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墨書 Inktalez
Every day on my way to school, I have to cross a busy Main Road. This intersection lacks traffic lights, and as I face the relentless flow of vehicles, I often hum my own composed Revolutionary Song to calm my anxious heart:
"A wide road with waves of cars, dust blown by the wind on both banks."
My home is just across the street; I am accustomed to the honking of cars and the smell of diesel.
This self-mockery is not due to idleness, nor is it because this flowing Main Road obstructs my path, but rather because after school, I have never felt an urgent desire to return home.
A middle-aged woman in front of me carries a dirty plastic bag filled with discarded Plastic Bottles. She occasionally lifts her hand to tuck her loose hair behind her ear, completely indifferent to the stains on her hands. Her movements are casual and somewhat disheveled.
She strides through the crowd waiting on the Sidewalk without regard for the speeding cars, heading straight for an empty Canister in the middle of the road. In full view of everyone, she bends down to pick up the Canister, turns it upside down, shakes it vigorously to empty out any remaining liquid, then places it on the ground and stomps on it hard until it flattens. It’s as if she is venting something or crushing an irreconcilable enemy, her face showing a mix of defiance and fierceness.
From a passing car comes a shout:
"Old woman, you want to die?"
"Your mother is also an old woman! Without your mother, where would you come from?" The woman snaps back sharply, tossing her hair back with a sudden motion. The veins in her neck slightly bulge as she retorts with a voice that pierces through the surrounding noise.
The pedestrians on the Sidewalk display disdainful expressions, looking at her retreating figure with disgust. Some even curl their lips and murmur quietly among themselves.
Unfazed, the woman continues her path amidst the blaring horns and sharp insults, nimbly weaving through the cars until she safely reaches the other side and turns into a narrow Lane.
I silently follow this woman, trailing behind her as she enters the Lane and stops in front of a weathered black door.
Beside the stone trough by the door, a few pots of green onions sat, their containers chipped and incomplete, giving the empty entrance a sense of desolation and loneliness.
The plastic bag that the woman had been holding earlier lay abandoned at the bottom of the trough, curled and twisted like an orphan cast aside, nestled in the dark, damp corner.
I cautiously glanced back to see if anyone from earlier was following me. Once I confirmed I was alone, I slowly pulled out my keys, my fingers trembling slightly as I quickly turned the lock and pushed the door open.
Because this is my home, and the woman is my Mother.
Several pieces of black paint from the door had chipped off due to vibrations, as if they no longer wished to be part of this family, gently falling to the ground with a faint rustling sound.
After seventeen years, I had gradually become numb to my parents' arguments.
In the past, when I was awakened in the middle of the night by their fierce disputes, I would curl up in fear on the attic floor, burying my head under the covers and crying silently until dawn. My eyes would remain wide open until the alarm rang, my body stiff and sore from prolonged tension.
"Divorce!"
This was a phrase that Mother often uttered during their fights, each time laced with deep anger and despair.
"Go ahead and leave! I’ve long wanted to be done with you—"
Though Father responded this way, their marriage had lasted eighteen years and might continue to drag on amidst arguments and conflicts, like a battered ship swaying in a storm.
Mother suffered from uremia; because of her illness, no employer was willing to hire her. This was also Father's only concern during their quarrels. He always tried his best not to touch upon Mother's most vulnerable feelings. When he spoke, his voice would unconsciously lower, and a flicker of helplessness and pity would flash in his eyes.
This family was maintained in a twisted way by a malignant disease, like a fragile thread barely holding together shattered porcelain.
But during one heated argument, the hysterical Mother seized a kitchen knife and crazily hacked off three fingers from Father's right hand.
After the incident, Father's workplace reassigned him away from the production line, effectively dismissing him. His salary plummeted like a flood breaking through a dam, and the family's financial situation became even more dire in an instant.
The economic pillar of the family had turned into ruins, and the pressure of life weighed down on everyone like a heavy mountain, making it hard for them to breathe.
This home had unfortunately become a misfortune within misfortunes, as if trapped in an endless abyss of darkness.
From that day on, Mother began to collect scrap on the streets. She left early every morning, her figure appearing particularly frail and weary in the dawn light.
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