A Song to Drown Rivers

by Ann Liang

And that beauty is not so different from destruction.

Often, when I was around other people and felt their gazes on me, I had the strange, encroaching sense that my face and body did not belong to me. As if I had been designed purely for the pleasure of their viewing.

The mind destroys; the heart devours.

They were so different from what I was used to hearing: beautiful. That old blessing, that tired curse. So flimsy and temporal, so easily faded, like the plum blossoms that withered in midwinter.

Now that my decision had been made, everything I had once taken for granted was repainted in shades of yellow nostalgia.

It was an unwelcome shock to know your most vulnerable thoughts were all but public to those who cared enough to read them.

“But also, from a distance, everything looks more beautiful; we are better able to conjure our own fantasies about them. Sometimes the fragrance of a feast is better than the taste itself.”

“Still. Don’t you think there is something inherently romantic about tragedy?” He blinked. “Romantic?” I slid closer to him so my forearm was brushing against his. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched his cup of tea. He had not tried to refill it yet, and the steam had stopped rising. Only a little longer now. “Yes, romantic,” I said, rolling the word on my tongue like honey. His breathing was unsteady. “All those lost opportunities; everything gone and wilted and buried. Divided loves and shattered hearts. Devastating, but beautiful. Memorable. How deeply it stirs the soul.”

cannot stop thinking about you.” I smiled. “Then don’t.” His features blazed with wanting. It made him look younger, less cruel. He leaned in, and I shifted back, just slightly, just out of reach. His hands curled as he tried again. This time I let his lips brush mine before I moved, angling my face away from his. What is desire? Absence.

“Oh, I am angry,” I reassured her. “Furious, in fact.” A beat. “But at more than just you.” These were the rules that shaped our lives from when we were born: Be beautiful, be charming, be the most coveted girl in the room, or else you will be nothing.

How many women throughout history were blamed for the weaknesses of men? We made such convenient scapegoats. We were raised to be small, to be silent, to take whatever we were given and no more.

And so I danced. My slender arms moved in graceful circles, like the swans taking flight around me, my feet soundless and nimble over the stone. I was in perfect control of my body, every limb and muscle, and as the music swelled, I felt—not happy, never quite that. But accomplished. The sun shone down on my face and Fuchai gazed on, as if everything in the world had dissolved and he would gladly relinquish anything, except me.

“Does the sparrow sing in the night?” He stilled. With his head down, he replied, “Only when the river rises.”

How could I ever forgive him? Yet how could I ever fully hate him?

Fuchai closed his eyes, his lashes outlined dark and long against his cheeks, tilting his head back slightly. When the tip of the sword sank in, he flinched, a low sound escaping his throat, but didn’t try to retreat. He just stood there, letting me drive the blade through his heart. Ribbons of red spilled over my palms, trickled down my wrists. My skin was too hot, wet and clammy with blood. And there was blood on his lips, too, a stain of crimson in the low light. History seemed to be holding its breath, gazing down upon us.

“Xishi,” he said. By now he was already too weak, his breathing shallow, his voice but the faintest whisper. I had driven the sword all the way in. “Let me—see you properly.” I bowed my head, my shoulders shaking. His blood pooled on the floors around us, shining on stone. He stared up at my face for a long time, saying nothing, his black locks spilled over my lap. Something wet splashed onto his cheeks from above. Tears. Who was I crying for? Perhaps for myself. Perhaps for him. Perhaps for both of us, the borders of our fate. Now that he was dying, I could finally bring myself to admit it: I did not want to lose him. We were close enough for me to feel his broken heartbeat. I was used to listening for it, how it quickened and changed in my presence, whenever I smiled at him or touched his hair or simply drew near. Now I listened to it fade, to its faint, final thud— Then everything went quiet.