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墨書 Inktalez
What kind of belief did I hold at that time, entering a new class as a repeat student, getting to know a group of younger seniors again, enduring another year of hardship? All those cold words, the pointing fingers, the isolation and schemes would have to start over. No! Absolutely not!
I stood on a bed covered in peeling wallpaper and scattered clothes, my eyes bloodshot, veins throbbing at my temples and neck. I could hear my own heartbeat, my gasping breaths, the silent wails of despair. Then I lay down on the bed, pulled the damp blanket over my head, inhaling and exhaling… inhaling and exhaling…
My mother sat by the bed, beginning her gloomy counsel. It was less of a counsel and more of a venting session—starting from when she was forced to marry my father after he spent three years in prison, to conflicts with her mother-in-law, to my needs and how I was an ungrateful child… Every second felt like torture. I lay under the blanket, drenched in sweat and my mind foggy. After about two hours, my mother showed no signs of stopping. I finally couldn’t take it anymore; I threw off the blanket and grabbed a shard of glass from beside my pillow—I didn’t even know why there was broken glass next to my pillow. In any case, there was everything on my bed: dirt clumps, stones, dust… A piece of glass wasn’t surprising. So, I held that shard in my right hand and dragged it across my left arm multiple times, deep enough to see muscle fibers beneath the skin, flesh curling back as blood flowed freely. My mother stood there in shock, expressionless. I pointed the sharp edge at the carotid artery in my neck and screamed,
“Is it okay if I die? I’ll go die! I won’t be a burden to you anymore!”
I pressed down hard… Of course, I didn’t die; otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to write these words now. My father rushed in from another room, snatched the glass from my hand, and carried me to the village pharmacy. There were no stitches available; they sprinkled some iodine and wrapped it up simply. While bandaging me, the doctor said nothing—he must have guessed that something unspeakable had happened in our family.
The result of my self-harm was that my parents agreed to let me attend a third-tier university; I could choose any school as long as it was far from home—far enough that I wouldn’t look back.
So, I chose Qingdao—a place very far from my hometown.
But what about tuition?
At that time, a hard resolve born from resentment built up inside me. I said, “I won’t rely on you; I’ll earn money myself!”
The reason I could say this was that I found a recruitment ad on QQ Space looking for models over 1.65 meters tall for night shows with monthly earnings between ten thousand to thirty thousand yuan, including food and accommodation. At 1.72 meters tall and not unattractive, if I could pass the interview, I could earn a year’s tuition in just one month. So I added their QQ account and described my physical characteristics; they welcomed me warmly and urged me to come quickly.
It was 2012; I was 17 years old. Pulling a suitcase and dressed in what I thought were new but distinctly rural clothes, I took a train to Shanghai. After getting off the train and taking a taxi for the first time, seeing the starting fare of twelve yuan made me calculate how little cash remained in my wallet. The taxi dropped me off outside a residential complex where I called the recruiter. Following their instructions to circle around several times before entering a tall building, I clearly remember looking up at its peak—it seemed endless against the sky; that building was so tall! Then I entered through the door and took an elevator up several floors—exactly how many escapes me now—but eventually found myself in an apartment with stylish decor. Two young men were sitting in the living room: one playing video games and the other smoking. They glanced at me sideways; it was summer, and they noticed the scars on my arms with frowns.
“You’ve got scars? That won’t do; you’re second-rate. Call Lao Liu and see if they’ll take you.”
I anxiously sat on the sofa holding onto my suitcase’s handle while obediently waiting for them to pass me along like some second-rate product. The atmosphere felt almost stagnant for me when suddenly a beautiful slender girl emerged from one of the rooms saying,
“Just that old Chen? I went on a business trip with him for three days and he didn’t touch me at all—just held me close and gave me fifty thousand when he brought me back; he seems like a nice guy…”
I vaguely remember what she said afterward; all that registered was “fifty thousand.” Fifty thousand! My father worked for three years without earning that much! This beautiful sister made fifty thousand in just three days—couldn’t I do that too?
But no—I entered for two hundred each time; that’s just two hundred for sitting once.
I knew I'd fallen into a trap, but those red bills danced before my eyes so vividly—they were bright enough to obscure our family’s status as low-income recipients or those photos of us holding proof of government assistance… They could cover up so much! After all, it was just drinking with clients—not staying overnight with them. They coveted my youthful skin and body while I adored their wallets. Not knowing how to sing or charm anyone with sweet words or wanting to be taken advantage of meant all I could do was drink. Drinking was traditional in my family; before turning eight while living with my grandparents, Grandma would always have two cups of liquor at every meal—she’d dip her chopsticks into her drink and let drops touch my tongue while laughing at how it made me scrunch up my face. Later when my parents returned from working away and brought me back to another village they called home, Dad also had beer with every meal sometimes making me drink along with him—so drinking came easy to me.
That summer before college marked both the most extravagant yet reckless time of my life because once you enter this industry there’s only one way down—no chance for resistance.
With each glass of draft beer downed, I grew wilder—twisting my waist as he held me from behind with long delicate fingers pressing perfectly against my waistline. Leaning against his arm while tilting back slightly with squinted eyes—my eyes are narrow; someone once said when I looked at people like this it exuded an unusual allure—I appeared fresh-faced yet captivatingly caught his gaze. I saw waves rising in his eyes as his Adam's apple bobbed dryly up and down while swallowing hard; suddenly leaning close to him whispered,
“Do you know what kind of person I am?”
After saying this, I spun away from his embrace.
I don’t remember how I got home that night but recall him carrying me onto the bed where I wrapped both arms around his neck unleashing all restraint within me while his palms pressed against either side of my head—our faces mere inches apart.
He asked softly, “Do you know what you’re doing? Do you know what I want? Just rest well; I don’t want lower instincts controlling my reason.”
He left, and I didn’t try to stop him, not even giving him a second glance. I stared at the lampshade on the ceiling, its edges glowing softly in a hazy light. I kept looking, lost in thought, until memories of that sausage and those floral underwear flooded my mind. I turned my body and buried my head in the plush toy, sobbing uncontrollably. He was outside; I could feel his presence, quietly accompanying me in a different way.
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