But she never appeared again. I was disappointed. I even considered searching, but in this vast sea of people, where could I find her? I became successful again, but the wealthier I became, the emptier I felt. I realized then that I truly had nothing. I was lonely. And I couldn't bear this loneliness any longer. I tried not to think about her, but the more I tried, the more her shadow surrounded me. The more time I had, the lonelier I felt. I felt like a soulless shell, living a mechanical life, working hard, constantly making money, making money, never letting myself be idle, numbing myself with alcohol and cigarettes. She never came back. Perhaps I didn't understand her? She just left? Left without leaving anything? Not even a note. Where did she go? What city could take in a woman like her? Is she doing well without relying on her? Am I still being deceived...? I can't deceive myself anymore. I need her. I went to find her, to the town where she was born. It's not a very big town. I found her house, but only met her beastly stepfather. I didn't hit him, because he was already a terrible old man. Maybe I'll be like that soon. I even found the person who cheated me, but I still couldn't find her. I bought back the old "house" through some means. There, I hung up that wedding photo, placed a potted plant on the table, and a very conspicuous note. I went there almost every day to water the plant. Every time I opened the door full of hope, my hands trembled. The door opened, and everything inside was the same as before, but I would search through it, trying to find a trace that would excite me. There was nothing but disappointment and helplessness. You only know how to cherish something when you lose it. Only those who have lost something can understand my feelings. I want to say: if God gave me a chance to start over, I would... but I will never have the chance to say it. I owe her, just as she said, I can never repay, never. This debt is suffocating me. The flower died, died for no apparent reason. The "home" has been sold, along with the furniture. The paperwork was completed yesterday. The "home" no longer belongs to me. I begged the landlord to let me stay one more night. My last night. As I typed this on the computer, dawn broke. Dawn comes so early. And I must leave. Loneliness is God's punishment for me; I confess. I will be alone for the rest of my life, burdened with a debt I can never repay. I hum a song and light a cigarette.I can't deceive myself anymore. I need her. I went to find her, to the town where she was born. It's not a very big town. I found her house, but only met her beastly stepfather. I didn't hit him, because he was already a terrible old man. Maybe I'll be like that soon. I even found the person who cheated me, but I still couldn't find her. I bought back the old "house" by some means, and there, I hung up that wedding photo, placed a potted plant on the table, and a very conspicuous note. I went there almost every day to water the plant. Every time I opened the door full of hope, my hands trembled. The door opened, and everything inside was the same as before, but I would search through it, trying to find a trace that would excite me. There was nothing but disappointment and helplessness. You only know how to cherish something when you lose it. Only those who have lost something can understand my feelings. I want to say: if God gave me a chance to start over, I would… but I will never have the chance to say it. I owe her, just as she said, I can never repay, never. This debt is suffocating me. The flower died, died for no apparent reason. The "home" has been sold, along with the furniture. The paperwork was completed yesterday. The "home" no longer belongs to me. I begged the landlord to let me stay one more night. My last night. As I typed this on the computer, dawn broke. Dawn comes so early. And I must leave. Loneliness is God's punishment for me; I confess. I will be alone for the rest of my life, burdened with a debt I can never repay. I hum a song and light a cigarette.I can't deceive myself anymore. I need her. I went to find her, to the town where she was born. It's not a very big town. I found her house, but only met her beastly stepfather. I didn't hit him, because he was already a terrible old man. Maybe I'll be like that soon. I even found the person who cheated me, but I still couldn't find her. I bought back the old "house" by some means, and there, I hung up that wedding photo, placed a potted plant on the table, and a very conspicuous note. I went there almost every day to water the plant. Every time I opened the door full of hope, my hands trembled. The door opened, and everything inside was the same as before, but I would search through it, trying to find a trace that would excite me. There was nothing but disappointment and helplessness. You only know how to cherish something when you lose it. Only those who have lost something can understand my feelings. I want to say: if God gave me a chance to start over, I would… but I will never have the chance to say it. I owe her, just as she said, I can never repay, never. This debt is suffocating me. The flower died, died for no apparent reason. The "home" has been sold, along with the furniture. The paperwork was completed yesterday. The "home" no longer belongs to me. I begged the landlord to let me stay one more night. My last night. As I typed this on the computer, dawn broke. Dawn comes so early. And I must leave. Loneliness is God's punishment for me; I confess. I will be alone for the rest of my life, burdened with a debt I can never repay. I hum a song and light a cigarette.

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She's a prostitute, and I'm a scoundrel.

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