Chapter 440 - 384: I: The Flowers of 2019

Chapter 440: Chapter 384: I: The Flowers of 2019

I’m trapped.

The world around me was a hazy fog. The darkness ebbed and flowed, sometimes light, sometimes heavy, alternating in its obscurity. It felt like I was wading through a dark river where the resistance shifted, at times viscous and at others, smooth.

I seemed to have been walking for a very long time, but I couldn’t find the river’s exit.

No matter how anxious I became, I couldn’t walk any faster, even when I desperately tried to take large strides. I wanted to scream for help, but no sound would come out.

’Where on earth am I trapped?’

I couldn’t even quite remember how I’d gotten here. My memory, like the dark river around me, was filled with layers of mottled shadows, but not a single clear outline—

Wait.

It was as if a memory had suddenly tapped me on the shoulder.

That song... The one now rising from the murky depths, that was my breakthrough hit. That was my voice, singing as if it were a spreading mist.

I am the evening sky, slowly turning to bruised purple

I am a conversation with nothing left to say

Facing you in the stillness

The road home is winding and silent

I swim in the downpour, float on the waves

When someone wakes me, I will be submerged

Sinking to the seafloor, to never see the light of day again

The year I came to Blackmoor City, I was only eighteen. All I had was a good voice, a fantasy of becoming famous, and seven hundred dollars.

My hometown was a small city of just over five thousand people. There, my talent shone, full of possibility. In Blackmoor City, I was just another weed on the side of the road.

Seventeen people lived in the house I was renting.

I slept in a hammock in the attic. Sometimes, when the ache in my back became unbearable, I’d lay my bedding out over wooden crates and suitcases. At the other end of the attic slept three other girls, each with her own impractical dreams, just like me.

One wanted to be a writer, another a fashion designer, and another an actress... What we had in common was that we spent most of our days on things unrelated to our dreams: flipping burger patties, waiting tables, writing positive reviews for shops.

I don’t know how many young people like me threw themselves into the world’s most dazzling metropolis, turning their lives into fuel for its relentless forward march, all because we believed in one saying: If you can make it in Blackmoor City, you can make it anywhere in the world.

...I remembered everything now. Including why I came here, and how to get out.

She was a customer who appeared when I finally managed to land a part-time gig as a resident singer.

Few places hire resident singers these days unless you’re already a little famous, with your own band and original work. I cherished this opportunity, even though there was no salary—for two nights a week, the only income I could hope for was tips from customers.

Sometimes, along with the tips, I’d get invitations, some subtle, some crude. Someone would ask me out for a drink; someone else would slip me a key card for a hotel room upstairs.

She just leaned back in her chair, watching my awkwardness, discomfort, and refusals from a distance.

Back then, she only had one tattoo on her neck: a man’s name. ’A lover, perhaps.’

"You have a shroud over you," she said.

"What do you mean?" I asked. "Is that a metaphor?"

Oh, right. That was later, after we had gotten to know each other well. Even though she never tipped me or came to my rescue, she was still my favorite customer—because she loved the songs I wrote.

She never said it, but I could tell. And that wasn’t easy.

An outgoing, cheerful person like me definitely didn’t have any shroud over me. She was the one who seemed to be in a shroud—cold-faced and quiet. I’d known her for over half a year and couldn’t even find out what she did for a living.

"People with a shroud over them aren’t suited to chasing a dream like yours."

As she spoke, she poured herself a drink without even asking if I wanted one. That was the kind of person she was. I’d rarely met a woman so completely devoid of any consideration for others.

"Because of the shroud, the world and fate can’t see you. It’s useless to keep singing."

I don’t know what my reaction was at that moment, but my face most likely fell.

"Did you know? The works that most easily attract an audience and get good reviews are the ones that hover just above or below the general public’s average taste," she said. "The comments on your songs are probably mostly things like ’So weird’ or ’I don’t get it,’ right? The more profound the art, the smaller the audience. Why don’t you try writing some catchy, rhythmic songs?"

"But don’t I have a shroud?" I was already getting annoyed. "What, if I write some bubblegum pop, the shroud will disappear?"

"Exactly," she said, matter-of-factly, as if it were some universally known theorem.

I was so disappointed in her then.

’It had taken me so long to get past my prejudice against her—unless your lover is dead, tattooing their name on your body is just so tacky—and become her friend. I never thought that, even though she liked my songs, she could say something so banal.’

"I’m leaving," I said. "You’d better not get home too late, either."

It took all the politeness and restraint I’d cultivated over twenty-one years to stop myself from adding the sarcastic second half: "So your boyfriend doesn’t get mad."

"I know how to get rid of the shroud,"

I heard her say faintly, after I had stood up and taken two steps.

Music was my life, but that night, those words were the most beautiful sound I had ever heard in the world. I was just a singer; she, however, was the only Siren I had ever met in my entire life.

