Who Killed the Moon



“How could such a good child as her jump off a building?”

“Lin Lin ah, she’s usually very optimistic.”

“Hahahahaha, she knows how to commit suicide at a young age. I think there is too little homework during the summer vacation.”

“Depression? No way, she can’t have depression.”


“What depression, they just have nothing else to do and are overreacting. I blame Yuan Longping1 Yuan Longping is the person who did rice research and made it possible to grow large quantities of rice easier, so he’s commonly known as the father of rice. The comment basically means that children have enough to eat without doing much for feeding these children too full.”

“To put it bluntly, the psychology of young people is too fragile. Starve them for two days and everything will be fine.” 

After I died, I heard these words.

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R naypble vs vbl taswde okvb y xwqqzle tawdv.

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R oyp byrru, R oyp qall yv zypv.

I was miserable, I was not free.


I was “living” in a different way.


My funeral was a simple affair, and it’s worth mentioning that my parents had another argument when it came to choosing a posthumous photo of me. My father wanted to use my high school entrance photo, which he thought was youthful and vibrant and showed me smiling beautifully; my mother refused, slamming bottles and bowls and crying her heart out, “What’s the use of smiling nicely? She’s dead!”

Yes, what’s the use of a good smile when you’re dead?

In the end, my mother chose a picture of me winning the award as my last photo. She stroked my face and said, “Look how good she looks with the award, she loved this picture the most. I always felt that Lin Lin could bring glory to our ancestors. Is she really worthy of us if she is gone like this?”

I was silent.

My heart said: this was the photo I hate the most.

I hate piano. I have hated the piano since I was a child, but I couldn’t resist my mother. I was made to learn it when I was five, forced to enter competitions at thirteen, and forced to win awards at fourteen.

The living room was silent again, my father was smoking in the kitchen, as i could see the smoke billowing out.


I attended my funeral and the people who came were classmates, teachers, seven aunts and eight uncles, as well as distant cousins who were running around at the funeral.

They ran into my room, grabbing and touching my figurines and dolls everywhere. I hated not being able to stop them, but could only watch.


“Huzi, don’t touch your sister’s things.” 

That’s right, don’t touch my stuff, that’s my favorite journal book! ! !

However, Huzi’s mother just said dryly, my mother also looked at this dryly and smiled palely, “It’s okay, people are gone, there’s no point in keeping things.”

“So Auntie, can I take this doll?” My cousin asked, clutching the doll.

Mother nodded, “Yes.”

–No way!

I was screaming, and eventually the thing fell into my cousin’s hands and I was locked back in my darkened bedroom.

My bedroom was full of books and study materials. Journaling was my only leisure activity in my spare time. My mother threw away a lot of them when I was alive. After the funeral, she found a box and started to throw all those things in. I crouched in front of the box and watched my favourite things go away with me.

The mother cursed under her breath, “It’s these things that killed her, trifling destroys the will.”2 it is an idiom that means infatuation with fine details prevents one from making progress; excessive attention to trivia saps the will.

“It’s okay.” My father sighed, “There’s no point in you talking about it when the person is gone.”

There was a point.

I was still “alive”.



It was the fifteenth day after my death.

The sadness in the house began to subside and my grandmother began to urge my mother to go for a second child. My mother refused, but at night she said to my father, “Should we have another child?”

My father didn’t say anything.

My mother said, “Let’s have a son this time. They are strong, unlike Lin Lin, who can’t stand it after a few words. By the way, I think it’s all that doctor’s fault, what with his depression, I think he brainwashed our Lin Lin!” 

My mother scolded the innocent doctor for a while, but my father remained silent.

When I left the room, I felt sorry for my psychiatrist.

I found Dr. Zhao six months ago and used a year’s worth of pocket money I had saved plus my New Year’s Eve money. He treated and diagnosed me and listened patiently to all the chicken sh!t I had been hiding, but it was still something my mother found out about somehow. She said I had nothing better to do and yelled at me for up to two days.

Even at the time of death, I remembered her face, roaring fiercely, like a tiger.

Was I wrong?

I felt oppressed, I couldn’t breathe so I cut myself on the chest with a knife and blood started to flow out. I felt relieved and sank under the covers and went to sleep. 

The blood dried, the wound slowly scabbed over, and I felt no pain.


That night was the most restful sleep I had had in sixteen years.


The thirtieth day after my death. 

The third uncle flew all the way back from the United States to see me. He was the youngest child in my grandfather’s family and the most successful one. After seeing my father, he held his hand and wept silently. The third uncle cried, my father cried, and my mother cried too. The three cried together.

Only me, who was mourned for, stared at my third uncle’s dark eyes, and felt sick.

