Women are not angels.

Author: Xi Lingxue
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-09-01
Features: The person walking on snow cannot see their own footprints, which is very terrifying.
Daring not to turn back, yet turning back frequently, the fear in their heart accumulates, expands, and ultimately tears. They want to scream, but their throat feels as if it's being choked, the sound suffocating and distorted until it becomes inaudible. They hesitate whether to stop, but ultimately cannot help but run wildly, even if it's a thousand-foot cliff ahead, preferring to plunge headfirst into destruction and enjoy the sharp pain in the process, savoring reality in death.
Yet there is none. The direction of running is merely running itself; the snowfield is boundless.
Every step feels as if it's not reaching solid ground.
I merely want to destroy.
There is nothing left in life to pursue or expect; miracles never belong to me.
I merely want to destroy.
Last night, that woman came again, wearing a bright red satin coat and tying her hair in two high buns, in very strange attire. She murmured curses.
In truth, I have never seen her, but I know who she is.
Her face is indistinct, with blood slowly flowing from her eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, thick and bloody, gradually spreading out.
Her voice, that venomous and bloody curse, strikes my eardrums, chasing me through the snowfield. In her curses, the snowflakes in the sky turn bloody, as if they were blood.
For this, I turn the volume up to the maximum, hoping to drown out her voice.
“SundayisG100my,MyhourSareslumberless.”
The song I listen to is called "Black Sunday." A song about death, my favorite.
The voice of a ghost. Struggling from the ground to confess, as if calling, pleading, seeking someone to walk with her.
In legends, the water ghost who seeks a substitute, if it can sing, is like this.
I crouch, listening, sitting in the corner of the V8 booth, smoking, leaning against the speaker. The sound reaches my back first, then my ears.
First felt, then heard. A dual tremor of body and mind.
The cigarette tip flickers in the dark.
A faint light of stars. Because of that tiny bit of light, the darkness becomes even deeper.
It was merely around 8 or 9 in the evening, the outside world should be brightly lit. But time here is stagnant, the booth sealed, with only a door and no windows. Deep purple floor-length velvet curtains are drawn around, for both decoration and soundproofing.
I am wrapped like a cocoon in a deep purple thick velvet cocoon. Even if "Black Sunday" sings as sorrowfully as possible, it won't disturb anyone else's mood.
The V8 is near the deepest part of the corridor, the smallest, and the most damp. Sitting on the carpet in the dark to listen to music, one always feels as if unknown fungi are silently growing around, while other life is withering and rotting. Unless the place is full, few customers will choose this room.
If something happens, the staff will know to come here to find me. When there are no songs to sing and no customers asking, I am always here, smoking, listening to music. Occasionally, I may also curse.
At the "Night Angel Club," I am outwardly a singer, but secretly an uncrowned deputy manager, a favorite of the owner Gao Sheng, holding great power over life and death.
Even the manager, Miss Qin, fears me threefold.