"I know how to make you famous."

I turned, looked at her, and without realizing it, had already collapsed back into the seat beside her.

...But I didn’t believe a word she said after that. I thought she had mental problems.

’Do only people with mental problems like my songs? How depressing.’

"You don’t need to believe me. You just need to do as I say," she said in a low voice over the phone. Her voice was like a chilled knife, slicing through the dark river, cutting through the heavy breathing of the other girls in the attic, and pressing against my ear.

"On the night of June 19th, at 11 p.m., go to the lobby bar of the W Hotel and order a drink. You’ll find a piano there."

’So what? Was I supposed to spend several days’ worth of dinner money on a single drink just to look at a piano?’

"You’re a young, beautiful woman," she said, sounding a little impatient. "And you’re a customer. If you say you want to play a song, they won’t stop you."

She said, "Sing your favorite one."

When someone wakes me, I will sink to the seafloor, to never see the light of day again.

With the mindset of ’it’ll only cost me one drink to try’ and ’not cooperating with a crazy person might lead to more trouble later,’ I put on my best clothes, sat down at the piano in the W Hotel, and began to softly sing my most prized creation.

As long as there was music, as long as I could sing, I would forget about the three-for-five-dollar underwear I was wearing, forget about next month’s credit card bill, and forget the distance between myself and the other people in this hotel.

It was my only master in this world. I loved it, I was tortured by it, and I bowed down to it in submission. I was willing to pay any price, to make a million deals with the devil, to use my music to invade, drown, and strangle the mediocrity of this world.

I was startled back to reality by applause.

Only one person was clapping, and he stopped quickly.

He asked me a few questions, handed me a business card, and said he was willing to listen to more of my songs.

When someone wakes me, I will sink to the seafloor, to never see the light of day again.

"How did you know that producer would be at the W Hotel? How did you know he was looking to do a different kind of project? And that it would be right up my alley!"

I was ecstatic, interrogating her relentlessly, and even used the balance I’d painstakingly freed up on my credit card to buy her a round of drinks. "Did you hear any other industry news?"

"No news at all," she said. "Are you worried you can’t make it on your own?"

She’d hit the nail on the head.

Even though I had finally gotten my foot in the door, the difficulties I encountered later were things I could never have even imagined before.

I tried to probe her for information a few more times, but as expected, I got nothing. Instead, I would occasionally be stung by her remarks—"Is that really the kind of song you’re trying so hard to write?"

"Of course not," I argued.

We hadn’t seen each other in a long time by then. I would just occasionally send her a text to say hi; she never replied.

She would only pick up if I called her. What a strange person.

"But my contract is almost up. If I want to renew with the company, I have to make some adjustments to my direction... You know how it is these days. If I don’t get any help, if I just release a song without any marketing or promotion, I’ll just sink without a trace."

The fairy tale that quality speaks for itself was long dead.

No matter the work, as long as enough people praise it, you can convince enough people that it’s good enough. Most people need someone else to do their tasting and thinking for them.

"Didn’t you already make a huge concession? That one song of yours, it was never even released, was it?"

Because the record company thought its lyrics were too esoteric and the melody wasn’t catchy. Someone at the company even criticized it, saying it was depressing to listen to, made no sense, and you couldn’t even guess where the next line was going.

It was impossible not to be upset by that.

’I seriously wanted to kill that person.’

’They signed me specifically because my style was different, but now they wanted me to lean into the style of a Billboard Top 10 hit... Wasn’t that weird?’

"I just want you to give me some advice," I sighed. "The only reason I got signed was because of you..."

"I don’t know," she said bluntly. "If you can’t even stand by your own music, don’t come asking me. I just happened to find out about a critical juncture."

’Looks like she still wouldn’t tell me the truth.’

’What "critical junctures of fate," "deals with residents"... it was all like something out of a novel.’

’She probably just happened to know the producer’s whereabouts and had me try my luck.’

I hung up the phone.

Even though I’d hung up, her words haunted me, turning my mind into a haunted house.

’In the end, I guess I just couldn’t bring myself to cut off my foot to fit the shoe.’

If singing meant being murdered by the world... I’d rather just buy a Greyhound bus ticket back home.

I found the producer who signed me and pleaded with him, trying again and again to persuade him. By some miracle, he agreed to let me produce the song from the hotel piano at the very end of my contract.

When someone wakes me, I will sink to the seafloor, to never see the light of day again.

The new song was released.

Just a single. No album, no expectations.

That was in mid-2019. By the second half of the year, I had become the hottest new female artist in the world.

...If you can make it in Blackmoor City, you can make it anywhere in the world.

The world swarmed me, holding flowers, shining lights, and thrusting microphones in my face. For a long time, I forgot about the woman named Mercury.