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Murder
墨書 Inktalez
At this moment, as you turn this page, it feels as if you are sitting across from me, quietly listening to my tale.
On the table between us sit two wine glasses; yours is filled to the brim, while mine remains perpetually empty.
You look at me in confusion and ask, "If we have wine glasses, why aren't we drinking?"
I respond with a wry smile, "To find salvation."
"Salvation from what?" you inquire, curiosity piqued.
"Salvation from a memory of murder." I meet your gaze, and you chuckle, thinking I’m joking.
I can only smile helplessly in return before I begin to recount the story of this murder.
...
Before the murder, I heard a voice exclaiming, "Gosh!"
English!? I instinctively turned my head to look.
Yes, English. A man was speaking in English, with a strong London accent.
I've always had a fondness for British accents; they carry a sense of tradition and calmness that makes listeners feel honesty and security, as if one were by a not-so-scorching seaside, comfortably listening to the sound of the waves.
I wasn't particularly fond of American accents, especially when boys spoke with them. It always felt like they were pinching their noses and speaking in a way that made it seem like their underwear was too tight, constricting them to the point of breathlessness.
"Gosh!" the man repeated. In that moment, I was instantly captivated by his accent.
Of course, it was clear from his appearance that he was Chinese, but his English was quite good; he might have even spent some time abroad.
He had short hair that stood stiffly against his scalp, resembling steel wires. Who was he? What was his name? I had no idea.
Perhaps he had told me, but I simply couldn't remember.
All I recalled was the bar being filled with a cacophony of voices, the noise overwhelming, and the dim lighting creating a sense of confusion. In my memory, only his large eyes stood out, shining brightly with sincerity, just like his accent.
Wait, how did we end up speaking in English? I struggled to recall, and then it hit me—after downing three Margaritas, I had started to feel a bit lightheaded.
The sour taste of lemon in the drink reminded me of the unpleasantness I had experienced at work over the past few days.
I could no longer hold back; feelings of grievance surged within me, and a desire to confide began to swell in my heart.
At that moment, this man with the big eyes appeared just in time.
He ordered drinks from the bartender from Belarus in English, and his accent was particularly pleasant. It instantly bridged the gap between us and inexplicably made me feel more at ease.
To be honest, at that time, we were almost shoulder to shoulder at the bar.
I turned my head slightly to look at him and tentatively brought up the topic.
Later, after downing my fourth Margarita, the frustrations from work surged uncontrollably from the depths of my heart, like a flood breaking through a dam. To keep others from understanding, I began to vent to him in English about our stingy and irritable boss, the tedious and trivial tasks, and those petty, calculating colleagues who would even stab you in the back.
As we talked, I realized that my greatest resentment was still directed at our boss.
On that very day of my drunkenness, he had publicly scolded me, leaving me no dignity at all.
This was not the first or second time he had acted this way. He treated everyone in the company with the same rudeness and cruelty.
Fueled by alcohol, I told the boy that if heaven had eyes, our boss Zhao Yi would surely face divine retribution.
I also said that if I were a Martial Hero, I would definitely take Zhao Yi's head and restore happiness to the employees.
I remember that night we chatted so freely; it felt like we had known each other for ages.
After that, I got completely drunk and couldn’t remember anything.
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