After Huang Xiaotao and I put on our masks, we sat across from each other at the table. She spoke first: "Honey, are you happy with today's meal?" Then she burst out laughing: "Sorry, sorry, it feels like we're playing house. I can't help but laugh. Let me try again."
Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she repeated seriously, "Honey, are you happy with today's meal?"
"Wife, your cooking keeps getting better," I replied casually, then paused to think what to say next. "By the way, did Mom go play mahjong again today?"
Huang Xiaotao nodded. "Yes, she went and actually won a few dozen bucks. She was so happy."
I couldn't help but smile wryly. "She usually loses hundreds, what's a few bucks? Don't let Mom go out so much. Staying home and watching TV is better."
"Go tell her that. I can't stop her. She just has her hobbies. And you're her son—do you really want to take that away from her?" Huang Xiaotao said.
"Sigh, I'm just worried she'll have an accident going up and down the stairs," I answered.
At first, our conversation was all staged, with pauses to figure out what to say next. But gradually, we slipped into our roles so naturally that our words flowed like a real married couple.
We chatted about daily trivialities. Huang Xiaotao even mimed eating. Strangely, the once pitch-dark room suddenly filled with light. Sunlight streamed through the windows, sounds of cooking came from the neighbors, children crying, dogs barking, and occasional cars passing by.
…
I felt like I was trapped inside a vivid dream. My mind detached from my body as I blurted out, "Honey, you're pregnant now, so take care of yourself. Next time, don't make such greasy food."
Across from me sat not Huang Xiaotao in her Jumo mask, but the deceased woman herself. She was in her forties, yet showed no signs of age, wearing a purple knit sweater and neatly combed hair—a dignified, virtuous wife.
She pouted playfully, "Every time I stew chicken or pig's trotters, you complain they're tasteless. You come home from work craving stir-fry and a little drink, don't you?"
I looked down at the table piled with stir-fried dishes. In front of me was a pot of warmed yellow wine and a small cup. I took a sip—the burning alcohol spreading through my mouth and throat felt incredibly real.
"For the baby, I'm willing to eat bland food for a few months. I'll quit smoking too. Secondhand smoke's bad for the baby," I said.
"Don't even know if it's a boy or girl. I hope it's a boy. We already have a daughter—a boy and a girl would be perfect," she replied.
I heard chewing beside me. Turning my head, I saw an elderly woman—the deceased's mother—silently eating.
How could this be so vivid? I could clearly see every detail, every move from the day of the crime.
I desperately recalled the prescription from the book: datura, longan, sage, aconite... Damn! That's no mood-inducing recipe—it's a hallucinogen. Ancestors, you lied to me!
But by then, I was fully immersed, my mind growing hazy. I savored the food and wine when suddenly, a sharp buzzing pierced my ears, like a razor drilling into my skull. My head throbbed painfully; I instinctively clutched it.
"Honey, what's wrong?" she asked worriedly.
"Maybe I caught a chill," I answered.
"I told you to wear thicker pants since it's cold. Didn't want to listen. Mom always said, 'Neglect your feet, frost will crown your head.'" She stood to close the window.
Suddenly, she sat down, clutching her head. The old lady stopped eating and moaned, clutching her own head.
The three of us sat at the table, trapped in an eerie haze.
I suddenly realized—the strange noise was the key to the case!
"My head…" she frowned, holding her head.
"Go close the window!" I ordered.
"I can't, my head hurts; I can't stand!"
"Close the window NOW!!!" I slammed the table.
"Don't yell at me!" she snapped, smashing her bowl into pieces. "You boss me around all day. Do you think this is easy? I quit my job to take care of you all, endless housework—look at my hands!"
"You ungrateful woman," I roared. "I work all day, bowing and scraping for clients, drinking till my stomach bleeds—all for this family! You don't appreciate it and accuse me of cheating! Ransacking my clothes!"
She flew into a rage: "Don't lie to me! You come home late, hide a phone—who doesn't know what you're doing?"
I pulled out my belt, snapping it loudly. "How dare you talk to me like that? I haven't laid a finger on you in years. You're getting worse. Today, I'll teach you a lesson."
"Hit me if you dare. I'm carrying your child!" she shouted, flipping the table with terrifying strength. Dishes rained down on me like a storm.
I raised my hand to shield my face, then swung the belt. She blocked my arm, snarling, lunging at me. I kicked her away.
The old woman trembled, patting the wheelchair armrest, pleading, "Stop… stop…"
Seeing her, I felt an unprecedented disgust. I yelled, "You're a burden! Because of you, I'm stuck raising a kid and caring for the old. The whole family's weight is on my shoulders! I spent our house money on your treatment while you waste it playing mahjong!"
Fueled by rage, I grabbed a pair of chopsticks and jabbed them fiercely into the old woman's eyes. The splinters pierced my fingers.
It felt like the chopsticks went through her eyeballs, straight into her brain.
Her screams nearly shattered my eardrums as she clawed wildly, scratching deep bloody lines into my arm.
In a fury, I lifted her and the wheelchair and threw them out the window.
With a crash, she fell to her death below.
My emotions swirled—relief, regret, confusion. Why did I kill my own mother? How did it come to this?
Then my arm went cold. The woman, hair disheveled like a demon risen from hell, wielded a sharp kitchen knife, wildly slashing at me.
I scrambled back, stepping on broken dishes. She screamed, "I'll kill you!" Her knife flashed like lightning, carving deep wounds into my arm and shoulder, flesh flayed open and ugly.
At first, the cuts didn't hurt, but the burning pain soon seeped into my bones. The agony unleashed my beastly fury. I kicked her away and dashed into the kitchen for a knife.
Suddenly, an unseen fist struck my face, sending something flying.
My vision blurred. The kitchen, blood, the screaming woman—all faded before my eyes…
"Song Yang, wake up!" Wang Yuanchao shook my shoulder fiercely.