How did I muster the courage to end my own life and ultimately take action?
In front of my house is a vast field, with a winding creek flowing through the middle. When I was young, I had to walk along the creek's bank for a long distance to get to school. After school, on the way home along the creek, my friends and I would fold paper boats, tanks, and balls to float down the stream. Sometimes we would also look for crabs in the creek; during the summer when the water was low, we could easily find them by turning over stones or reaching into small mud holes by the riverbank, where our hands might get pinched by crabs. When we were young, we were bold and not afraid of getting pinched. Later on, everyone started throwing garbage into the creek, and we would occasionally see a dead pig; the water became foul and dirty, and I never saw children catching crabs in the creek again.
My parents are both genuine farmers, and farming is their profession. Besides farming, they have a major interest in arguing. Throughout my childhood, my sister and I witnessed countless arguments between them. Each time, the reasons for the arguments were trivial, but they always escalated into a terrifying atmosphere that was unbearable for children. My mother has a loud voice and a fiery temper; during arguments, her voice would grow louder as she scolded my father, eventually cursing him, and when she got tired, tears would stream down her face, mixed with her sobs. Her voice would not be as loud as it was at the beginning. My father would glare fiercely at my mother, saying cruel things. He was not eloquent and could not speak as rapidly as my mother; he would occasionally say piercing words. Besides verbal attacks, they would sometimes push and shove each other, which terrified my sister and me. Most of the time, the arguments ended with my father softening; he could look fierce one day and the next day be as docile as a sheep, while my mother would usually lie in bed protesting by refusing to eat, and my father would plead with her in front of the bed. After several futile protests, my mother would threaten to divorce him, and at that moment, my sister and I would wonder who we would live with, our father or our mother. However, my father would generally not agree. My mother likely considered us, the two children, and in the end, she always backed down. A few times, my mother tried to drink pesticide, but each time she was discovered by my father before she could do it, and he would call my sister and me to plead with her, telling us to keep a close eye on her. Perhaps it was during those times that I unconsciously learned about the lethal nature of pesticides and seemed to know which ones were the most deadly.
The large field in front of my house is almost entirely planted with rice. In spring, the short seedlings make the whole field a lush green. I remember a villager who raised many ducks; during this season, his ducks would be driven out to roam around the vast field, laying eggs in certain places. If we found a duck egg in the field after school, we would be as happy as if we had won a prize. When autumn came, the rice in the entire field turned yellow. When the wind blew, it looked like rolling waves of yellow. By the time it was almost harvest time, the water in the fields dried up, and the rice plants grew tall, nearly reaching our height. Sometimes we would play in the rice fields, like walking through a maze, and if my father caught us, we would surely get a good beating.
Every summer, there would be a period when the rice fields lacked water, and we had to draw water from different sources. However, we didn't have to worry too much about the fields in front of our house lacking water because there were three deep wells in the field that could draw groundwater, and there was also a canal built in the middle of the field that could bring water from upstream. In flat areas, canals are easy to build, and water is relatively easy to draw. But in the fields on the mountain, the situation was not so good; water was generally drawn from the village's fish pond, and due to the high terrain, there were no better irrigation facilities, so families usually had to bring their own water pumps and hoses to draw water. Unfortunately, none of our fields were in the flat area in front of our house; they were all on the mountain behind our house, so every year, drawing water for the rice fields was a tough task.
There were a few large fish ponds owned by the village but contracted out to individuals. However, during the dry season, the contractors had to allow villagers to draw water from the ponds. Besides the villagers designated to draw water, anyone else, like people from neighboring villages, would be stealing water. Stealing water usually happened in the dead of night, so the contractors would sometimes patrol the ponds with flashlights. As for the villagers who were allowed to draw water, they could not do so continuously; otherwise, the water would be too low, and the fish would die. Usually, a few families would gather at the contractor's house to draw lots to determine when they could draw water. Our family once drew the lot for midnight, so we had to get up at midnight to set up the pump and keep watch to prevent any issues with the pump, as it could easily burn out if it ran dry. I remember that my mother and I moved a bamboo bed from our house to near the pump. We lay back on it, fanning away mosquitoes, with a sky full of stars above us.
