Depraved

Preamble:
During the late Qing Dynasty, numerous Chinese people suffered from the detrimental effects of opium, a drug smuggled into China by Great Britain. The protagonist, Young Master, was among the countless victims of opioid addiction. When viewed through the lens of his servant's perspective, it becomes evident that Young Master's health and life underwent a dramatic transformation due to the prevalence of opium. This story serves as a reflection of the struggles faced by Chinese individuals battling drug addiction within the unfavorable and passive social conditions of the Qing Dynasty at that time.

Depraved
Qing: a closed dynasty situated in the northeast hemisphere. Birds in the distance passed by buildings varying in height as catkins floated freely in the endless sky. Not far away, carriages stopped between streets, where people’s conversation lingered and revolved around shops. Such a filling scene as if it was an ink wash landscape painting.

Among the many houses, there was a considerably large courtyard that I was going back to. Enclosed by a high fence constructed with superimposing bricks, the courtyard was embellished with osmanthus trees, peony flowers, and a delicate pond next to the rockery garden. When the breeze blew, the fragrance of osmanthus spread. Watching petals slowly separating from the branches and drifting with the waft, I felt them gently rubbing my cheek and falling on my shoulder. Whenever walking on the wooden arch bridge over the pond, I would like to stop and observe how koi shuttled through the pure water and swung their tail fins. As the early morning sun shone on the pond, light flickered as grains of gold, huddling each other. The water then dyes into strips of golden silk, flowing slightly. Bathed in the flower drizzle, I walked at a loss on the stone road covered with fallen leaves and petals. I was willing to stay for such beauty, yet I knew that I couldn’t stop moving forward.

Immediately afterwards, several houses came into view. Their surrounding brick walls were exquisitely carved, leaving elegant, quaint patterns. The dense red pillars held up the gable roofs, forming a tranquil yet solemn corridor. Clenching the carved lidded meal box in my hand, I quickened my pace to the main mansion.

It was a place where luxury and charm coexist. The foreign clock hanging on the wall, the porcelain on the table, and the mahogany furniture that can be seen everywhere in the room represented the wealth and status of the family. When beams of light penetrated through the window, the jewelry on the bedside table was dazzled and the mahogany luster was spotless like a mirror. At this moment, everything in the room seemed to echo and compete against each other. Except for a person, who peacefully leaned against the window flipping through the pages of a thick book. Through the slowly swaying curtains, his profile seemed to be drawn by light and shadow.

Strange. He obviously dressed richly: The magua and changshan made of fine silk and satin, the precious jade tassel pendant hanging on his waist, and the delicately crafted cloth shoes were something I would never possess in my lifetime. But still he had a temperament that did not belong to this vulgar world.

Lifting the flimsy curtains, I walked toward him in small steps. “Young Master, I brought breakfast for you.”

He closed the book gently with his hands and walked over from the window. "Alright, thank you."

I watched him open the wooden meal box and lift up the cloth covering it. Underneath there was the minced pork congee with preserved egg, pickles, and deep-fried dough sticks.

“Emmm, not bad,” he said.

Young Master seemed to be satisfied with today's breakfast. Then, I walked quietly to his side and waited silently.

That was my eighth year as a servant in the Young Master’s family. Serving him day after day was my job. Witnessing his healthy growth could be regarded as a unique experience for me. In those times by the Young Master’s side, I was always happy and proud of him. However, there was a change.

It was a humid, overcast rainy day: raindrops fell straight down like silver needles, with the smell of soil filling up the air. Young Master trotted home with an opium pipe gripped in his hand. The water that splashed through his soaked cloth shoes was jumping up and down, just like the expectation and excitement “written” on his face. I stood at the door, leaving my miscellaneous thoughts tangled.

When I went to serve him later, wisps of gray smoke curled out and scattered behind me. His room was filled with smog, deep and dim, making the outline behind the curtain vague and unrecognizable. The regularity and splendor before had long been eclipsed, withered like a flower that has lost its moisture. Books, ink brushes, tea cups, and other sundries were all spread out across the fancy carpet. At the moment I lit the candlestick and lifted the curtain, the scene in front of me made me panic. I clenched my fists, rubbing my fingers in my palms.

Was that really our Young Master?

He laid on the sofa diagonally and was surrounded by three prostitutes. His right leg arched against the other, looking undisciplined. With the opium pipe in his hand, he smoked skillfully. Smoke escaped from the pipe in succession and gradually dissipated from wandering clouds into the grimy air, filling my nostrils. I tentatively stepped forward, wanting to ask him what was going on. Yet before I could speak, they were rebounded by his labyrinthic and sluggish eyes.

Young Master, I couldn’t meet your eyes.

Soon, it seemed like Young Master noticed there was something “additional” in the room. After slowly twisting his head to my direction, he paused for a second while twirling his queue with fingers. After all, I only got the word "Huh?" as a response to my unsettled mind.

In the following days, listening to the conversations of the servants in the mansion, I learned that the Young Master had squandered a lot of silver while indulging in his own space all day, like a person who has lost his soul. When I saw him again, Young Master had a sallow complexion and a haggard body, as if he wasn’t himself but another person. I still could remember that night: how Young Master's face was as white as paper as he held the tabletop intensely with his hands; how he closed his eyes tightly as blue veins on his forehead bulged high; how his teeth rubbed in his mouth as his chest was undulating up and down. I immediately realized that something was wrong, then quickly helped him to bed by the arm.

Young Master's gasps echoed in my ears. “Huff, huff, huff… ” He held on to the edge of the bed and coughed for a while.

“Young Master, are you okay? Please hang in there.” I comforted him while hurriedly calling people in.

The moment I walked out of the door, a few drops of rain fell. The sky was gloomy, frowning like a depressed old man. There was no sound of wind: only the sound of rain drops gradually becoming larger, letting me have company in this unspeakable situation. The thinly distributed light rain was pattering, and the branches and leaves of the osmanthus trees trembled slightly. On the one side under the wooden bridge, circles of water ripples were misty. On the other side on the green lawn, tiny pearl-like raindrops rolled down the hunched grass.

I walked quietly in the rain alone, unable to tell whether it was rain or tears that slid down my face.