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Echoes Unheard
墨書 Inktalez
My forehead was burning, and my throat felt as if it had been scraped with sandpaper; even swallowing brought sharp pain. I curled up under the blanket, my body alternating between chills and fever, my consciousness tugging between clarity and haze. The night deepened, the wind outside howled, but within the room, only the sound of my heavy, labored breathing filled the air.
I knew I had a fever, and it was a bad one.
The clock on the wall pointed to one in the morning. After hesitating for a long time, I finally struggled to get up, leaning against the wall as I made my way step by step to my father’s door.
I needed to go to the hospital. My intuition told me that this was different from the usual minor colds.
Raising my hand, I summoned all the strength I could muster and knocked on the heavy wooden door. Tap, tap, tap. The sound echoed sharply in the silent hallway, faint yet jarring.
After a few seconds of silence, I knocked again, this time louder.
The door finally swung open with an impatient force. My father, Lin Jianguo, stood behind it, bleary-eyed and frowning. He was still wearing his old tank top, his hair disheveled. Under the dim light of the hallway, he first snapped irritably, “What’s all this noise in the middle of the night?”
Then he saw my flushed cheeks and my weak form leaning against the doorframe.
“What’s wrong?” His tone held no warmth; if anything, it carried a hint of annoyance at being disturbed.
“Dad,” I croaked out, my voice hoarse, “I have a fever. I feel terrible. I want to go to the hospital.”
He looked me up and down; his gaze didn’t seem to regard me as a sick daughter but rather as an inconvenience to be assessed. “A fever?” He scoffed as if he had heard something trivial. “Just because your face is red? You probably just caught a chill from playing too hard during the day.”
I shook my head, wanting to explain but broke into a cough instead, pain tightening in my chest.
“Enough already,” he waved his hand dismissively, interrupting my coughing fit. “It’s just a little cold; why are you making such a fuss? You’re old enough to toughen up. Go back to bed, cover yourself up and sweat it out. Stop bothering people.”
He paused for a moment before adding in a scolding tone, “Remember to close the window before you sleep next time so you don’t have to deal with this again in the middle of the night.”
With that, before I could say anything else, he slammed the door shut with a loud bang. The sound struck like a hammer against my already fragile nerves.
Standing outside in the cold hallway, I stared at that closed door as if it had locked away my last shred of hope. The harsh white light illuminated my pale face even more starkly.
This wasn’t the first time.
Throughout my life, it seemed there had never been a moment when he worried anxiously about me being sick. When I had a fever, he would say to just tough it out; when my stomach hurt, he’d suggest it was probably something I ate; if I scraped my knee and bled, he would only frown and say “Watch where you’re walking.” It felt as though all my ailments were dismissed as overreactions or ploys for sympathy.
Perhaps in his eyes, I was meant to be tough-skinned and resilient; I didn’t deserve care or tenderness.
The coldness of my body couldn’t compete with the chill in my heart. I lacked the strength to knock again or argue back. Years of experience had taught me that my discomfort and needs would never be acknowledged by him.
Turning away with leaden steps, I slowly made my way back to my room. Darkness enveloped me once more.
I rummaged through the drawer of my bedside table until I found some fever-reducing medicine I had prepared earlier. With difficulty, I swallowed it down with water from the cup on my nightstand that had gone cold long ago. The pills were bitter—bitter enough to seep into my heart.
Lying back under the covers again, the alternating sensations of heat and cold became more pronounced; waves of pain began to throb in my head. With open eyes fixed on the ceiling in darkness, I imagined scenes from ordinary families where parents busily cared for their sick children—warm towels and concerned words filling their homes.
Those images have nothing to do with me.
The moon outside had unknowingly slipped behind the clouds, leaving the world in darkness. I felt as if I were floating in icy waters, surrounded by nothing to cling to, destined to sink alone.
My father must truly hate me. This thought, like a parasite, had accompanied me since childhood and never faded away. Tonight, it was particularly vivid and cruel.
A churn in my stomach surged, but I bit down hard on my lip, refusing to make a sound. I couldn’t trouble him any further.
The fever grew more intense, and my consciousness began to blur. Just before I completely lost awareness, I seemed to hear my own faint, nearly desperate murmurs.
“Dad…”
No one answered. Only the wind outside continued its relentless wailing.
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