Power Up, Artist Yang!

For five years, since he was seven, he had lived in her world, believing her every word. Now, after arriving at the truth, he still had to see her. He still wanted to know.

The day began like every other day. The two of them sat at the table, reading the books she always looked through.

Zixu stared at the scrawled notes of his mother. What seemed like unexplained, illogical desperation back then now all made sense, if he accepted that she was insane. Except, he just couldn't. A part of him still wanted to believe her, despite every other fact pointing him towards the truth.

She had been living in her own world of lies, and at some point, he had become just as delusional. She was afraid of the others who always sought after taking her life. He was afraid of losing the possibility of every faded memory of the mother he knew.

"Mother," he started, his voice barely a whisper, "I visited Father's courtyard yesterday."

She dropped the book in her hand, staring at him with wide, wide eyes. "Why did you? It's dangerous there. You shouldn't have. No, no."

"It's dangerous? He'll kill me?" He repeated the things that she had told him so many times in the past.

"He will. He will kill both you and me. He has the capability of doing so. They have the capability of doing so," she insisted, wide-eyed.

"Mother," Zixu breathed, "why are you lying to me? Why are you lying to yourself? The person you claim to be someone who wants your life is my father. He's your husband. He won't hurt any of us. You should know that, deep down inside, don't you?" 

"What are you saying?" She shook her head, muttering "no"s between her sentences. She stood up now, backing away, still shaking her head. "Who told you these things? Why don't you believe me? Why would I be lying to you?" she yelled.

Zixu stood up as well. He did not expect this escalated response. The words he wanted to say were now stuck in his throat.

She moved closer to him, grabbing his shoulders. Her nails of the hands clutching his shoulders dug into his back so tightly that even through the fabric of the robes, he could feel them. He tried to flinch away, but she held him there, shaking him.

"When did you become like this?" she continued to scream, "Didn't you say that you would believe me? Didn't you say that you would trust me?"

"If that's the case, didn't you say that you would also trust me?" Zixu shouted back, voice cracking. The sound of his heartbeat was pounding in his ears. "If what you said back then had any sort of value, then— then— why don't you believe me when I tell you the truth? No one is trying to hurt you, Mother. No one in the world!" 

She shook her head faster than before, crying out, "You don't understand! You don't understand anything— you— you…"

He fell back, staggering as he lost his balance and hit the floor.

When he looked at his mother, she was frozen in place. She was still staring at him with those wide, stretched out eyes, but her gaze felt different. 

"You've… become just like them," she quietly said, voice hoarse. "You're trying to hurt me too, aren't you?"

"Mother, why can't you hear what I'm saying?" he cried. His entire body was shaking.

She continued, wrapping her arms around herself, "In the end, you were no different than them."

"I just want to go back to how things used to be. Doesn't Mother remember the days where we'd take walks through the fields and sit underneath the magnolia trees? Why can't… why can't we go back to then?" 

"No," she shook her head, nothing but bitterness left in her eyes. "No."

"Mother." He took a step forward, reaching out.

She backed away by another step. "Leave," she commanded, voice rising again. "Leave." 

He could do nothing but listen.

As he walked out of the courtyard, servants stopped in their paths. They surely heard what had happened. His mother's outbreak had been loud enough. Except, none of them reached out to ask if Zixu was alright or offer help in any way.

Nearing his courtyard, as well as Ziyang's courtyard, he saw his baby brother standing at the arch entrance, holding a toy ball. 

Zixu looked at his brother, stopping in his steps. His pitiful, sickly younger brother, who from just three or so years old, was abandoned by their mother.

"What's wrong, Older Brother?" Ziyang asked, hesitation clear. Even someone as young as an eight-year-old Ziyang could tell that something had happened.

Zixu realized that he had tears running down his face. He reached a hand up, wiping the tears and looking at his hand with surprise.

"Nothing is wrong," he managed to choke out. "Nothing at all." 

Seeing the amount of concern in Ziyang's eyes, he wiped at his tears again until nothing was left on his face. Then, he put on a perfect, calm smile, reaching forward and patting his brother's head.

"See?" he continued, still wearing that smile, "Nothing is wrong."

…

He went to his father, who suggested that Zixu would go with one of his uncles, a younger brother of his father, on a business trip. Zixu agreed.

It turned out that the trip was just what he needed. His uncle was a lighthearted, carefree man, always having a laugh on his lips. Taking a look at the world outside of the villa that he was trapped in made Zixu feel like a bird let out of a cage. It was beautiful to see the nature, the cities, and the sights.

