Chapter 33: The Weight He Carried Alone
For the next two days, Lu Zhen barely slept.
Every time he closed his eyes, the kitchen returned.
Broken glass on tile.
His mother's blood.
Her voice cutting through the room in terror:
"Zhenzhen—run!"
The flashback no longer came in fragments alone.
Now it lingered at the edges of waking thought—
unfinished,
incomplete,
waiting.
And the unfinished part frightened him most.
Because memory, once opened, demanded completion.
And somewhere inside him,
his body already knew what his mind still refused to face.
—
At therapy that Monday, Dr. Mei changed nothing about the room.
The same soft lighting.
The same warm tea.
The same quiet patience.
Trauma needed consistency when memory became unstable.
Lu Zhen sat wrapped in silence for nearly ten minutes before speaking.
Then finally whispered:
"I keep thinking… maybe I caused it."
Dr. Mei did not interrupt.
He went on, voice unsteady:
"If she told me to run…
and I didn't…
what if she stayed because of me?"
The words cracked apart in his throat.
Tears filled his eyes instantly.
Because this guilt had lived inside him long before memory returned—
buried beneath years of forgetting.
Now it had language.
And language made pain harder to escape.
Dr. Mei leaned forward slightly.
"Lu Zhen," she said gently,
"When children survive violence,
they often create guilt to explain what they cannot control."
He stared downward.
Breathing shallow.
She continued:
"Guilt feels safer than helplessness.
Because if it was your fault,
then it means you had power."
That sentence hit like impact.
Lu Zhen's head jerked slightly upward.
And in that moment—
something in him recognized truth.
Because yes.
That was exactly it.
Believing he had failed was terrible—
but still easier than accepting the unbearable truth:
That he had been powerless.
A child.
Small and trapped inside someone else's violence.
And none of it had ever been his to stop.
—
That evening, Lu Zhen returned home exhausted in a way sleep could not repair.
Lin Xu found him sitting on the floor beside the living room sofa, mother's letter unfolded in his lap.
He said nothing at first.
Only sat beside him quietly.
Eventually Lu Zhen spoke.
"Do you think people can spend so long believing a lie…
that truth feels wrong?"
Lin Xu looked at him carefully.
"Yes," he said softly.
"Especially when the lie was planted to protect someone cruel."
Lu Zhen closed his eyes.
A tear slid silently down his cheek.
"I believed him."
Lin Xu's heart tightened.
"Because you were taught to."
Another silence.
Then Lu Zhen whispered:
"I hate that part of me still hears his voice."
Lin Xu reached over and gently took the letter before it crumpled in Lu Zhen's tightening grip.
Folded it carefully.
Placed it aside.
Then turned fully toward him.
"You survived by believing what you had to survive."
The words landed deep.
Because survival often looked ugly from the inside.
But that did not make it shameful.
—
That night the second major flashback came.
This time not through sound—
but smell.
Burned alcohol.
Sharp and bitter.
Lin Xu had opened a disinfectant bottle in the bathroom cabinet,
and the scent struck Lu Zhen instantly like a physical blow.
He froze in the hallway.
Cup slipping from numb fingers.
It shattered against the floor.
And suddenly—
memory surged again.
—
His father was screaming.
His mother on the floor.
Blood spreading wider now near the cabinet edge.
Young Lu Zhen crouched behind the dining chair shaking violently.
The phone in his hand.
His tiny fingers unable to press the emergency number correctly.
Too much shaking.
Too much fear.
His mother reaching toward him—
voice weak now.
"Call… help…"
And then—
the memory snapped shut again.
Lu Zhen screamed aloud as he collapsed.
The sound tore through the apartment.
Lin Xu reached him within seconds.
Found him curled on the hallway floor trembling violently,
hands locked over his head.
"It's okay," Lin Xu said immediately,
kneeling beside him.
"You're here.
You're safe."
But Lu Zhen was sobbing now—
raw,
terrified,
destroyed by what he had seen.
"I couldn't dial," he cried.
"I couldn't do it—I couldn't—"
Lin Xu pulled him into his arms before the sentence could destroy him further.
Held him tightly against his chest.
And in that moment,
the true shape of survivor guilt finally surfaced:
Not that Lu Zhen believed he caused her death.
But that he believed he failed to save her.
—
Later, when the panic had eased into trembling exhaustion,
they sat together on the bedroom floor beneath dim light.
Lu Zhen leaned weakly against Lin Xu's shoulder.
Voice hoarse.
"I had the phone in my hand."
Lin Xu said nothing.
Only listened.
"I remember trying to call.
I remember not being able to press the numbers."
His breath broke again.
"I was too scared."
Lin Xu turned and cupped his face gently.
Made him meet his eyes.
And said with fierce tenderness:
"You were a child in terror."
Lu Zhen shook his head through tears.
"But what if—"
"No."
Lin Xu's voice sharpened with certainty.
"No child is responsible for saving an adult from violence."
The room went still.
Because sometimes truth had to be spoken firmly enough to cut through years of poison.
Lu Zhen stared at him.
Breathing uneven.
And slowly—
very slowly—
the impossible burden he had carried for years began to crack.
Not gone.
Not healed.
But fractured.
And fractures let light in.
—
Before sleep, Dr. Mei called to check on him personally.
After hearing the details, she said something that lingered long after the call ended:
"Memory is surfacing because your mind believes you are finally safe enough to survive knowing."
That night, Lu Zhen lay awake beside Lin Xu in darkness.
Staring at the ceiling.
Listening to steady breathing beside him.
And somewhere deep within memory,
one final locked door still remained unopened.
The last piece.
The worst piece.
What happened after the failed phone call.
What happened in the final moments before his mother died.
And though terror still gripped him—
another emotion had begun to rise beneath it:
Readiness.
Because truth, however devastating,
was closer now than fear.