That day, our family drew the lot to draw water from the afternoon until nightfall. After finishing lunch, we got to work; my sister held a roll of black rubber bands strung on a wire, while I carried a bamboo pole to connect the cables. My parents lifted a bundle of more than ten hoses, one in front and one behind. We set off toward the fish pond. Once there, my parents put down the hoses and went home to fetch the pump, while my sister and I arranged the hoses. The hoses stretched from the fish pond all the way to a field on the slope. My sister handed me a rubber band, and I inserted it into the metal groove at the end of the hose to connect it to another hose. A twist, and it was connected. The rubber band was mainly to prevent leaks at the joints, but sometimes it didn't work well, and occasionally using a stone to prop up the joint would stop the leaks. Most of the time, I could see at least one joint leaking, with water soaking the soil below and flowing down the slope. When the hoses were almost set up, my parents brought the pump. They placed the pump in the fish pond and connected the lines. My father used a bamboo pole to lift the wires to the village's power line; there were four wires: three live wires and one neutral wire. Our pump was a three-phase pump, so it needed three live wires. At that time, I couldn't tell which was the neutral wire and which were the live wires. Connecting the wires was dangerous due to the risk of electric shock, so my father usually did it. After connecting the wires, my parents would help me and my sister connect the hoses we hadn't finished. Once everything was ready, we could turn on the switch to draw water. The switch was a small sky-blue box with two rubber-covered buttons, one red and one green. Pressing the green button would keep it down, and the water would start to be drawn up.
Water could not be drawn directly from the fish pond to our fields; that would require many hoses. To save costs, we only drew water to the top of the slope and then dug a small canal on the other side of the field to guide the water from that field into our own. Since we had to draw water several times a year, the canal had long been dug; we just had to bring a hoe each time to check, clearing away new weeds and stones that had fallen in.
Each time we drew water, it took several hours. On the hillside, our family had four fields that needed water. At this time, my parents would go home, and my sister and I would stay behind, watching over the water. Once one field was nearly done, we would dig the canal for another field. We also had to ensure that the pump didn't run dry; otherwise, it wouldn't draw water, and running dry could easily burn out the pump. Additionally, if there was thunder, we had to turn off the pump immediately to prevent it from being struck by lightning. My parents would go home to do other farm work. My sister and I were happy to escape some heavy farm chores. We would usually find a shady spot under a tree, sitting there daydreaming, occasionally sitting in the shade in front of a neighbor's house.
It was the hottest time of summer; although the scorching sun wasn't directly shining on us, the surrounding humid air wrapped tightly around us, and we were sweating slightly. Occasionally, a gentle breeze would blow, making us feel extremely cool. From where we sat, we could overlook the entire field; the vast rice fields had some that had already turned yellow and others that were still partially green. In one spot, we saw a few people harvesting, and the rhythmic sound of the harvester broke the tranquility of that hot summer afternoon. Occasionally, we could hear the harvesters talking to those delivering rice on the road. By the creek in the village, we saw a yellow cow grazing on the grass by the riverbank. Sometimes it would raise its head, let out a long moo, and then lower its head to continue eating. The scattered houses in the distance and the utility poles standing throughout the fields were the only signs of modern civilization in this ancient village painting.
Very close to the fish pond lived a family that was in the same group as ours in the village. Their child was several years older than me and attended the same elementary school as my sister and me. He was quite famous at school. I remember the math teacher praised him in class, saying he was very smart and could recite pi to many decimal places. He was no longer in elementary school, and I don't remember which middle school he attended. We generally referred to his father as "Uncle." This uncle's house was a typical rural house made of mud bricks, with a central hall and rooms on either side. There were two columns on either side of the hall. The roof was covered with black curved tiles, providing shade in front of the hall, and outside was a relatively wide road. Across the road was a high dirt slope, and below the slope were the fields. A few trees grew on that slope, and in one spot, the uncle had built a simple trellis where a grapevine had climbed up, covering every corner. The vine bore clusters of grapes, some sparse and some dense. Sunlight filtered through the grape trellis, making the grapes look like translucent beads. My sister and I, seeing this scene, swallowed hard.
