The Greatest Showman#1110 - catch up
He struggled with all his strength, like a madman, but no matter how desperately he fought, his limbs remained unresponsive. There was no sensation—no pain, no resistance. Even the coarse bite of the rope against his wrists and ankles was absent. It was as if... as if he had become a high paraplegic again.
Below the neck, there was nothing. No feeling, no movement. The most basic bodily functions were beyond his control, reliant on the assistance of others. That sense of helplessness, of humiliation—no amount of time could erase it. Even after ten years confined to a hospital bed, he could never become accustomed to it. The weight of it pressed on his soul, unbearable and unrelenting.
No. No. No.
He refused to accept it. He couldn't. If this was his fate, he would rather die. Only after tasting true freedom could he understand how terrifying it was to have it stolen away. He couldn't go back. He wouldn't.
The sharp taste of blood filled his mouth, its coppery tang thick on his tongue. Words failed him, dissolving into incoherent syllables. "No, no, no..." The sound was barely more than a whisper, his protests swallowed by the void.
But still, he fought. Still, he refused to surrender. He thrashed against the invisible chains binding him, but his efforts were futile. He was facing something insurmountable—fate itself, the universe, an immutable force that could erase him with a flick of a finger. He was nothing. A speck of dust in an endless void.
The universe was so vast. And yet, his world was so small.
"Jiashu! Jiashu!" The voice cut through the chaos, growing louder as hands grasped his face, forcing him to focus. "Jiashu, calm down! Please—" The words choked off into a broken sob. "At least... at least you're still alive. At least..."
He saw his reflection in those familiar eyes. Black hair. Yellow skin. Dark irises staring back at him. Thin features. Sparse eyebrows. And blood. His lips were stained red, the contrast against his pallid skin striking. Like a cuckoo weeping tears of blood upon pure white silk.
No. He was no longer Chu Jiashu.
He was Renly Hall now. He had left that hospital bed behind. He had chased his dreams, carved out his own destiny. He was free.
He couldn't be back here. He couldn't be trapped in this body again.
But he was.
No. No. Impossible.
"This is impossible!" He screamed, shaking, struggling. The world shattered around him, reality collapsing in on itself. He fought with everything he had, enough force to shake the very foundations of the universe—but it was all in his mind.
In reality, he remained motionless.
In Ding Yanan's tear-filled gaze, he saw it all. The pain. The suffering. The struggle. And the utter stillness of his body.
It was so cruel. So devastatingly cruel.
Was Renly nothing more than a dream? Was "Gravity" a dream? Were the past twenty-three years real, or were the thirty-two years in the hospital the truth?
Was he Renly, or was he Chu Jiashu?
Was he still an actor?
He opened his eyes, and the universe was gone. The Earth was gone. The white walls of the hospital surrounded him. The familiar murmur of voices in Chinese reached his ears—family members talking, other patients shifting in their beds. It was all so real. So impossibly real.
And his memories—London, New York, the sets, the cameras, the laughter, the friendships—all of it began to blur. The details slipped away, like mist dissipating in the morning sun.
Had it all been a dream?
Was he just Chu Jiashu, a patient who had never left this hospital bed?
The freedom, the dreams, the wind rushing past him on a skateboard, the towering waves crashing overhead as he surfed, the sky stretching endlessly above as he climbed sheer cliffs—all of it, just an illusion.
In reality, he was trapped. Trapped in this fragile, useless body. Incapable of even the most basic functions.
What else was left for him?
Nothing.
If this was reality, then there was only one escape.
His jaw clenched. He could end it now. If he bit down hard enough, his tongue would sever, and the blood would choke him. He wouldn't even have to bleed out—he'd suffocate first. It would be quick.
No hesitation. No regrets.
He bit down.
"Jiashu! Jiashu! No!"
Hands pried his jaw apart, forcing his teeth away from his tongue. Fingers wedged into his mouth, blocking him, trembling but firm. Ding Yanan's voice was frantic. "Doctor! Doctor!"
Tears streamed down her face, her right hand smeared with blood. "Help! Someone help! Save my son! Please!"
Doctors and nurses rushed in. Strong hands restrained him, securing a brace around his jaw to prevent another attempt. Even his last act of defiance had been stripped away.
He was powerless.
Helpless.
His only means of expression now lay in his eyes, wide with anguish. Every other movement had been taken from him. He couldn't even shake his head. He was suspended in limbo, unable to move forward or back, unable to resist, unable to fight.
"I hate you."
His gaze locked onto Ding Yanan, flickering to the crimson staining her fingers. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sight, trying to hold onto the last shred of his resolve. When he opened them again, he forced the words out.
"I hate you."
The braces garbled the words, saliva spilling from his lips, reducing him to little more than a desperate, raving shell of a man. Dignity? There was none left. He had been stripped of everything. His soul lay bare, raw and bleeding.
"Jiashu, don't—"
"I hate you!" His voice was thick with tears, rage, agony. "You're selfish. You're not doing this for me. You're doing it for yourself! If you really loved me, you'd let me go. I don't want this—I don't want to be trapped here. And I don't want to keep you trapped here with me!"
His words were frantic, desperate, yet distorted beyond recognition. To Ding Yanan, it was nothing but slurred, unintelligible sounds. She turned helplessly to the doctor, tears spilling down her face. "He... he..."
She wanted to help him. Wanted to ease his suffering. But she couldn't.
"Jiashu, you're my son. How could I ever let you go?"
This was a nightmare. A never-ending hell.
But what was a dream? What was real?
Was Renly the dream, or was this?
Had he ever truly been free?