5.
Trần Nguyên’s Account (2)
I watched executions every day. My mother knew this perfectly well, and that was exactly why she brought us here.
The truth is, we didn’t move here because my mother found a job at the machinery factory. It was the other way around.
My mother chose to work here because she wanted to move close to the execution ground. The Machinery Factory dormitory was our third home.
As a child, I was smart and well-behaved, loved by everyone, and my parents’ pride and joy. But starting in second grade, I gradually grew darker in temperament.
I began bullying my classmates regularly. At first, I would just lock them in an abandoned shed and enjoy watching everyone worry as they searched for them. But by fifth grade, I was beating people badly enough to land them in the hospital.
My parents apologized and paid compensation countless times.
My parents and teachers took turns trying to set me straight, but I still wouldn’t change.
My mother cried night after night. “You used to be so good, so sensible. How did you end up like this? Did we do something wrong?”
Whenever my father was called in by a teacher, he would come home, beat me brutally with his belt, and make me stand all night.
Once, he slapped me so hard I lay motionless on the floor. But at some point, when he looked into my eyes, he stopped.
He suddenly became afraid that one day I would kill him. Not long afterward, my father left and never came back.
In fifth grade, I was expelled. My reputation had spread so far that no school nearby dared take me. My mother had no choice but to move me somewhere else.
My mother understood the principle behind Mèng Mǔ Sān Qiān—Mencius’s mother moved three times to find a good environment for her son—so she moved us near a university in the city, hoping I would be influenced by its civilized surroundings.
When I started at my new school, all the teachers liked me because I did well in class, was polite, and behaved myself. My mother breathed a sigh of relief, thinking I had finally gotten better. But it was all an act.
After two peaceful years, when I was in my first year of middle school, I conspired with a human trafficker to kidnap a girl from the neighborhood and nearly sell her. The girl’s boyfriend wouldn’t let it go and caused a scene at my school.
A teacher called me in to question me, but I had hidden a dagger in my pocket and nearly caused a disaster. In the principal’s office, my mother fell to her knees and begged for mercy.
The principal was firm, saying I was beyond discipline. Children who behaved badly like that would end up committing crimes sooner or later, he said, and told my mother to deal with me herself.
After that, I was expelled again. My mother became seriously ill because of it, and when she recovered, she seemed much clearer-headed. She moved us once more, to this place.
The dormitory building at the far end of Taishan County No. 2 Machinery Factory stood next to the Taishan Execution Ground, so the other workers’ families couldn’t get away from it fast enough.
Anyone unlucky enough to get a “viewing gallery” like that would board up its windows and keep them shut forever, to avoid accidentally seeing things they shouldn’t. My mother took a similar approach, covering the windows with newspaper so the light could still get through.
The newspaper-covered windows could still be opened. She even built a flower stand outside my bedroom window, set a red clay pot on it, and planted an orchid.
Every morning, she went out to water or prune the plant, head bowed and eyes lowered, never daring to look into the distance. But the window was open for ventilation, so when I stood up, I could see the execution site directly.
I understood what my mother intended. She knew she couldn’t gently teach me to behave, so she wanted to frighten me—to show me what happened to bad people, hoping I would sympathize with them, be afraid, come to my senses, and become a good person.
At first, the executions truly shocked me. I went back to being a good boy and studied hard.
But only I knew how much I was suffering inside. I tried to suppress the evil thoughts in my head, and even began deliberately hurting myself in painful ways.
My hands and legs were covered in scars I had inflicted on myself, and my mind was in a haze. It wasn’t easy to keep myself from committing crimes.
“Dr. Lu, look.”
6.
Handcuffed and unable to pull up his sleeve, Trần Nguyên bowed his head and used his teeth to tug it up, showing me the old scars on his arm.
“It seems you really were suffering then.”
I concluded, “A mother who wanted to save her antisocial son moved to the area near an execution ground. You could call that a desperate measure. I’m sure even Mencius’s mother would have admired yours.”
Trần Nguyên said, “But it only made me more depressed. If you force someone to undergo treatment like this, wouldn’t it only warp their mind further?”
“You’re right.” I hesitated. “But don’t use that as an excuse. You weren’t mentally ill, and you received the fairest verdict possible. You can’t overturn it based on this story.”
Trần Nguyên said, “I’m just stating the facts objectively.”
I shook my head. “Then I can’t verify whether any of that is true. All I know is that you committed a crime. In these final moments, think about what you’ve done.”
“Chu Hồng Hưng’s family had been perfectly happy, but after a few arguments with Chu Hồng Hưng, you ruthlessly killed him, casting a shadow over a family that had been happy. After you went to prison, you not only failed to repent, but made things worse, beating your cellmate Mã Minh to death over a petty argument. There’s no reason you should have been able to take two lives so easily.”
Trần Nguyên said, “I killed two people over minor conflicts. Dr. Lu must think I’m someone who can’t control his emotions?”
I was at a loss for words. As a psychological counselor, I understood the mental state of most prisoners.
Some prisoners have severe mood swings and poor self-control, and often need my guidance. They’re usually my primary focus.
As I said before, Trần Nguyên wasn’t one of them. Ever since he was imprisoned, he’d behaved quite well and remained emotionally stable, so I hadn’t needed to worry about him. I’d never spoken to him before, either, so I really knew very little about him.
The prisoner Trần Nguyên beat to death, Mã Minh, had sexually abused and murdered a child. He was the lowest of the low, shunned and bullied by the other prisoners. Wherever he went, people targeted him.
It was precisely because Trần Nguyên was relatively even-tempered and not the sort to cause trouble that we arranged for the two of them to share a cell. They lived peacefully together for a while.
Looking at it that way, Trần Nguyên really didn’t seem like someone who would impulsively kill over a few arguments. But that wasn’t what had happened.
I said, “You admitted your motive for the murder yourself.”
“Really?” Trần Viễn said calmly. “My story isn’t over yet.”
The execution was about to take place. Did he still want to recant his earlier testimony?
“There’s still an hour and a half. Go ahead.”