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墨書 Inktalez
A drop of rain fell on my face; it was going to rain. A few children playing outside ran over, laughing, but when they saw me, they stopped their laughter, slowed down, cautiously glanced at me, then lowered their heads and walked around me before running off again.
I watched the children leave with envy. Even though they would likely get scolded by their parents when they returned home, I still envied them. At their age, I had already become a taboo in the village. My mother had left me, and my father had died in a car accident. At that time, my sister and I stood right here, watching others play. Later on, my sister also left me because we couldn't afford her medical treatment, and I ended up in prison for theft.
The rain gradually intensified. I tilted my head back and let the raindrops wash over my face, hoping that the rain would wash away the traces of tears and carry away some of the pain in my heart, even if just a little. But the tears surged forth like a flood, overwhelming me with sorrow.
I returned to the small two-story building that my relatives had built for my sister and me with my father's compensation money. Looking at the unrenovated building that leaked water everywhere, I thought of my father again. My memories of him stopped at the age of ten when relatives hurried to school to tell me that he wanted to see my sister and me.
My father was blind; how could he see us?
With that question in mind, we were taken to the hospital. I thought my father must be ill and worried about us, which is why he asked our relatives to bring us there. But when I saw the doctor shake his head and wave his hand at my relatives, my already tense face turned pale, and my movements became sluggish.
I was led into the ward by my relatives. When I saw my father lying on the bed covered in blood, I froze completely; darkness briefly clouded my vision until my sister's cries jolted me awake. I didn't know what my relatives said to my father; all I could see was the blood-soaked bed and him continuously coughing up blood.
I stood there helplessly as my relatives brought me to my father's bedside. He struggled to turn his head toward me; at that moment, it felt as if his blind eyes could see me. He reached out his hand, and trembling, I reached out mine as well. The moment our hands clasped, tears streamed down my face uncontrollably.
"Don't cry! From today on, you are a man; you must protect your sister!" My father's fragmented words reached my ears.
I wiped my tears away haphazardly and looked up at him, sniffing as I nodded vigorously. "Yes! I remember!"
Upon hearing my response, the grip of his hand slowly softened. My father was gone; he would no longer ask me and my sister to read him stories from the newspaper.
My relatives took care of his funeral arrangements. Until they placed his coffin into a shallow grave, I never saw the woman referred to as mother appear. From that moment on, I began to doubt what my father had told us.
He often spoke of her to me and my sister, telling us she was a good person and that we should not hate her. Every time he said this, I recalled everything I had seen that night.
She left when I was eight years old. That night, I heard her arguing with my father; later in the night, I heard a motorcycle outside the gate. Through a small window, I saw her ride away on that motorcycle into the darkness.
She was gone.
If she truly was a good person, how could she abandon us? If she was good, why didn't she come to see our father one last time?
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