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The morning began as any other, except when he went to rise from his bed, Wen Ruohan was – not surprised (for later he would say he had seen it coming, had always expected that it would happen, though perhaps it should have been shocking that it occurred before his death), but perhaps mildly perturbed to find that what he had secretly feared had always happened, and he had been transformed, by the will of the gods (for who else could it be) into a cockroach.
An enormous cockroach, to be clear, the size of a man, for he could see his spindly insect arms and legs waving as he tried to right himself from where he lay in his bed, grunting with the exertion before rolling, properly, onto his front, beetle-like appendages clicking on the floor as he made his way first to the mirror (to verify what he had already guessed), then to the door, where he could hear the household stirring, those servants as set to wait upon him ready to begin their day.
He meant to tell them, “do not enter”, but those of the household staff, well-trained and used to the whims of their master (and perhaps fearing what would happen if there was some disruption in servitude, for dismissal from Wen Ruohan’s employ was hardly the worst thing that could happen to them, should they anger him) pressed in before he could, freezing as they saw what had befallen him.
This, of course, only served to anger him, righteous fury burning in his veins, for – cockroach or not – he was their master, and it was their duty to wait upon him, deferring to him no matter what shape he took.
“Well?” he said, impatient. “What is the matter?”
The serving-man before him (the one who was tasked with his morning rituals today – for they drew lots, he suspected, to see which of them was required to wait upon him) quavered.
“Answer me.”
But the servant, who was perhaps used to Ruohan-the-man (and so inured to his many foibles, aware of what would await him if he did not obey) had no defenses against Ruohan-the-cockroach, and thus ran, dropping the tray he carried in his hands, the porcelain tea set upon it shattering as he fled, screaming for all to hear that some evil magic had befallen the master of the house, and thus they had been invaded by a demon or worse.
Whatever shame he might have felt, that he had sinned so gravely as to be turned before his death into that lowest of forms, evaporated upon hearing the discussion this began at his door: what had happened to him and what should be done for him, as though it was a curse and not the inevitable conclusion to the arc of his life. He threw the door open (or attempted to, for his insectoid legs were not designed for such tasks), glowering at the lot of them, antennae waving as he said:
“I am so for I willed it so. Do not let it upset the order of the household. Where is my breakfast? Why has all work come to a halt?”
The staff scattered at this, for they were well-trained (which is to say, afraid of him, as they had been taught to be), leaving him standing in the doorway, aware of his changed form, not saddened, the way he might otherwise have been, but filled with the sort of self-righteous indignation that he had no claim to, being in a situation entirely of his own making.
“See to it!” he shouted down the hall, before returning to his quarters, sliding the door closed behind him.
One of the servants came in not longer after, his hands shaking as he bore the breakfast tray that had been requested, a new pot of tea upon it.
“Clean up the mess,” said Ruohan, as he set it down, still trembling. “Tell the others: I expect no disruption to service in my household. That is an order.”
But the servant, who had not flown to pieces at the sight of him, fled again without sweeping up those porcelain shards of the teapot nor picking up the tray, so disturbed was he at what had befallen his master – and how his master spoke to him.
“Breakfast, then,” said Ruohan, eyeing the tray. “And then we shall see to putting things in order.”
He had finished that which had been prepared for him (servant’s fare, mostly, for it consisted of congee ladled hastily into a bowl, cha tsai in a dish to the side). He ate, not as a man would (for he could not hold a spoon nor chopsticks), but by picking up the bowl and tipping it into his mouth, mandibles clacking, aware that he had made a mess of himself, porridge spilled all down his face. It was here that the despair began to win again, for – as useful as it was to frighten the servants – if he could not so much as feed himself, what was the use of him? What use could he be, if he could not move as a man did, if he lacked even that basic dexterity?
It was as he sat mourning his fate that Qin Yaling entered his room. She did not knock, for the door had been left slightly ajar by the servant in his flight, bouncing off that frame as he slammed it shut, such was his fear and loathing of what had become of his master.
He looked up to her, aware of the mess on his face, and realized the error in his calculations. Servants might be frightened, as well as other household staff and underlings, but his wife –
Ruohan had always privately suspected that Qin Yaling would, eventually, leave him. He was aware of what he was, and knew too that she was aware as well, and so there was no question in his mind that someday she would find a way back to what living family she had remaining, leaving him to his ruination, for he knew she did not love him, or not in truth. Whatever respect she held for him would, of course, be destroyed upon seeing him as a cockroach, and as he was not fearsome (or not fearsome enough to bring even the servants in line, changed as he was), he expected that she would not be cowed into staying.
“I see you have changed,” she said, before he could speak.
There was a cloth upon the table, and so she took this into her hands, wiping away what porridge was upon his face as though he was a child or an invalid, incapable of caring for himself. Setting this aside, she took a seat beside him, studying him, her head tilted as she looked upon him as though weighing what to do with him.
Some fear took him, as she studied him, for she alone he had not been able to hide from, not in all the years of their marriage. She had seen his soul, he knew, and while the others might have thought it a curse, the work of some foul magician, she at least would know what it was: nothing more than his fate, arriving ever so slightly earlier than expected.
“Qin Yaling,” he began. “I will –”
Before he could speak the words, I will release you from our marriage, she nodded, as though she had reached some conclusion.
“Fascinating,” she said. “Are you truly a cockroach?”
“I am,” he began. “I –”
But here, again, he was interrupted.
“I must study you.”
He blinked at this, antennae twitching again, rubbing over one another – a nervous habit that he had not trained this body out of. “Study,” he said. “I will free you – divorce you so that you may leave, go to live with your younger brother, for I have sinned –”
She blinked at this, as though she did not expect it, though how could she not? “Why?” she said. “Have I displeased you in some way?”
Ruohan sat with this, ruminating over it, as she continued:
“You are a marvelous specimen, and I should quite like to study you. Some species can live for weeks without their heads, you know – do you think you might be among them?”
“I do not know,” he said tersely. “I look forward to finding out.”
“Oh, good.” She raised one hand, touching his face gently, her thumb stroking along his mandible. “I suppose we shall discover it together.”
“You are not upset?”
“No?” Her brows knit together. “It is a wonderful opportunity. I would prefer not to be denied it, after all.”
“My body has come to reflect my soul,” he said, hoping to make her understand. “A wonderful opportunity –”
“Yes,” she said. “Let me fetch the tape measure.”
She rose from her seat, leaving him blinking at her words, wondering what it was that she meant, study – for her knew of her specimens, of course, but had not thought to become one of them.
Perhaps I always was, he thought. To another man, this would not have been comforting, but to Wen Ruohan, it answered some private question he had always possessed, lurking in the back of his mind: does Qin Yaling care for me, truly?
He had seen the way she cared for her specimens, studied them and spoke of them with pride. He was aware of the experiments she had done, of course, the care and attention she paid to each of them.
Yes, he thought.
And so he sat at that table, breathing slowly, antennae no longer twitching, and waited for his wife to return, and measure him.