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The room around him, the one he’d been living in for weeks, or months? Months. It’s been months. The dingy one-bedroom with a communal toilet and a nice view of a brick wall. Initially, Mo Ran had wanted a higher-up room. Something nicer, maybe? A few stories higher and the room would’ve been resold by now. Alas, here was his living situation in a two-story high apartment complex.
The kitchen and the bedroom were separated by a thin wall that sprouted from one side of the rectangular room and reached halfway to the opposing side.
Mo Ran never lingered in the kitchen, only staying long enough to heat up shitty food or to set things down. He was so good at cooking, what happened, anyway? The floor could hardly be described as such, as it was so littered with trash the original tile couldn’t be seen. Can’t cook with a floor like that, It’s not his fault!
His bedroom floor was lined with gray-turned-yellow polyester carpet. Bugs festered in every corner of the room, every stain and alcohol spill was coated in a green or white fuzz. The bed, better described as the stained mattress that sat tucked in the corner on the floor, was where Mo Ran had spent roughly ninety-percent of the last couple of months. Directly next to it, sat a reflective metal garbage can.
That same garbage can was one he (almost always) emptied at least once a week, yet there were still remnants surrounding the sides. Remnants of his ejecta staining the carpet with a yellow sludge, a mix of his bodily fluids and mold. They served as reminders of his own pigheadedness, his adamant refusal to move at times. There was nobody here but himself, who was he trying to impress?
Before Mo Ran had moved, he’d talked to his uncle. He told him he planned to move to a new city, to try again, to move on. Xue Zhengyong understood, he couldn’t live in that city anymore. Mo Ran had promised to call.
He’d tried, for a while. At first. It had just been missing a few calls. “I’m sorry I was so busy” (Busy with what?) A quick apology served as an explanation. A few calls turned into only ever answering texts. “I’m sorry, my reception isn’t all that great” (What’d changed since the last call?) A simple explanation, it made sense. The length of time between each text elongated. “I don’t like using my phone much anymore. Still so busy!” (Still?) Eventually his texting schedule dwindled down to his phone sitting neglected in the kitchen.
There are more important things to pay for than the phone bill, it didn’t matter all that much.
When Mo Ran had first arrived, he went to bars more often than not. Maybe to meet somebody new? He pretended that was why. He had met a girl, once, though. She had talked to him about her late fiancé, he’d passed away before they could ever get married. She’d offered him a smile and a cigarette. He stopped going to bars after that. Why did he prefer bars, again? He could handle cheap liquor just fine.
Instead of spending money on entry fees and artificially sweetened, fancy alcohol, he just bought it directly from the store. And yeah, maybe he did pick up smoking again, too. It wasn’t hurting anyone.
It was Chu Wanning who cared about him smoking in the house. So, he’d quit altogether.
Now his walls all had a yellow tint and a wretched scent.
Mo Ran stood in the doorway, his eyes sunken in and downcast. He knew he looked pathetic. He’d stopped looking in windows when he passed by, he could see his body just fine from up here, thanks. He wasn’t sure what his hair looked like anymore, the memories he had of it were when it framed his face nicely, making him look handsome. Doubtless, that’s the last thing people would call him now. He stood like a statue, until he regained his senses. He’d normally take his shoes off, it’s a good habit that he hadn’t broken.
It didn’t matter all that much now.
He lifted his gaze as he walked through the gap separating his bedroom from the kitchen.
Typically, he’d go to the store during the day so he didn’t have to turn the lights on to know where things were when he got home. He’d always just set things by his mattress, where he spent most days.
This time, Mo Ran went late at night. In order to not stumble and crash, he reached for the overhead light switch and turned it on. The old lightbulb flickered to life, dim despite its disuse. Carefully, he set the plastic bag filled with store bought items down on the counter, and swiftly took two of the items out of the bag, leaving the rest.
Although the kitchen was illuminated, his bedroom was still quite dark. Regardless, he walked over to the window. It was positioned on the other wall opposite his bed. It felt strange, now, standing where he’d typically be idly staring.
The only decoration throughout the flat, aside from the garbage littering the floor, sat on the windowsill. A dusty photograph, with an even dustier frame. Mo Ran hadn’t wiped it off or cleaned it, he couldn’t. He couldn’t bear to see the person shown inside, not until now.
Mo Ran crouched down before moving the objects he held in both hands so they were only held in his left. He slowly pulled the sleeve of his shirt over his right hand, before lightly tracing it over the photo.
His hands shook as he took one of the items, a candle, from his left hand, placing it next to the picture.
The photograph was soon illuminated as he took the other object, a match, and struck it against the rough strip lining the side of the box. He held the match up to the faded print inside the frame for a moment before lowering it to light the candle.
He stood up, walking back to the kitchen to pull the other objects out of the bag before coming back to the window.
Mo Ran sat down on his knees, looking down at the picture frame. And, yeah, maybe he wasn’t paying much attention to his hands. Said hands fiddled with the six bullets held within.
Now that he thought about it, his breathing sounded strange. Every intake, his lungs would rattle. He coughed once, twice, and soon he fell into a coughing fit. His hand automatically came up to cover his mouth, and, in doing so, he dropped one bullet.
It was ironic, how silly would he look with respiratory issues from nicotine, in front of the man he swore he’d quit for?
When Mo Ran finished coughing, finally, he began loading the bullets inside of the chamber. Of course he realized he’d lost one of the bullets, but who cares? Was this a game of roulette? He was not a lucky man.
The gun clicked as the cylinder locked into place.
Mo Ran opened his mouth wide, carefully placing the barrel of the gun inside so the muzzle aimed towards the inside of his skull.
He closed his eyes, and as his finger squeezed down on the trigger his face scrunched up.
It didn’t go off.
He opened his eyes, still alive.
It was obvious what had happened, but it was still strange.
He looked down at the photograph again. His husband, Chu Wanning, sitting at a bar, drinking god knows whatever artificially sweetened, fancy nonsense he’d ordered. His face was calm, beautiful. He was always beautiful. His long, silky hair cascaded down his back as he looked at the camera. He didn’t realize a photo was being taken, obviously. Chu Wanning would never let anybody take a photo of him, especially not like this, when he was smiling ever so slightly as he looked at Mo Ran with the most sickeningly loving, kind gaze.
As Mo Ran looked down at the picture, his finger pushed the trigger once more.
He thought,
‘Chu Wanning always liked the sweet drinks they served at the bar better.’