Chapter 110: The Cuckoo’s Drunken Reverie

This story is purely fictional.

After smashing the glass, Zhaoming felt a surge of dark relief in his heart. All he could hear was Dujuan telling him to get lost. He thought to himself, "You’re the one who told me to leave, so fine, I’ll leave. I don’t want to stay in this house for even another minute." Grabbing his laptop, he prepared to walk out the door.

Seeing Zhaoming about to leave, Dujuan grew anxious. In the past, they had never let arguments linger overnight; any issues were always resolved the same day.

Dujuan tried to stop him. "You’re not allowed to go out. If you step outside this door today, don’t ever think about coming back."

Zhaoming saw her grabbing his arm, trying to hold him back. Not wanting to lose his chance to break even, he was determined to leave. Ignoring her gentle pleas, he shook off her arm and said, "If I don’t come back, I don’t. I’ve really had enough of you. From now on, we’ll walk separate paths and have nothing to do with each other." With that, he slammed the door behind him.

Downstairs, Zhaoming got into his car. Sitting in the driver’s seat, he rolled down the window and breathed in the fresh air outside, momentarily relieved from the suffocating tension.

He started the engine and sped to his office at the television station.

It was late at night, and most offices were dark. Zhaoming’s face was clouded with gloom as he opened the door and set down his laptop, hurriedly booting it up. He reminded himself there was still an X League match he was counting on about to begin.

He pushed aside the earlier household conflict, focusing all his energy on the upcoming bets.

Perhaps because of growing numbness, he no longer bothered analyzing the matches with data. Most analyses had proved futile—no matter how much he calculated, the outcomes often defied his predictions.

Zhaoming knew too well how unpredictable the results were. It seemed every match ended contrary to the bettors’ expectations, or even the exact opposite.

This persistent frustration weighed heavily on him. He couldn’t understand why he had fallen in love with this gambling. When he first heard someone warn him that winning such bets was a pipe dream, he had dismissed it, fueled by blind confidence and optimism. That confidence had, to some extent, been his downfall, driving him to think and act in extraordinary ways. What others deemed impossible, he insisted was possible; what others hesitated to do, he pursued without a second thought.

He quickly placed a bet of ten thousand on the Spanish First Division, hoping to recover the loss of over ten thousand he had just suffered at home. He wanted to clear his negative balance before Monday’s settlement. If he couldn’t cover his debts, his betting account would be suspended. Losing his account now would sever all his hopes.

During the downtime before the match started, he felt like a walking corpse—adrift, hopeless.

Such days filled Zhaoming with utter despair. Whenever there was a football match, it felt like a festival to him. Yet after the fleeting joy of betting came endless worries.

After placing his bet, he sat motionless, as if the earlier turmoil at home had vanished into thin air.

Zhaoming seemed to have lost all reason; at this moment, all he craved was the intense thrill of the gamble.

What he didn’t realize was that when he had shaken off Dujuan’s arm, she had stumbled and fallen hard to the ground. Losing her balance, her lower back struck the sharp corner of the tea table behind the door. A sharp pain shot through her back.

Because it was the weekend, Xiyu wasn’t at home; after school, his grandmother had picked him up.

At his grandmother’s house, Xiyu did some homework and then happily played with the PSP game console his uncle had brought back from Japan.

The empty house was left with only lonely Dujuan, who sat on the floor, crying uncontrollably.

After a long while, the weight of her grievances refused to lift. She stood and began searching everywhere—cabinets and under the bed.

She rummaged through the drawers, muttering to herself, “Where did I put those bottles of liquor?”

After searching the cabinets thoroughly to no avail, she touched her head, deep in thought.

Suddenly, as if discovering a new world, she remembered under Xiyu’s bed. She walked over and looked beneath it. One bottle of liquor remained.

She took the bottle, disregarding the dust on it, and opened it immediately.

In the dimly lit room, Dujuan paced back and forth, sometimes stepping out onto the balcony, sometimes sitting on the bed.

She pondered the consequences of drinking that bottle—would it be an eternal sleep? Or would it burn a hole through her stomach? She thought deeply. She had never drunk such strong liquor before, only had a sip at school reunions. She knew the taste was bitter and fiery, hard to swallow.

Her thoughts returned to Zhaoming’s earlier hysteria, the slammed door, and her anger surged anew.

Dujuan uncorked the strong liquor. She no longer wished to endure this life. At that moment, she had no thought for her son Xiyu’s future.

“Let it all end,” she thought, wishing for death. She poured the entire bottle down her throat.

The burning liquid scorched her throat unbearably.

But now Dujuan had nothing left to live for; her heart was calm, as still as water. After swallowing the strong liquor, she felt her stomach churn violently, as if floating in a vast, dark ocean.

Images flashed before her eyes—memories of meeting Zhaoming, her son Xiyu’s gaze, years of polite coexistence with Zhaoming. Regret flickered for having drunk the whole bottle. But it all seemed too late.

She felt nausea and forced herself to get out of bed and stagger to the bathroom. Facing the toilet, all the contents of her stomach surged out, bitter saliva splattering into the bowl.

After vomiting, her discomfort eased slightly. She tried to lie down and rest.

But just as she lay down, her stomach churned again. She held back the urge, rushing to the bathroom, but before she could reach it, the liquor-soaked contents spilled onto the bathroom floor.

After vomiting two more times, Dujuan clearly felt her strength waning. She staggered back to bed and collapsed.

After several bouts of vomiting, her expression cleared somewhat. She no longer thought only of despair; she remembered her son Xiyu, still a child. She could not leave this world yet. She must watch him grow day by day. Unconsciously, she reached for the phone on the bedside table.

It was already the early hours of the morning. The X League match Zhaoming had bet on was not unfolding as he had hoped—he lost another round.

In just a few hours, everything had changed drastically. From arguing with Dujuan to running away from home, Zhaoming had become a frenzied gambler.

He walked to the bathroom, looked into the mirror, and saw a ridiculous sight—bloodshot eyes full of menace. A closer look revealed he resembled a defeated fighting cock, or more accurately, a drowning dog.

Despair engulfed him again. Browsing the betting website, only the English Championship matches remained ongoing. He searched for a chance to turn things around.

At that moment, the phone on the side rang.

Zhaoming glanced at the caller ID—it was Dujuan.

To answer or not? He hesitated. He knew the call would be to urge him home. If he answered, he’d have to go back. Losing twenty thousand meant no way to recover. He didn’t know how to face his wife. Not answering was unprecedented; he had never ignored Dujuan’s calls before. Torn and confused, he stared at the flashing phone and finally answered.

“Y–you—c—come… back,” came Dujuan’s weak voice through the line—just those three words—then the call cut off.

Hearing her voice was like hearing a dying person’s plea—a desperate cry at the end of life. A grim premonition flashed through Zhaoming’s mind—after he left, Dujuan might have lost hope and done something rash, maybe even tried to harm herself.

A horrifying scene appeared before his eyes: Dujuan’s blood staining the floor, the tiny house soaked red, blood everywhere—on the floor and bed.

Fear gripped him—the fear that Dujuan, unable to cope, had let tragedy unfold.

This would be a terrible family catastrophe. He realized the happy home he had painstakingly built was now destroyed by his own hand.

He didn’t have time to tidy up and didn’t even shut down his computer. He rushed from the office to the parking lot, started the car, and sped home.

The deep night streets were silent. Dim street lamps cast faint yellow light. In Zhaoming’s eyes, these yellow lights were blinding, making him feel as if he were walking a path toward death.

(To be continued)