The third uncle will always be a nightmare for me.

I still remember when I was young at my grandfather’s house, he couldn’t stop extending his hand to me.

“You help uncle once, and uncle will give you candy.”

When I was thirteen, he was a guest at my house, sneaking around and making advances at me again.

I hid behind my parents, screaming at the top of my lungs that my uncle was bullying me. He bent over and bowed his back, saying that there had been a misunderstanding, explaining that he had spent so much time abroad that he hadn’t paid attention to manners and that I shouldn’t be afraid. My parents said I was being unreasonable and gave me a slap. He came in again that night and I didn’t dare say a word.

It was disgusting and regurgitating.

Thankfully I’m dead otherwise I would have vomitted again.

The dinner was made by my father. The third uncle caught up with my mother on the sofa and talked about me. My mother couldn’t stop crying. The third uncle comforted her softly. After a while, he began to lament, “I didn’t expect this to happen. The child must have been under too much pressure.” 

My mother wiped her nose and tears, “What pressure does she have at such a young age as her, what pressure does she have when she has food and water.”

There was pressure.

Just this one sitting right in front of you.


The hundredth day after my death.

Peace was restored in the family and my parents have discussed getting pregnant again. This time, they have made full preparations for childcare and were confident about welcoming their second crystallization of love. Their efforts soon paid off and after the New Year, my mother was diagnosed three weeks pregnant.

The presence of the newborn ended the gloom caused by my death.

They completely emptied my room, repainted the walls, replaced the bed, the cupboards, the table, the chandelier, all with new ones.

I stood on the windowsill looking coldly at it, suddenly thinking that I was no better than that.

When I wasn’t dead I used to cut myself over and over again with an utility knife and would show my arm at dinner for them to see. Whenever my mother would get angry about it and ask why, a thrill of revenge would rise up inside me, only to be followed by her cries and curses to end it all.

“Are you sick? Who are you trying to scare by cutting yourself twice!”

“Lin Lin, you’re sixteen years old, can you save us the trouble?!”

“You want to die? Go ahead, die! Go ahead and die if you dare!”

So I died. 

At eleven o’clock in the night, I wrote in my journal book: [Sorry Mom and Dad, I’m going.]

Then I dropped the pen, put on my pajamas and opened the window.

I didn’t actually feel sorry, I wanted them to realise that they had “killed” me, so that they could reflect on what they had done for the rest of their lives.

But unfortunately, they gave away the journal book to someone and never saw my brief suicide note at the end and I was never likely to hear a word of apology after my death.


Three hundred and sixty-five days after my death.

My mother was about to give birth and was sent to the hospital overnight, leaving the house empty.

I sat by the window, staring at the moon in the sky, and once again leapt from the height –

This time, I would get real relief.

This time I would be the moon I always wanted to be.

This time, no one will turn me into ashes.


In the first year after Lin Lin’s death, Lin Lin’s parents finally gave birth to the second child, a son.

At the full moon3 In traditional Chinese custom, a huge celebration is held for when a baby is one month old, to celebrate the first full month of life, the health of the baby and to mark the end of the confinement month for the mother. This celebration is known as the Full Moon Celebration., the house was full of people.

“This boy is a blessing.”

“It’s good to have a son, a son saves you trouble.”

“Congratulations, you have a big fat boy, you won’t have to suffer for the rest of your life.”

“Hurry up, hurry up, let Liang Liang draw lots.”4 Drawing lots is a traditional Chinese birth celebration. It is held on a baby’s 1st birthday or on full moon celebration day to predict the baby’s future, career and interests. It is also a way to express good wishes for a baby’s prosperity.

Someone in the crowd secretly said to Lin Lin’s mother, “When you have a son, you should stop thinking about your daughter. Everyone has to move on.”

Someone else asked Lin Lin’s mother, “What do you want your son to do in the future?”

She said thoughtfully, “I’ve always wanted to learn piano, but I couldn’t afford it at home, so Liang Liang will make it happen for his mother, right?”

Lin Lin’s father said, “It’s better to study hard and get into a good university, nothing is as good as getting into a good university.”

The two began to argue again, and the people around them laughed and teased Liang Liang.

It was fun and harmonious.

The author has something to say:

Death brings new life but new life does not end suffering.

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Mily [Translator]

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  1. Kris Xian
    Kris Xian [Translator]

    Gosh, undermining depression is so Asian behavior. 😭 My parents don’t believe in such either and also unable to provide even a little psychological support.

    I wonder if Liang Liang is Lin Lin’s reincarnation. I hope not. Let the poor girl’s soul rest in peace.

    1. Mily
      Mily [Translator]

      Lots of Hugs to you 🫂🫂🫂, thank you for reading ❤️