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墨書 Inktalez
The fluorescent light buzzed overhead.
I clenched the manuscript tightly, my knuckles turning white as the smell of medical alcohol seeped through the gaps in the masks worn by the reporters below.
"Miss Xia Jian, did you really participate in organ trafficking?"
As the flashbulbs burned spots into my retina, I pulled at my turtleneck, and the collective gasp from the audience sounded like a snapped violin string. Seventeen centipede-like scars snaked from my collarbone to my lower abdomen, medical tape forming a ghastly white cross on my skin.
The rubber soles of security guards' shoes made muffled sounds against the carpet.
"That was a commemorative photo taken when they administered anesthesia." I raised my phone, and the screen flashed images of tiled walls in an operating room, where a man in gold-rimmed glasses was making a peace sign. A wave of nausea swept through the crowd, and cameras suddenly swung toward the ceiling.
Figures in black suits closed in from both sides.
As the sharp pain of a stun gun jolted my neck, I smiled through tears at the last camera that remained on. In the live stream, my mouth twitched like a fish thrown into hot oil. The wail of sirens pierced through the bulletproof glass of the conference hall, red and blue lights splattering across the floor-to-ceiling windows like pools of blood.
The iron table in the interrogation room absorbed all warmth.
"The words of a schizophrenia patient cannot be used as evidence." The steel badge of the female officer reflected the overhead light, and I recognized that the last number matched the signature on that year’s case closure report. She pushed a stack of documents toward me, and an old injury beneath my right rib suddenly flared with pain—the spot where part of my liver was missing felt like it was on fire.
The radiator emitted a dying groan.
"How much did they pay you?" I stared at her newly done crystal nails, recalling that rainy night behind the orphanage when mud had filled my throat, glistening with such cold light. The surveillance camera suddenly turned to face the wall; her hand moved skillfully to switch off the recording device, making me feel sick to my stomach.
Outside the glass curtain wall, a white coat flashed by.
I counted to seven before the shift change; the iron door's hinges creaked painfully. The newcomer’s shoes were speckled with petals from funeral chrysanthemums, and his cufflinks were shaped like ginkgo leaves—identical to the emblem on the scalpel handle. Behind him stood a boy wearing an electronic ankle monitor; his orphanage file photo had faded to a grayish hue on his face.
"Your sister's heart is still beating."
The metal chair leg screeched against the ground as I lunged forward, and the handcuff tore open old scabs on my wrist. The boy mechanically lifted his shirt; blood seeped from centipede-like stitches on his chest—those were marks I had carved with a cutter in the Dean's office as a rescue signal.
Suddenly, the overhead light burst, scattering glass shards mixed with antihypertensive medication across the floor.
As the person in protective gear rushed in and pressed down on the back of my neck, I bit down hard on the boy's wrist. The salty, metallic taste exploded in my mouth, and I was reminded of the disinfectant smell from the laundry room of the orphanage—bitter like the blood I had swallowed on the warehouse floor when I was thirteen.
"Patient exhibiting violent tendencies!"
The cold sensation of the sedative being injected into my vein made me count the distant sound of the stretcher wheels echoing down the hallway. The beeping of the fetal monitor overlapped with the sound of rain from my memories; it was the same rhythmic electronic sound I heard when I was dragged out of a muddy pit.
They showed me a copy of the case closure report.
"Upon verification, the photographs are fabricated." The ink on the diagnosis of "Schizophrenia" blurred into a spider shape, and I touched the longest scar on my right abdomen, letting out a laugh. A few canary feathers drifted down from the heating vent, soft like the piece of plush fabric that had once been stuffed into my mouth.
As the red light of the interrogation recorder went out, the glass wall reflected a shadow behind me.
The motion of him removing his mask made my pupils constrict sharply—his scar that ran across his chin was exactly what I had left with rusty scissors when I was ten. Back then, as he cursed while pressing his wound, blood dripped just like that onto the orphanage's donation list.
"Sign here for your confession."
The moment the pen tip pierced through the paper, an alarm suddenly blared. I knocked over a metal chair and lunged toward the fire sprinkler head, cold water mixed with memories of torrential rain flooding into my nostrils. As they held down my left hand to cast it, I heard the church bells from the orphanage echoing deep within my cochlea, ringing thirteen times.
(End of chapter)
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