Speaking of grapes, I feel that the grapes from my house are the least tasty. They grow quite large, not very round, and the part connected to the stem is relatively pointed. The skin is not thick, and when unripe, they are very hard; when ripe, they soften a bit but are not very sweet. In comparison, my grandmother's grapes are much tastier; they are smaller but delicious when soft and ripe, with a sweet and sour taste. We often stood under her grape trellis, pressing each grape with our fingers and thumbs, and if we found a soft one, we would pick it, peel off a little skin at the connection, and squeeze the flesh into our mouths. The skin is relatively thick, and there would still be some flesh and juice inside. We usually pressed again to extract the flesh and juice from the skin, which was the essence of the whole grape. The grapes from the uncle's house behind my house are the best in my opinion, especially when they turn dark red; the juice is very sweet, and I almost want to eat the skin without washing it.
"Shall I pick a bunch of grapes?" I said. My sister responded with a sound, her eyes fixed on the clusters of grapes as if she hadn't heard me. I thought of a classmate of mine; he and another classmate and I often walked home together after school. On the way home, we would pass a house with a peach tree. I had eaten peaches from that house; although they were green, they were crunchy and sweet. How did I get to eat peaches from that house? Of course, I stole them. Usually, on the way home, we would carefully observe whether anyone was at that house. If no one was home, we could take action. One of my classmates was more timid, so he would hide around the corner to keep watch. He would look around and then, seizing the opportunity, quickly run to the peach tree, grab a few peaches along with some leaves, and then run back to meet us. We would run a short distance before stopping. He would throw away the leaves and give each of us a peach. We would rub the fuzz off the surface of the peaches with our hands and then take a big bite, thinking, "Hmm, still as delicious as ever."
I stood up and looked around; no one was there. That family was not home today; they must have gone out to work. I tiptoed to the grape trellis, aiming for a cluster in a denser spot, making it less likely to be noticed. I picked the whole bunch and quickly walked back to my sister. We started eating, as usual, not eating the skin but squeezing the flesh into our mouths, throwing the skins into the nearby fields or deep grass on the slope. After we finished eating, I threw the bare stem far away. Their grapes were top-notch, very sweet, with only a few that were still unripe tasting slightly sour.
Not long after finishing one bunch, we were tempted again. The grape trellis full of grapes was right in front of us, the taste of what we had just eaten still lingering in our mouths, perfectly coinciding with this quiet, deserted, sweltering summer afternoon. We thought to ourselves, picking one bunch is the same as picking two; with so many bunches on the trellis, picking a few more shouldn't be noticed, right?
Looking back now, that distant afternoon feels so long in my memory, especially every time my sister and I sat there dazed after finishing a bunch of grapes, with a faint sweetness lingering in our mouths. As the sweetness faded, time seemed to slow down. The grapes on the trellis danced in the sunlight, constantly reminding us of their deliciousness, making it impossible to resist temptation. I no longer remember how many bunches of grapes my sister and I ate that afternoon. Moreover, we naively thought that by picking just a few clusters from the dense grape vines, their owner wouldn't notice.
When night fell, my mother came over. She first checked the water level in our four fields; seeing that the water was about done, she came over to tell my sister and me to turn off the pump and collect the hoses. I walked over to the pump switch and pressed the red button, causing the green button to pop up, and the pump stopped drawing water. Then my sister and I began to collect the hoses. My mother used a bamboo pole to gather the wires, putting them away, and then dragged the pump a bit out of the water before joining us to collect the hoses. My father was probably still working outside and would be back later. The hoses and pump were heavy, requiring both my parents to carry them home. The sky quickly darkened, and we had one flashlight; my sister held it while I turned the hose connections, removing the black rubber bands embedded in the joints and hanging them back on the iron ring we brought.
While we were collecting the hoses, a middle-aged woman's shouting echoed in the night sky. I heard her voice in the darkness: "Which heartless thief stole all my grapes? You uncultured brat, you picked my grapes clean!" Then she seemed to be arguing with someone, saying, "Go take a look, see if there are any left. The grapes on that trellis have truly been picked clean; not a single bunch was left for me. Look over there, where is the shadow of a grape? Truly a heartless person..." After a while of cursing, I heard her pause, as if searching for new words, and later I could occasionally hear one or two phrases, almost repeating what she had said at the beginning. "Where is there any conscience left? You stole all my grapes, leaving me with nothing, cleaned out completely." Eventually, I heard those occasional phrases fade away, as if she had gone home. My mother said nothing, and together we gathered the hoses, tying them tightly with a rope, while we carried the wires, bamboo pole, and that bunch of black rubber bands home. When my father arrived, he and my mother first carried the pump home and then made another trip to bring the hoses back.
