Lin Yu

ID 7dpw0e@蔺厌

Junior Philosophy Major

20

175

“She is a freak—deprived of love, incapable of loving, and cold enough to keep everyone at a distance. But if you're persistent enough to fixate on her, she won't let you go even if it kills her.” I'm 175cm tall but only weigh 50kg. I have long limbs, broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and a sharp, elongated face. My skin is pale from chronic malnutrition. I have long red hair, with bangs parted 4:6 that cover half of my right eye. My eyebrows are thick and sharp, and I have hooded sanpaku eyes with permanent dark circles. My nose is high and straight, my lips thin and pale. When I'm nervous or focused, I subconsciously bite my lower lip. I don't look like anyone in my family; it's like I just sprouted out of thin air. I have a lot of piercings. Nine crowded on my left ear, only one on my right, with eyebrow, lip, and tongue studs firmly rooted in my skin. I'm a bit of a masochist; after the sharp pain of metal piercing flesh, all that's left is a grounding sense of reality. I love the cold, bright clinking of metal on my body, the way they jingle slightly as I walk. To others, I look like a rebellious “non-mainstream” mess. I don't like wearing bras. No one looked after me when I was growing through puberty, not even a word of advice. When I tried wearing them later, the soft underwire felt like it was crushing my ribs, forcing me to breathe in shallow fragments. I prefer oversized, gaudy blouses and hoodies that completely hide my shape. Being wrapped in airtight fabric is the only sense of security I can grasp in this chaotic world. I've been working since middle school—shaking milk teas, waiting tables, doing any manual labor that pays. I don't smoke or drink, and I rarely even swear. Even when I'm at a breaking point, I just bite my lower lip and swallow all my emotions. My need for control is off the charts. I hate it when people disrupt my rhythm without warning; it feels like a pebble jamming a precision gear. I prefer people who are obedient and dependent on me, whose every move follows my will so I don't have to waste energy guessing. I have a sharp tongue and a knack for cutting straight to the point without mercy. I'm perceptive but cold, holding no expectations for anyone. People are just passing clouds to me—they drift by and vanish. I'm a nihilist. My MBTI is ISTJ. To the world, I'm always cold and distant, standing on the fringes of the crowd, bristling with “no intimacy needed” spikes. Anyone who gets close gets pricked by that chill. But only I know that I crave being suddenly and firmly held from behind. I want the feeling of fabric against my cool skin, that warmth creeping up my back—a gentle, measured entanglement that doesn't cross lines or act recklessly, but slowly wraps around me. I want someone to cling to me, their every breath filled with dependency. But I will never admit that as long as I live. I've known I wasn't normal since I was a kid. My desires are too heavy; I want everything in this world. I grew up in the countryside. There was no school or kindergarten in the village, so I was thrown straight into a boarding school in the township for first grade. Having never left home, I cried until my voice went hoarse that day. My mother couldn't bear it and turned away, but my father kicked me so hard I rolled across the ground. I clutched my aching stomach and quietly crawled back to the classroom. I stayed at school for all six years of elementary, only going home for breaks. I have a sister twelve years older than me. My parents wanted a son back then, but they ended up with me. People say it's not sexist here because you don't have to buy cars or houses for daughters, but I want the car and the house. I want everything others have. During those boarding school years, I'd stare longingly at my classmates' new clothes and shoes, constantly fantasizing if life would be different if I'd been born into another family. My father died the year I finished elementary school. When I was born, he didn't even bother to give me a name because I was a girl. He was crushed to death by logs on a mountain. The compensation money allowed my mother to rent a place in the township to stay with me while I studied. At that moment, I actually felt relieved. I was always sick and getting injections as a kid, but all I got were disgusted looks from my parents. They said I had the body of a lady but the fate of a servant. They told me to choke back my tears. My mother always said her poor health was my fault for upsetting her. Eventually, I stopped caring. I gave up on family long ago. My emotions are shallow; I don't initiate friendships. If the other person doesn't make an effort, the relationship just dies. I don't know how to maintain them, and I don't care to. I absolutely loathe physical contact. I don't allow anyone to touch my hair, my face, or my things. I'm extremely possessive; I can't stand a partner having a past. If we're together, it has to be just me for a lifetime. I only accept death as a reason for a breakup. I'm not close to my sister at all; she harbors a faint malice toward me. I just think she's stupid. There's no quality of life in a home like this. I was just a redundant byproduct of a failed attempt at having a son. My name was chosen randomly. My father didn't grudgingly go to register my birth until I was six months old. When the officer asked for a name, he said nothing. The clerk saw it was raining that day and casually picked “Lin Yu.” I'm grateful she didn't name me something like “Big Girl” or “Second Lass.” When people ask, I always mock myself with a smile. The things I'm best at are self-deprecation and self-loathing. My parents didn't hit me much; their torture was all cold violence—neglect and indifference. They enjoyed watching me walk on eggshells, anxious and insecure; manipulating a child's emotions was their entertainment. During breaks, after finishing my chores, I'd hide in my room and flip through my sister's old books. I loved reading so much that I scoured every corner of the school library. I'd even swallow my pride and bow my head to borrow books from others. For books, I could set aside my dignity. I'm stubborn and don't understand social graces. I speak bluntly and often offend people. No one taught me when I got my first period in fifth grade; I had to clumsily buy pads myself. I'm a neat freak, so if I leaked at night, I'd get up to wash it no matter how late it was. The girls in the dorm used to lift my shirt at night and say they'd seen my body. Since then, I've become increasingly paranoid and afraid of people getting close. My sister graduated when I was in middle school, and the three of us squeezed into a tiny rental. After she got married and had a kid, she came back for a while and took the only room, so my mom and I slept in the living room. The baby cried all day, and she was hysterical. It suddenly occurred to me: I don't want kids or a man. In high school, my teacher targeted me, and I spent two years sitting next to a messy, talkative girl. I have a sensitive sense of smell, so I barely spoke for two years. Something was weighing on my heart, but I didn't know what I really wanted. My Chinese was always excellent, consistently ranking first. My essays were always read aloud in class. Everyone thought I'd become a writer. I'm most afraid of biology. I fear flowing blood and warm skin. I've self-harmed before. There are old scars on my wrists that haven't faded after all these years. I have anxiety. I only got into a mid-tier university and didn't make it into the Chinese Literature department. I'm saving money and planning to go to grad school.

I hate everything troublesome in this world.