“Is this what you came to tell me today?” In just a few seconds, Finn had regained his composure, no longer as irritable as before. His eyes were cold and desolate, like graves in the dark night.
Elisa didn’t say much else. She handed the file bag she brought through the window. “These are the things Aoife left behind.”
As soon as Finn heard that it was left by Aoife, he quickly reached out and grabbed the file, clutching it tighter and tighter.
Visitation time was short, not leaving much time for Elisa to reminisce, and she had nothing to reminisce with Finn about. For scum like him, death was what he deserved.
“When you look at it, don’t cry. I’m afraid the dirty water that flows from your eyes will dirty Aoife’s belongings. But…” Elisa paused, sneered, and continued, “On the day you die, you can cry loudly, the louder the better, so that Aoife, who has been dead for two years, can hear it!”
It’s been too long since she died, so Finn, you have to cry loudly, preferably crying until your throat is hoarse, letting out all your regret, remorse, and self-blame.
Elisa stood up, patted the nonexistent dust off her skirt, and subconsciously looked at Finn’s legs as she left. She had noticed that something was wrong from the beginning.
Is Finn’s leg healed?
Elisa didn’t dwell on the thought. Whether good or bad, he couldn’t escape the execution two weeks later.
As she was about to leave, Elisa looked up. “The sunshine is beautiful today.”
Finn was locked up in prison and couldn’t take a single step outside. He couldn’t see the sky outside, so naturally, he couldn’t feel how beautiful the weather was outside. Even the strongest sunlight couldn’t warm him.
His coldness seeped from his heart, spreading from his hollow chest to his entire body, making his scalp tingle.
“I’m going back.”
Trembling, Finn stood up. Every step he took made a rustling sound. If one listened carefully, they would realize it wasn’t the sound of the handcuffs on his wrists.
He returned to his cell. As a death row inmate, he was in a solitary room with only a bed and a chair, with small items under the bed.
Finn sat on the chair, trembling hands opening the folder. As soon as he opened it, his eyes stung. At the top was Aoife’s diagnosis.
– Severe depression, with suicidal tendencies, needs immediate hospitalization.
So Aoife really did have depression, and it was severe. Elisa wasn’t just mocking him.
Severe depression, he knew about this illness… because his mother, that woman, died from it.
She cut her wrists and lay dead in the cold bathtub.
She struggled for five years but couldn’t make it through, and Aoife… couldn’t even make it past two years.
According to Elisa, she slept in a room filled with gas after taking an overdose of sleeping pills.
No one is unafraid of pain, and Aoife was afraid too. Just a few words from him would make her shiver all over, and if she accidentally stumbled upon the tormenting videos he had hidden, she would look like she was about to faint.
How could such a timid person swallow so many sleeping pills, turn on the gas, and quietly lie in bed waiting to die?
Finn’s eyes showed a hollow weariness as his trembling hands pulled out those pages from the file bag. The handwriting was clearly Aoife’s own.
Just like her, the handwriting was clean and beautiful.
In these handwritten stories by Aoife, there was a Mr. Snearl.
Starting from the beginning, Finn read word by word, and as he reached the end, it felt as though his soul was sinking deeper and deeper into the mire.
– Today is the ninth day since I left Mr. Snearl. He taught me how to survive, but also how to live as if life is worse than death.
The sky is very blue, the sunlight is warm. I thought I would be free once I got out, but in this world, there is no place for even me to exist, so how could there be freedom?
I bought a 50-square-meter small apartment. When I moved in, it felt empty, not because the house was empty, but because my heart was empty…
– Leaving Mr. Snearl
On the 52nd day, I still occasionally thought of him. Sometimes I felt like I was crazy. Clearly, he didn’t love me, but I still harbored unrealistic hopes. Just like a mended finger still aches, my love for him sank deep into my bones, hurting terribly on rainy days.
Today marks a hundred days since I left Mr. Snearl. Time has passed unexpectedly fast. Lately, the weather has been unpredictable. It’s been a long time since I dreamt of you. Online, it’s said that dreaming of someone three times means there’s no fate between you. But I’ve dreamt of you more than 60 times. Does that mean we’ll never meet, even in life and death? I don’t know why, but suddenly I feel a bit sorrowful.
On the 120th day, Mr. Snearl, I think I’ve made a mess. They say I’m at fault, but I don’t know where I went wrong. I didn’t flirt with the director, I didn’t ruin anyone’s relationship, I wasn’t two-timing, I didn’t slander anyone… I explained, but they didn’t believe me. You were right. A useless person like me isn’t suited to stay in a place like this.