I sensed that a beating was inevitable. Although my mother seemed not to have spoken to that woman or asked us a word about the grapes, I could see that her face was very grim, pale with anger. After dinner, she opened the door and went outside; we didn't know what she was doing. She returned shortly, holding a bamboo stick stripped of leaves. Then she shouted, "Kneel down!" My sister and I felt a wave of panic and were about to kneel when a sudden sharp pain shot through our bodies. My mother struck us with the bamboo stick, and my sister and I cried as we scrambled to the corner, quickly pulling down our sleeves and pants to cover any exposed skin, as the bamboo stick hurt the most in those areas. While she struck us, she scolded, "Who told you to steal someone else's grapes? Who told you to steal? Is there nothing to eat at home? Are you starving? How dare you steal someone else's grapes. Today, I will break your legs and see if you dare to steal from others again..." She went on for a long time, and as she spoke, she continued to hit us until we could only hide in the corner, crying softly, answering, "We won't dare, we won't dare..." in voices so low that no one could hear.
After a while of hitting and a long, broken lecture, my mother finally grew tired of both hitting and scolding and began to ask us for a promise: "You tell me, will you dare to steal again in the future?" My sister and I quickly stopped crying and said, "We won't dare." My mother continued, "Then you must remember it in your hearts." After that, she fell silent, her eyes looking elsewhere. Our knees began to hurt from kneeling for so long, and when we could no longer bear it, we gently shifted our knees. Finally, my mother spoke again: "Go wash up and sleep." Only then did we slowly straighten up, not daring to show any sign of relief, leaving the room with serious faces.
That night, I lay in bed, hiding under the covers, tears flowing uncontrollably. It wasn't because I felt wronged by the beating; after all, we had stolen grapes, so the punishment wasn't unjust. I just felt sorrowful, lamenting why I had to be born in such a tragic place. The daily heavy farm work, the lack of a free childhood, the poverty of my background, and my father's sharp slaps and my mother's bamboo stick beatings heavily crushed my young spirit that ordinary night. I kept overthinking until I gradually succumbed to sleepiness and fell into a deep sleep.
The next day, my parents left early after breakfast. They went to help a neighbor harvest rice. My sister and I didn't need to go, so we stayed home. We went to play at my grandmother's house. My grandmother must have known about last night's events, as she began to educate us. She said, "You shouldn't pick grapes from someone else's house. How can you pick grapes from someone else's house?"
My grandmother was sweeping the dust off the cement floor in the shaded area outside. She swept the dust into a dustpan, then put down the broom and dustpan and walked into the house. She picked up a basin of water, scooped two large spoonfuls of water into it, then took some vegetables from the table and began washing them. She continued, "If you steal grapes from others, how will people see you? They will think of your family as thieves and point fingers at you." After washing the vegetables, she scooped them out with a small plastic strainer. Then she poured the water onto the cement floor outside, saying, "This way, the villagers will look down on your family." She then explained to my sister and me the serious consequences of this matter. "In the future, the villagers will call you thieves, and you won't be able to hold your head up high. So this is wrong; you cannot steal from others."
Listening to my grandmother's words, images began to form in my mind of villagers pointing fingers at my family. I imagined that when I walked out of my house and encountered neighbors or former playmates, they might whisper from a distance, "Look, that thief is coming." I felt a wave of dizziness, a sense of shame, and a desire to find a crack in the ground to hide in. Suddenly, I was terrified of this world, a world I had little attachment to. I suddenly wanted to escape, to disappear. If I disappeared, perhaps I wouldn't have to endure so much suffering; if I disappeared, perhaps I wouldn't have to face the judgment of others.
Let it disappear, this despairing world, these detestable parents. Because of what I did, I seemed to have lost the face to continue living in this world. Compared to facing everyone's accusations and criticisms, disappearing seemed like an easier choice. I abandoned the painful path of moving forward and sought a path of escape and liberation.