There were certainly parts of the trip that were new experiences for Zixu. For example, he watched and learned how to start a fire from his uncle, though anytime he tried without his uncle's assistance, he just couldn't get the fire going. It was alright. He could practice more later on, he thought. 

Zixu was genuinely happy for the brief three weeks that the trip took. He hadn't felt such pure, unfiltered joy in so long.

In the end, nevertheless, he should've known that the trip was just the calm before the storm. It was the good before the bad.

…

When he returned to the villa, he went to his father immediately, sharing everything that he had seen and experienced on the trip. Ziyang was there too, and Zixu was brimming with enthusiasm to talk about what had happened.

Remembering his mother, Zixu did hesitate. He didn't know if he should visit her or not.

However, after giving it much thought, he decided to enter her courtyard. He wanted to see her. Despite what had happened, she was still his mother. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to tell her his experiences on the trip, like he did with his father and brother.

Yet when he walked in, she had a knife held up to her own throat.

Zixu froze and yelled out, almost immediately, "Mother!"

At the sound of his voice, she looked up, the hand holding the knife faltering. "You're here," she murmured, "You came back."

"Mother, please let go of the knife. Please." He held his hands up in front of him. He could not fully process what was happening in front of him, but he knew one thing for sure. He needed her to drop the knife.

It was a moment that he never expected to happen. It was almost as unbelievable as a dream. Yet there was no doubt that this moment was reality. What he saw before his eyes was the complete truth.

She slowly shook her head. "You should not have come here." 

"You don't have to do this," he pleaded.

"I was planning to do this for a while now." Her grip around the handle of the knife tightened.

He needed to call for help. He needed someone— anyone— to stop her. He took a step forward, ready to grab the knife from her himself, yet she noticed and pushed the knife a little closer. The tip of the blade seemed to already dig into her skin.

Everything horrifying— every single moment of his life that caused any fear within him— could not compete with the dread that overcame him at this singular moment.

Desperation filling his eyes, Zixu dropped to his knees. "I'm begging you, Mother. Please let go of the knife. Please don't do this. Please. Please."

"I can't do this anymore," she replied, voice soft. The usual tremble she may have held in her words was gone. "I can't live like this anymore."

"I'll do anything," he begged, "just let go of the knife. Things will get better. I promise, Mother, I promise." 

She shook her head again. "No. I don't need anything." 

He looked into her eyes. He had never seen them with such clarity before. Her gaze almost reminded him of the past mother he knew. She was truly awake, conscious of her actions, and calmly accepting them. 

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I'm sorry, Zixu. But I have to do this."

"You don't," he pleaded.

She smiled now.

She smiled, for the first and last time.

He saw the mother he knew again. Perhaps it was because of his faded, almost disappearing memories, or because of the trick of time, but he realized that the bittersweet distant smile was perhaps the smile she had worn all along, the smile that he had associated with her and viewed as untainted happiness back then.

"I'm so tired; did you know?" she whispered.

And then, before he could even react, she plunged the knife into the side of her own throat.

She did it with unflinching force, her smile unfaltering. As she crumpled to the side, he rushed forward, grabbing her as she fell.

Crimson blood was flowing everywhere, much, much more than he had anticipated. It stained his hands, his clothes. Death was a much slower process than he had anticipated as well. He cried and yelled for help, but none came in time.

In his arms, as her heartbeat slowly drained away, blood choking her breath, she looked at him for one last time. Then, gently, she closed her eyes.

They told Zixu, later on, when a servant rushed into the courtyard, that she looked like she was at peace.

He still could not forget that image, though, of the knife sinking into her throat, the way her face looked in that moment of time. He could not forget his powerlessness. He could not forget her blood on his hands.

They assured him that it wasn't his fault. They said that he did everything that he could.

Still, he couldn't help but blame himself. If he didn't go on the trip, if he was just a little more patient with her, if he was just a little more assuring, then she wouldn't have gotten to the point of taking her own life.

It was all his fault.

At the funeral, his younger brother weeped. Even his father shed a tear.

Yet Zixu, despite all the tears he had cried when holding his mother's dying body, could not force out a single teardrop.

He felt numb. Detached. 

From that day forward, he had changed. He constructed a solid wall around his heart, not just to protect himself, but to protect others as well.

It was his fault, after all. 

It was all his fault.