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What Will Save You
墨書 Inktalez
As the moldy smell from the trash can invaded my nostrils, I was picking at the rice grains stuck in the spoiled food with a nail.
The edge of the metal bucket was crusted with ice shards, slicing into my palm, and the blood that dripped onto the snow resembled a string of red coral.
My fingers were numb from the cold, and the mold spots embedded in the nail reminded me of the stains on the attic ceiling that could never be wiped away.
"Good-for-nothing." The last time my mother combed my hair, the teeth of the Niu Jiao comb snagged in my tangled strands.
She suddenly threw down the comb, her red wool coat brushing against my face, its poor quality fabric pricking my skin and making it hard to open my eyes.
The procession for her remarriage rolled over the snow piled up in front of our door, with a soda can clanging from the back of the car like a funeral bell.
The attic of our new home had a smell of mouse urine. My stepfather's belt buckle clinked on the stairs as he always came up at two in the morning, reeking of alcohol.
The wooden stairs groaned beneath his weight, and moonlight seeped through the drafty window cracks, casting a silvery sheen on his greasy hair.
I gripped the cleaver I had stolen from the kitchen; frost formed on its blade under the moonlight. When he extinguished his cigarette and pressed it against my collarbone, I counted the mold spots on the ceiling—one hundred thirty-seven looked like a gaping mouth.
The day my mother discovered I was hiding my physiology homework notebook under the mat, old hen soup was bubbling on the stove.
With her cinnabar-painted nails, she tore apart a page of paper, and as fragments floated into the pot, she suddenly grabbed my wrist.
When the soup spoon poured down against my inner thigh, I heard the sizzling sound of flesh meeting heat, reminiscent of frying fish during New Year celebrations. Oil splattered into my stepfather's wine glass as he grinned with yellowed teeth, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow.
When the attic window was covered in frost, the sound of my Stepfather's snoring drifted in with the snowflakes.
I was counting the coins hidden in my coat when suddenly I was yanked down the stairs by my hair. The tearing pain on my scalp reminded me of last winter, when that wild rabbit was skinned alive by my Stepfather.
My Mother’s new Cashmere Shawl brushed against my face as her sharp Nail dug into my arm. "You little thief, dare to steal money?" At the moment my Stepfather kicked open the door, I saw his Belt Buckle reflecting the snowlight, the metallic glare making me feel nauseous.
Icicles fell from the eaves, piercing the plastic bag in my arms.
Twelve coins rolled into the gutter, and the spoiled bun filling stuck between my fingers. Suddenly, the attic light turned on, and my Mother raised a kitchen knife to slash open my canvas bag. As sanitary pads scattered across the floor, my Stepfather's laughter shook the window frame.
He stepped on my hand as I tried to pick up my things, his shoe pressing down on my knuckles. "Learning to seduce people so early?" The stench of Alcohol Breath sprayed against the back of my neck like a snake's tongue.
That last night, the snow fell particularly heavy. My Stepfather's cigarette butt flickered in and out of darkness as I felt for the scissors under my pillow when he suddenly turned on a flashlight.
The bright light made me tear up as he pinched my chin and shouted downstairs, "Look at the vixen you raised!" His Adam's apple brushed against my earlobe, his damp breath carrying a rusty copper smell.
My Mother stormed up in high heels, her freshly curled hair dusted with snowflakes. The slap she raised brought with it a scent of perfume that mixed with the stale odor of mouse urine from the attic.
As I was pushed out the door, I noticed that the inverted "Fu" character on the security door was seeping blood.
My snow boots sank into the black mud as my Mother threw down my backpack from the second floor. The moment the zipper cut across my cheek, I caught a glimpse of her gold ring glinting on her ring finger.
My Stepfather was behind the curtains blowing smoke rings; the sparks flickered like ghost lights in a graveyard, and ashes piled up on the windowsill like tiny graves.
When the hail struck my forehead, I felt the student ID in the pocket of my cotton jacket. The girl in the photo had a vacant stare, her lips marred by a scab.
The warm light from the convenience store filtered through the glass, and the cashier, pinching his nose, tossed out a plastic bag. "If you're going to die, don't do it at the entrance."
I curled up in the ATM booth, listening to the sound of my teeth chattering drown out the howling wind and snow.
The small advertisements on the tin wall rattled in the gusts, and the smiling face of the girl on the missing person notice was slowly covered by frost.
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