After dinner, Mom cleared the table and headed into the kitchen. I quietly retreated to my room, locking a door that offered no real protection anyway.
Sitting at the edge of my bed, I stared blankly at the door, one hand slipping beneath my pillow.
“Stop washing those and go buy me cigarettes.”
It was that man’s voice. I could hear him shoving Mom, his tone growing more impatient by the second.
“Go on! Are you deaf?”
His voice grew louder, running a script I knew all too well. The next second, the sharp crash of breaking plates shattered the air.
Then came the familiar sequence: the man’s roaring rages, followed by a woman’s weeping.
The commotion lasted for a while before an abrupt, heavy silence fell over the house. No one came to push my door open. As much as I wanted to stay detached, I couldn’t bear it. I wanted to see if Mom was okay.
But the moment I cracked the door open, it was violently slammed inward from the outside. The edge of the wood sliced across my cheek, leaving a stinging, fiery pain. Before I could even process it, the man was standing right in front of me.
He lunged forward, pinning me down onto the bed. I didn’t break eye contact; my face remained blank, but my eyes burned with pure hatred as I fought back against his weight.
Deep down, I knew it was futile. The more I struggled, the more it excited the monster.
“That bitch gave birth to a little wench just like her. Why are you wearing a red dress? Parading around, trying to seduce someone?”
“Born trash. You deserve to be used just like your mother.”
An uncontrollable rage surged inside me. I freed one hand and slapped him across the face with everything I had.
The next instant, a heavy fist crashed into my jaw.
The blow landed right on my freshly sliced cheek. The agonizing pain radiated through my body, leaving me trembling uncontrollably.
But the pain only seemed to fuel his frenzy. He shifted his weight, pressing his entire body onto mine, his bloated, pig-like face looming closer and closer.
He began tearing off his clothes, his hands clawing at my red dress, ripping it away.
Fury consumed me. I fought with every ounce of strength I could muster, but he was too heavy, locking me down and pinning my arms until I couldn’t move.
My dress was torn to shreds. His filthy hands defiled my skin.
Suddenly, I stopped fighting. I forced myself to go limp, pretending to submit so he would let his guard down. Slowly, my left hand slid back under the pillow.
He pressed down heavily, blotting out all the light in the room. I was forced to stare at his hideous face, his repulsive body.
In a flash, I pulled the broken piece of a glass bottle from beneath my pillow and drove it deep into his chest.
Terrified he might overpower me, I ripped the shard out and plunged it into his arm. As he recoiled in shock, I scrambled out from under him, pivoting to strike from behind.
I stabbed him again and again. At first, he thrashed around, spitting vile curses, but gradually, the crimson blood drenched my sheets, soaked my clothes, and splattered across the stark white walls. Finally, his struggling ceased. His breathing stopped.
My hands shook violently. Dropping the bloody shard, I collapsed onto the floor.
I killed someone.
Tears began to stream down my face, smearing the blood on my skin and stinging the raw wound on my cheek with unbearable agony.
Outside, thunder rumbled and lightning flashed. A torrential downpour lashed against the earth, soaking through the tightly drawn curtains.
The man lay slumped across my bed in a grotesque posture, the makeshift glass dagger still embedded in his back. The rest of his wounds continued to ooze a dark, steady crimson.
Wiping the tears from my face with a blood-stained hand, I dragged myself up and limped over to the mirror to inspect the damage.
The left side of my face was severely swollen and mangled…a bloody mess that throbbed with excruciating pain at the slightest touch.
I stumbled out into the living room, only to find another pool of deep red.
Mom was slumped beside the sofa. She must have struck her head against the sharp edge of the coffee table; blood was pooling out from beneath her hair, staining everything it touched.
Spotting her phone on the floor nearby, I picked it up and dialed emergency services.
“Hello, 120? Someone is badly hurt here.”
I gave them the address, hung up, and stood in the center of the room, taking it all in one last time.
The house reeked of a sickening, metallic stench of blood. I cast one final, silent glance at her from the doorway, and then I bolted out into the storm.
The rain-slicked streets were completely deserted. Dragging my battered, aching body, I navigated the pitch-black alleyways, running toward a destination I knew by heart.
My red dress hung in ruined tatters. I pulled a dangling shred of fabric back over my shoulder, trying desperately to make myself look normal.
Of course, “normal” was a luxury I no longer possessed. No normal person sprints through a torrential downpour at midnight, half-naked and broken.
The pounding rain washed away most of the blood, drenching me to the bone, but I didn’t slow down.
Finally, I reached the sea.
The ocean was an abyss of black, just as it always was, though tonight it churned with violent, menacing waves born of the storm. It looked terrifying, yet mysterious.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I used the last vestige of my strength to climb over the railing and threw myself into the void.
The ocean water was usually freezing, but as it enveloped me now, I felt a strange, comforting warmth.
Perhaps my body was succumbing to hypothermia. A heavy drowsiness washed over me, and hallucinations began to take hold.
As I sank deeper into the dark waters, I could have sworn I heard someone calling my name.
Then, it felt as though a hand firmly gripped my arm.
I couldn’t open my eyes, and the physical sensations of my body were rapidly fading away.
It’s just an illusion, I thought. No one is coming to save me.
“Are you still awake? It’s getting very late.”
I snapped back to reality to find a young nurse walking into the room with a gentle smile.
