"Wounds are not necessarily the medals of suffering; they can also be a passport for wrongdoing."
The letter in Louis's hand felt like a snake shedding its skin, cool and slippery, with the stench of old scales. He wrote about how his mother rubbed him in humiliation, how his father nailed him into darkness with silence; as he wrote on, the pen suddenly turned, and the blade was pressed against his wife's and children's necks. Just as we wanted to reach out to wipe his blood, that blood jumped up by itself, splattering our faces.
Moriac gave us no solid ground to stand on. With a shake of the letter, the room swayed: just a moment ago, we were feeling his pain, and the next second, we only wanted to strangle him. Understanding became complicity, and sympathy turned into an accomplice.
It was only after his wife died that he cried. But that cry was not human; it was like a snake squeezing the last bit of venom into the air—there was no regret, only fear. Fear that he couldn't even hold onto a place to be hated. The children didn't inform him; he scolded them for being heartless, but in fact, he was scolding: how dare you erase even my shadow?
He said he wanted to go back, to "integrate into the children's lives." It sounded like a plea, but it was actually extortion: my remaining days are few, you must leave a light for me. Inheritance, coughing, and that bit of lingering life were all laid out on the table—exchanged for a simple "I still remember you."
As the book closed, we were left with a rope that tightened more and more. The knot first held Louis's face, then transformed into our own. With more force, blood seeped through our fingers—indistinguishable whether it was his or ours.
"The Snake Knot" does not offer redemption; it only tears open the wound, allowing you to smell whether it is pus or still warm blood inside.