Let it be over; I stood up, left my grandmother's house, and returned home. I had already planned what to do. I wanted to punish my parents; I wanted to sever ties with this world, a kind of resolute severance that would never look back. Goodbye, world. If there is a next life, I hope I won't come to this place again. Or perhaps there is no next life for people; then let me disappear from this world!
I went to our toilet, which was used for urination and contained tools like a dustpan and hoe for farming. Our pesticides were also stored there. At that time, I knew that one pesticide was highly toxic, called "DDVP," but we didn't have that one. We had a pesticide called "Triazophos," which I heard was also very toxic. I picked up the bottle of Triazophos, opened the cap, and took a sip. I couldn't take a second sip. Because when I swallowed the first sip, the pesticide made it hard for me to breathe. After swallowing, my breathing returned. At that moment, I realized that death involves a process of suffocation. The feeling of suffocation I had just experienced was what I would soon face. I began to feel scared. That feeling of not being able to breathe was truly unbearable. I set the bottle of pesticide aside without capping it. I was about to die; why cap it? I slowly lay down at the door of the toilet, quietly waiting for death to arrive.
The ground was black soil, giving a slight chill. While waiting for death, I began to think about how this village would change after I died. First, I thought of my parents; they would probably be sad, after all, I was their only son. During my burial, they might cry loudly. But no matter what, their lives would continue. I guessed that it wouldn't be long before they forgot me, busy with their own lives. And what about the villagers? They would at least talk about me. They would gather a few people during dinner conversations, mentioning me, the little boy who was beaten by his parents for stealing grapes and ultimately drank pesticide to end his life. They might sigh a few times, lamenting the unpredictability of life. But after a while, those people would probably forget me too, as new gossip would arise in the village. They might never mention me again in their conversations.
Thinking of this, I suddenly realized that my death might not have any impact on the village. Without me, the earth would continue to turn, the world would keep running, and the village I lived in would remain as ordinary as ever. I began to understand the role of time. As long as enough time passes, people will forget; everything can be forgotten, as if it never happened. So, was my act of stealing grapes also like this? Of course, why not? Although it seemed like a huge deal to me, in the long river of history, people are very good at forgetting. As long as enough time passes, there is nothing that people cannot forget. I began to regret. I started to think that there were still some things in life that I could enjoy.
I didn't stand up; what was the use of regret? The pesticide had already been swallowed. I continued to lie there quietly. I even closed my eyes. I wished death would be like falling asleep. However, I had just learned that death inevitably involves a feeling of suffocation. After experiencing the moment of drinking the pesticide, I became terrified of that suffocation. Was there no way to die without experiencing suffocation?
My grandmother discovered me. She saw me lying on the ground and the open bottle of pesticide in front of me, and she immediately understood. She exclaimed, "Oh my God," and came over to try to lift me from the ground. When she found she couldn't lift me, she ran outside and began shouting for my parents. My parents were not far from our house, helping with the rice harvest. Soon, they returned. They quickly carried me to a nearby clinic. The doctor inserted a rubber tube into my mouth and into my stomach, then began pumping in water or some other liquid, and I started to vomit.
While the doctor was performing the gastric lavage, some villagers gathered at the clinic's entrance to watch the commotion. I kept my eyes closed, not daring to look at them. My uncle also came over; after asking my parents what had happened, he said, "What's the big deal about a few pounds of grapes?" He told my parents, "Just spend a few bucks to buy a few pounds to compensate them; it's not a big deal." My parents did not respond. Later, my uncle found a vehicle, and with my mother accompanying me, took me to a hospital in a neighboring town, where I was given some fluids and stayed in the hospital for several days, though I don't remember how many.
My parents never spoke to me until my condition stabilized after being hospitalized, and then my mother slowly began to guide my thoughts. I don't remember most of what she said.
I only remember that after that incident, my parents no longer dared to scold or hit me easily. They seemed to understand that I was an emotionally fragile child. However, deep down, I felt that I would never attempt suicide again. I often thought that if my grandmother hadn't discovered me that day, I wouldn't be here today.
Many years later, I gradually realized that this incident from my childhood had become a rare treasure in my life. It gave me the courage to face many setbacks. Whenever I faced significant life choices, I could always remind myself that this life was earned, and I had nothing to lose; I should choose that inner voice without hesitation. This fearless inner motivation often accompanied me through many hardships.
< The End >