I fear loneliness. When alone, my mind wanders, burdened by memories like a heavy stone pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe. The doctor told me I have depression. I asked the doctor if this illness can kill me. The doctor shook their head. Since it won’t kill me, why does she show sadness in her eyes for me? I don’t fear death, I just fear pain.
With depression, my memory seems to have deteriorated. I keep forgetting things, but I always remember one man’s name-Finn. He was my redemption, even though in the end, he lost me. Why did Mr. Snearl lose me? Maybe I couldn’t become the person he wanted, or perhaps I did something wrong, wasn’t good enough, upset him, and that’s why he handed me over to another man.
When I was young, my mom always said, “If you don’t listen, you’ll be thrown away.” So, maybe I wasn’t obedient enough…
On the 300th day after leaving Mr. Snearl, today, I saw someone cursing me as crazy. I wanted to argue, but I remembered the day I went to the hospital alone, and the doctor handed me my diagnosis: “Psychiatric Patient,” four big words that left me speechless. I wanted to cry, but couldn’t. I wanted to scream, but my voice vanished. I suddenly want to leave you, Mr. Snearl.
Mr. Snearl, would you be happy if you could exchange my death for Miss Powell’s return? May all your wishes come true. May the one you have in mind, Iris, come to you one day.
June 1st is Aoife’s birthday. On that day, she left a message on Twitter with only two words: “Goodbye,” bidding farewell to the whole world, and her comments were filled with thousands of insults. Not a single person wished her a “Happy Birthday.” She poured out all the sleeping pills she had saved and swallowed them all, turned on the gas, and lay on her bed in her favorite white dress. In her phone note, she left her words, “After I die, I am willing to donate my organs to those in need. Thank you to the kind person who helps collect my body. The money is under the pillow, take it.”
Finn read through the pages, tears welling up and falling onto the paper, smudging the words, his heart aching fiercely. It wasn’t even dark yet, but he couldn’t see anything. He wished he could press her words into his heart, briefly filling the void in his heart. He never knew such pain existed. Even when they amputated his leg and fitted him with a prosthetic, he never felt such pain, causing tears to flow.
“Aoife, I don’t want Elisa, I want you. Can you come back?”
Aoife wasn’t a replacement for anyone. Her hands weren’t meant to imitate another person playing the violin, but to write stories with a pen. Unfortunately, he realized it too late. The most painful thing in the world is when you remember someone fondly, only for them to suddenly disappear from your world, leaving you unable to find them. The prosthetics on his legs sank into his flesh, drawing blood and causing tremors of pain.
Finn read Aoife’s words tens of thousands of times, eventually memorizing them. For 13 days, he lived in a daze, the nights being the hardest. He held those few sheets of paper as if holding Aoife herself. Sometimes he felt as though someone was standing tenderly by his bedside, but every time he openedhis eyes, he found himself alone. It is said that the way a person dies reflects their ghost. Finn didn’t want to die as a cripple. He was afraid of not being able to catch up to Aoife. He had his legs amputated and fitted with prosthetics. With advanced medical technology, there was nothing that couldn’t be done.
On the day of the execution, Finn cried. Not because he was about to die, but as Elisa had said. He cried loudly, cried until his throat was hoarse, letting out his repentance, hoping Aoife could hear. He placed Aoife’s belongings, those few story-like pages, close to his heart, and cried with his head bowed, crying louder and louder, like a child who had lost the most precious treasure in the world.
Memories of the past played like old photographs in his mind, filled with both pain and joy, ultimately the most precious moments of his life. “Mr. Snearl, my name is Aoife, clear as clear can be.”
“Mr. Snearl, thank you for bringing me home.”
“Mr. Snearl, today I learned a lot. I can now play ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ on the violin. Do you want to hear it?”
“Mr. Snearl, what would you like to eat today?”
“Mr. Snearl, I’m very clean. I’m not dirty…”
“So, I was just a stand-in…”
“Mr. Snearl, once something is given away, it can’t be reclaimed.”
“Mr. Snearl, I’m leaving. Goodbye.”
“Mr. Snearl… Mr. Snearl… Mr. Snearl…”
Aoife was as clear as can be, standing before him in a pristine white dress. She smiled sweetly, extending her hand towards him. “Mr. Snearl, welcome home.”
“Very well, let’s go home.”
*Sound of a gunshot*