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墨書 Inktalez
On the sixth day of the National Day holiday, I spent my time in the hospital, lying on the bed with nothing to do, staring at the light streaming through the blinds. He had gone out to buy me breakfast, and I felt a bit guilty for troubling him. I wanted to leave, but the final test results had not yet come back.
"I was afraid you couldn't eat anything too greasy, so I got you a cup of soy milk. If you want anything else, just let me know and I'll go get it," he said as he rushed in with a steaming cup of soy milk and sat down beside my bed. I lifted my hand slightly, and he placed the soy milk on the metal cabinet next to my bed.
I asked him, "Have you bought the high-speed train ticket for tomorrow?"
He hesitated for a moment, his thin eyelids glistening in the sunlight. "Yeah, it's for around three in the afternoon. We need to leave by noon."
"Good, it's better to be early and prepared. Have you packed everything? Don't forget anything; your room is a short-term rental, and if you leave something behind, you won't be able to get it back."
"I won't forget," he said slowly, avoiding my gaze while smiling as he adjusted the head of my bed. "I'll bring everything I need."
"That's good."
I let out a long sigh; there was still some lingering pain in my lungs, but it wasn't worth mentioning. Stubbornly, I faced the sun. It blazed like fire, offering light to the world, but I wasn't afraid of its brightness. Come on! Drive me away, bake me alive, turn me into a wisp of air!
Suddenly, the curtains on either side of my bed were drawn shut.
I glared at him as he pulled up a chair and sat beside me.
"You must have something else to say to me," he prompted.
I glanced at the curtains and continued to glare at him.
"You're just burying your head in the sand!"
"Better than saying nothing," he retorted playfully.
I slammed my hand on the bed in frustration. "Just say it! My biological father abandoned me! My stepfather has molested me for nearly twenty years!"
It felt like a dream; I walked through an alley where relatives gathered outside a door, teasingly asking me about my father.
"Beibei, do you remember your biological father? His name is Fan Deshui; you used to be called Fan Xingxing."
"Do you know why your father didn't want you? It's because you're a girl. You had an older brother who died in your mother's womb—seven months along—who was killed by a needle from family planning officials who injected her with drugs. What a shame for such a good son."
"Beibei, do you miss your father?"
"If it weren't for you, your father wouldn't have left your mother."
At three or four years old, I stumbled back to my grandparents' house, tugging at my grandmother's cotton coat as she played mahjong, repeatedly asking her questions.
"Grandma, where is my real dad?"
"He's in Fan County!" Grandma replied amidst laughter from the people around the table.
"What does he look like?"
One of the grandmothers said, "He's tall and handsome. You look just like him! Go take a look in the mirror; your face shape and eyes are exactly like his."
So, I held up a round mirror with a beautiful paper backing and stared at my reflection. At that time, I had no mom or dad, only my grandparents. I attended preschool in the village and learned to write. My parents, working away from home, refused to send money back, so Grandma borrowed two sheets of letter paper from someone and took my little hand as we leaned over the kang.
"Come on, Beibei, write to your dad for some money."
I carefully wrote, "Hello, Dad, I am Beibei..." One letter after another went out without any reply, but since I never expected anything, I felt no disappointment.
What I didn’t anticipate was that these teasing words would take root in my heart—“You’re a bastard even your real dad despises; this world doesn’t welcome you. You caused your mother to be abandoned; you’re truly a disaster!”
"You know what happened later; when I was five, I was raped but didn’t even know it was rape, so I told no one until not long after it happened when my parents returned."
They came back, and my hell began anew.
They carried me on their shoulders and forcibly took me to our home in a village three miles away, demanding that I call that strange man "Dad." I resisted; I wouldn’t yield to force and clenched my teeth, refusing to comply.
"Call him!"
"Smack!" A slap across my face; I puffed out my cheeks and refused to cover my face.
"This stubborn girl!"
"Bang!" A kick sent me sprawling on the ground, tasting dirt.
"Can’t you call him? Why are you so infuriating?"
My split-crotch pants were torn open, exposing my backside as dozens of slaps rained down on me. I didn’t cry or scream; I remained silent, waiting for them to start cooking before sneaking out of the house and running against the wind back to my grandparents' home.
In the end, they brought me back again—arguing and beating me with the same old routine that had grown tiresome. I wasn’t afraid of their blows; what terrified me was the ominous atmosphere before they struck—their slanted eyes with more white than iris, looking like ghosts; their flaring nostrils exhaling harsh breaths; their chests heaving up and down as they stood with hands on hips, ready to strike at any moment... I couldn’t describe that feeling; it was terrifying. But at that time, I didn’t know that the truly frightening things weren’t the dark clouds or their glaring eyes; it was that door that could never be locked, the silent footsteps in the night, the chill running down my spine, and those naked gazes roaming over my body while all I could do was pretend to be asleep...
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