After He Broke a Glass

This is a translation of my short novel 《摔碎了一只玻璃杯之后》. This is my first time trying to translate a piece of literature work, so it might not seem to be the perfect translation.

本篇是 《摔碎了一只玻璃杯之后》 之后的译作。初次尝试翻译，水平所限，将就能看。

That was not a quite pleasant sound.

He paused for a moment. Where he was looking at, there were some broken pieces of glass lying out on the floor with water gradually spreading around; his hand was there at the edge of the office desk, still pausing and trembling a little bit. He still remembered that he was going for the glass of water, but the glass was not there anymore when he looked. Somehow, it got him to feel a little unrealistic.

He took his hand back -- still trembling; his facial expression looked paused, too. He was still working on believing that the glass just disappeared right in front of him. He opened his mouth as if he was going to say something but with lots of concern -- pretty soon, he closed it.

If only anyone else were there at the office, they would freak out for the oddest scene happening next, and unable to shut his mouth up -- as if he was going to say something but with lots of concern: he stood up slowly, seemed unconsciously walking toward the window, and then he jumped out of the window.

One seventeen in the morning, he was dead.

...

He is a rather interesting person.

He's a middle-aged man, with no partner, no child, no pet, some friends -- well, he "had" some friends.

He had some good friends -- "It was not me who lost the sense of friendship, but them." He always says so. Parties, social activities, games all seem incredibly dull to him, as a significant waste of time. No, he does not think that friendship is boring -- of course friendship is fun, but not a lot of people want to be your friend; most people just want to know you, to get close to you, to talk to you, to greet you when they meet you, and to share their joy and pain with you. "A well-qualified friend," he says, "should be quiet and decisive." Nobody understood what "decisive" means, so he never made another friend ever since. He was twenty-one.

He is a programmer. He hates to work overtime.

He decides to work for another month then leave the company. He is going to sell his apartment, and purchase a car to travel with. He had a car when his company has not fallen yet; he was a young entrepreneur -- he was only eighteen. He is a believer of "virtual economy"; "Only idiots would do 'real economy' businesses," he laughed, "but I wish that there would've been more idiots." The "virtual economy" he bought into has crushed, at his age of twenty-one.

He sold his house and his car, gave away his pet dog, paid all the company debts alone. He had a girlfriend who does not love him. "The most interesting part of a relationship is that she does not love you and neither you do, but nobody says anything about it," he murmured, sitting at a corner of an underground parking lot on the day she left,** "and the most uninteresting part is that, when one gets into some trouble, the other says everything about it and just leaves."**

"I don't give a damn," he says, "I honestly do not care what other people think about me."

He was born in a small town, went to a top middle school and high school. His family borrowed a large amount of money to send him to school -- if only his father did not pass away because of cancer, he might have gone to a good college, too. His family economy has collapsed; he started doing part-time jobs so that he could finish his high school; nevertheless, the joy of part-time jobs and the sense of happiness of making his own money have completely overwhelmed him.

He started his first own business when he was eighteen, but nobody knew what he was exactly doing -- not his friends, not his family -- not even after the company has fallen. The only thing people knew about is that he made a lot of money, really quickly. He was happy about it; he was happy for three years.

When he was twenty-three, he became a programmer. No, he did not major in computer science, but he does enjoy programming. "Programs, they know what they're supposed to do and what they're not supposed to do. They get a whole set of logic." He stayed on that "logic" for almost fifteen years; he paused for about one year at some point -- people say that his mother passed away.

Before he broke his last ever friendship, his friend was sitting right in front of him, "It is okay. We can do this all over again with..." "No," He interrupted, "I am not starting any new shit again. It's... It's just boring enough." He says so, with a little anger in the tone; his eyes, however, never moved an inch away from the contract.

His last friend left, and that friend did not see the tears on his face.

"A well-qualified friend should be quiet and decisive."

He does not like working overtime, which is getting more and more common among IT companies. His dislike does not matter -- he is not his boss anymore. However, what he can do is to quit the job. Yet, he never thought about quitting his job -- he likes programming, and he needs to make a living.

Yesterday was the annual physical examination. He's found of Pancreatic cancer, second stage.

...

He sits in front of his desk, missing his pet dog. It was a Border Collie. He wished that Phillip, his dog, were here so that he would feel somehow better.

"Emotions are distracting," he says to himself, "a waste of time."

He stops emotionalizing, so he stops missing his dog.

He becomes rather positive of overtime working these days as if he's running away from something; he doesn't know. He starts to think: what if he can have a "friend" right now, who "just want to know you, to get close to you, to talk to you, to greet you when they meet you, and to share their joy and pain with you"; he hopes that he could tell his neighbor, a lady who is neither young nor pretty, that he likes her -- she greets him every single morning, kindly, though he never showed any reaction -- he cares about her, but he is afraid to talk, to own something -- he is afraid to lose something; he really wants to say that he wanted to start another business right at his last friend's face and that he is scared; he wants to tell his mother that he loves her, only if she could hear it.

He is afraid; he starts to tremble again.

"Emotions are distracting, a waste of time."

He calms down.

About a half of an hour has gone passing; he has finished last bit of his work. He does not know how was he able to manage his emotions; he is curious about it himself -- maybe he is too afraid, too afraid to own his own emotions. He feels quiet at this very moment. "A man with hope," that is how he defines himself right now: "Well, early stages of Pancreatic cancer are not lethal." He is not worried about spending all his money on it -- he has already lost all his money before.

He is afraid of losing his life. He misses his dog again.

Inhale, exhale -- he does this when he's under extreme pressure. He is extremely thirsty. "I shall get some water and get calmer, and then walk out of the company to get some sleep at home; everything shall be better tomorrow, right?" He thinks to himself.

He stops trembling.

So, he reaches his right hand to the glass of water at the edge of the desk.

...