#80.

what makes words plausible? i could tell you the sun rises from the east every morning and you would still find some who believe otherwise. what if i say they are right? that there is no east, nor west, no north, nor south; no direction but the side of bed from which the sun rises — his side of bed — will you believe me?

是什麼讓文字可信？即使我告訴你太陽每早從東邊升起，你還是可以找到不相信的人。然後我會說：他們是對的，世上沒有東南西北，沒有方向，只有迎接日出的那一邊床——他的那邊——你會信我嗎？

 publish it, he always told me, publish your words, make it a book, something physical and tangible and weighted — hardcover, he'd always say — because what you can touch must be real. so i'm publishing this letter, printing a thousand copies, sending them across the bridge, until it touches those who matter.

出版吧，他總告訴我，把你的文字出版，印刷成書，一本實體的、可觸及的、有重量的精裝書，因為但凡踫得到的必為真實。所以我要把這一封信出版，印刷一千份，寄到橋的另一邊，直到它們落在重要的人手上。

 whom am i speaking of, you ask? him, my jörmungandr. oh, you're asking about the other one — those who matter. right.

我在說誰？他啊，我的耶夢加得。啊，你問的是其他人——重要的人。嗯。

 before i answer with a name — i will, i promise — please feel the wrinkles on this paper you hold. no, i did not manage a book. unlike my love, my words run dry at the thought of his pain; even now, they are escaping me with how much i cry. but tears, too, are tangible. run your thumb over the crooked edge and the smudged letter "i". that's the proof of him and i.

 在我說出一個名字之前——我會，信我——請先感受手上這張紙的皺紋。對，我這封信成不了書。和我的愛相反，每當想起他受的苦，我的字詞就乾澀得很；就連此刻，它們趁我大哭就跑了。可是眼淚也是實在的。提起你的姆指，撫過曲折的紙緣，以及化開了的「我」字。那就是他和我的證據。

 do i have your attention now?

你在留心了嗎？

 the story begins here: we met on a cold winter day. winter, it seems, has a bad reputation. bad things happen in winter, the unbearing cold — at least to us in the south. he happened on a winter day, one of the days where the air was so clear you could see the temperature. he might be bad, but he is not a bad thing.

故事從這裡開始：我們在一個寒冷的冬日相遇。冬天似乎惡名昭彰——壞事總在冬天的嚴寒裡發生——至少我們南方人是這麼覺得的。他也來自某個冬日，某個空氣清澈得能夠看見溫度的日子。他可能很壞，可是絕非壞事。

 i apologise if my recollection blurs — can you blame me? with the gut-wrenching, nerve-wrecking pain inside me — like the way his breath blurred my vision. his breath fell on my neck, warm and tempting, as he murdered the man beneath me.

如果我的記憶含糊不清，我很抱歉——這能怪我嗎？我正經歷肝腸寸斷之痛——就像他的呼吸還我的視線朦朧一樣。當他謀殺我身下的男人時，呼吸落在我的頸間，溫暖而誘人。

 why was there a man beneath me? well, if you must know: we were bound by transaction. is that clear enough for you? now, back to him.

為什麼我身下有個男人？如果你堅持要問：我們有所交易。這個答案夠清楚了嗎？那麼，回歸正題。

 he murdered the man and swept me off my feet, both literally and figuratively. i know, this sounds bad — how could i fall in love over a murder, with the murderer? see, i came from the dirtiest streets. i might have never killed, but that doesn't mean i'm good.

他謀殺了那個男人，抱走了我、俘獲了我。我知道，這聽起來很糟糕——我怎麼可能因為目擊謀殺而跟殺人犯墜入愛河？我出身於最骯髒的街道。我也許從未殺人，可是這不代表我是好人。

 i'm a bad person. besides, i hated the man, and every person i had transaction with, men or women or other. it wasn't about the transaction itself — they were from above, and i hated them out of principle.

我是個壞人。而且，我討厭那個男人，討厭每個和我交易的人，男人、女人或其他。這無關交易的內容——他們全部來自高高在上的地方，而我基於原則討厭他們。

 you see, as he pressed his hands upon mine, tightly wrapped around the man's neck, i expected a crunch. a satisfying, chilling crunch. i've always imagined death like that — a clear snap, a definite line, the absolute space between zero and one.

當他的手按住我的手，緊緊握住那個男人的脖子，我期待聽見清脆的斷裂聲。叫人滿足、渾身雞皮疙瘩的清脆聲響。我一直都是這樣想像死亡的——俐落的一聲劈啪、確切的一條線、一和零之間的絕對距離。

 but he showed me the decimal places of murder: the gurgling as your subject chokes, the xylophone as you kneel on their ribs, the yelps as an audience arrives. he'd killed so many he lost count, but he never forgot those sounds.

然而，他向我展示了謀殺的小數點：目標嗆到窒息時的淙淙水聲、跪壓在他們肋骨上的木片琴音、旁觀者抵達的呼天搶地。他殺過太多人，記不住殺了多少，可是忘不了這些聲音。

 then came the stomach-turning realisation — i was in trouble. i demanded him to fix it, for it was him who dragged me into that mess. i wasn't always nice to him but i opted for fair. he did too, in reciprocation. it was the first quality i noticed — he reciprocates, fair and square, like a stubborn mirror.

之後我開始反胃——我知道自己大難臨頭。我要求他幫我解決，因為是他把我捲進來的。我並不是從一開始就對他好，但是我至少待他公平。他對我也是禮尚往來。那是我注意到他的第一個特質——他像一面固執的鏡子，公平公正地以牙還牙，以眼還眼。

 he often said i was a poet. i asked what it meant. he said it meant i could reach the invisible and undo the impossible. i asked where he learnt all that. he said he read it from a book. a page, printed, clutched in paperback. he said paperbacks held special thoughts. softer ones.

他時常說我是個詩人。我問他那是什麼意思？他說我能夠抓住不可見的事物，也能夠推翻任何不可能。我問他是哪裡學來這些的？他說他是從書裡看到的，印在一本平裝書裡面的一頁。他說平裝書裝的想法不僅特別，還很柔軟。

 i wish i read, i said. i'm reading to you now, he said. for you.

真希望我也看書，我說。看，我現在就讀給你聽了，他說。為了你。

 he taught me this too, writing essays. said the word came from french, and in french it meant to try, to attempt. and i am trying, very hard, to convince you.

這也是他教我的，寫散文這一回事。他說散文的英文「essay」來自法文，而在法文那是「嘗試」的意思。而我在非常努力地嘗試說服你。

 back to the point: i need you to believe me. i need you to believe that he did nothing wrong. have you ever seen someone hold a butterfly like it matters? like it is precious and sacred and deeply loved, even for a brief, fleeting moment?

言歸正傳：我要你相信我。我要你相信他沒有做錯任何事。你見過一個人小心翼翼地捧住一隻蝴蝶嗎？對他珍而重之，因為他重要，他珍貴，他神聖、因為他被深深地愛著，即使只有稍縱即逝的瞬間？

 i have. i was that butterfly.

我見過。我就是那隻蝴蝶。

 so gentle and tender, his hands on me. i have never seen killing hands so kind. he might be a killer, but a kind one, no less.

他的手在我身上，是那麼溫柔又細心。我從未見過殺人的手如此善良。他也許是個殺手，可是他是個善良的殺手。

 he always said i used the em dash too much — he was right. but i like this punctuation too much to let it go — it dashes, straight and determined, towards where it wants to be. i want to be like it, dashing straight towards him.