She spoke softly as she changed my IV bag. “Your body is still recovering, you shouldn’t stay up late. Get some rest.”
She reached out to turn off the light, but I quickly grabbed her sleeve.
Words swarmed to the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t force them out. The sensation was profoundly suffocating.
Noticing my distress, she gave me a reassuring smile. “It’s alright. This is just temporary post-traumatic mutism. Take your time to recover. With proper rehabilitation, you’ll get your voice back.”
Before I could try again, she turned and hurried out of the room.
I just wanted someone to talk to. It constantly felt like everyone was keeping their distance from me.
Was it because of what I had done?
I lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.
Shouldn’t I be dead? Or at the very least, shouldn’t I be sitting in a prison cell right now?
And who had saved me? Was it the paramedics?
Resting my hand against my chest, my fingers brushed against something cold.
I pulled it out to look. It was a necklace.
Exerting what little strength I had, I unclasped it from around my neck to get a closer look. It was a piece of jade…a fragment of a broken Bagua diagram, beautifully carved with a lifelike phoenix.
It was exquisite. Yet, looking at it, I had absolutely no memory of its existence.
It was clearly meant to be part of a pair, but I only held one half. Where was the other?
Was it a lover’s token? Had I ever shared that kind of bond with someone?
Search as I might, the memories in this body yielded no answers. There was no one in my past who would have given me something so incredibly precious.
Clutching the jade tightly in my palm, I finally drifted into a deep sleep.
The next morning, a cheerful young woman burst into my ward, introducing herself as my psychological therapist.
She was incredibly cute, with a round face, large expressive eyes, and two deep dimples that popped up when she smiled. She had even brought me a little gift for our first meeting.
It was a small mango cake…and its design looked uncannily familiar.
“Hi there, little sister! My name is Sheng Jinhuan. Jinhuan, as in ‘carpe diem’…living life to its fullest!”
Hearing her voice, I snapped my head up. My heart skipped a beat as I stared at her face, paralyzed by how strikingly similar she looked to someone else.
Seeing me freeze, she thought she had something on her face. She quickly pulled out a compact mirror to check herself, muttering, “Is there something on my face? Or am I just so scary looking that I frightened you?”
A small smile broke through my melancholy. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
“Hehe, alright, alright, no more teasing,” she said, putting the mirror away. “Let’s do a proper introduction. I’m Sheng Jinhuan, your psychological therapist. But hey, titles don’t matter. From now on, I’ll be by your side as your best friend!”
She gesticulated animatedly as she spoke. I watched her, a genuine smile forming on my face, and nodded softly.
Sheng Jinhuan clapped her hands happily, sat down beside me, and pulled out a small notebook. Blinking her big eyes, she asked, “Can you tell me your name, little sister? You can just write it down right here.”
I nodded, took the pen and notebook she offered, and carefully traced out three crooked characters: Wen Yuning.
She glanced at the notebook, then turned back to me with a beaming smile. “Got it! I’ve memorized it. Can I call you Yuning from now on?”
I nodded again.
“Great!” She snapped the notebook shut. “Yuning, the weather is beautiful today. Why don’t we go for a stroll in the garden?”
Ten minutes later, I was sitting in a wheelchair as she pushed me out of the ward.
As we entered the elevator, the reflective panels gave me my first real look at my own face.
My features were delicate, my nose sharp and high, but my skin bore a sickly, ghostly pallor. My lips were devoid of color, and my hair had a faint yellowish tint from prolonged malnutrition. The wound on my left cheek had healed about eighty percent, leaving behind only a faint, shallow scar. Yet, even wrapped in illness, the face in the reflection was undeniably beautiful.
Sheng Jinhuan must have noticed where my eyes were wandering. She leaned down, peered into the reflection beside me, and suddenly made a ridiculous funny face.
I looked down, a quiet chuckle escaping me as I averted my eyes from the mirror.
She pushed me out of the elevator and leisurely guided us toward the garden behind the building.
I couldn’t quite tell what season it was, but the garden was a vibrant sea of blooming flowers. Every hedge and tree was meticulously manicured into unique, artistic shapes. As we drifted through the paths, the air was thick with a sweet, comforting floral fragrance.
“Do you like these flowers, Yuning?”
As I admired the blossoms lining the path, I nodded gently.
She brought me to a quiet pavilion, angling my wheelchair to face a beautiful view before taking a seat right beside me.
“I heard you know how to draw, Yuning. I brought some art supplies today. Would you mind drawing something for me? I’d love to see your work.”
Meeting her expectant, hopeful gaze, I found myself nodding as if under a spell.
Seeing my assent, she eagerly whipped out paper, brushes, and even a drawing board, as if terrified I might change my mind.
In truth, I had no idea how to paint. Yet, the moment the brush touched my hand, a sudden wave of inspiration washed over me. I began to sketch with absolute confidence. It felt as though some external force was guiding my hand, filling me with a profound sense of peace.
Sheng Jinhuan sat quietly by my side, never leaving, never interrupting, simply watching me bring the canvas to life.
But as I raised my head to look at the scenery for reference, my breath hitched.
A figure was standing amidst the flowers.
The silhouette lingered for a mere second before vanishing into thin air the moment I tried to focus on it.
A helpless smile touched my lips, and I shook my head softly.
Coward, I thought. What are you hiding from?