Book Synopsis
Book Tags
Donation Rankings
Comment
0 Comments
You May Also Like
Silent Scream
墨書 Inktalez
The smell of mold from the trash can invaded my nostrils as I picked at the rice grains in the spoiled food.
The edge of the tin bucket was crusted with ice, cutting into my palm, and droplets of blood fell onto the snow like strings of red coral.
My fingers were numb from the cold, and the mold spot embedded under my nails reminded me of the stains on the attic ceiling that could never be wiped away.
"Good-for-nothing," my mother said during the last time she combed my hair, the teeth of the Niu Jiao comb snagging in my tangled strands.
She suddenly threw down the comb, her red wool coat brushing against my face, the cheap fabric prickling so much that I couldn't open my eyes.
The convoy for her remarriage crunched through the snow in front of our door, cans of cola clanging from the back like funeral bells.
The attic of our new home smelled of mouse urine. My stepfather's belt buckle clinked on the stairs as he always came up at two in the morning, reeking of alcohol.
The wooden stairs groaned under his weight, and moonlight seeped through the drafty window, casting a silver sheen on his greasy hair.
I clutched a cleaver I had stolen from the kitchen, its blade glistening with frost in the moonlight. As he extinguished his cigarette and pressed it against my collarbone, I counted the mold spots on the ceiling; the one hundred thirty-seventh looked like a gaping mouth.
The day my mother discovered my physiology homework notebook hidden under the mat, a pot of old hen soup was bubbling on the stove.
Her cinnabar-painted nails tore through paper pages, and as fragments floated into the soup pot, she suddenly grabbed my wrist.
When the soup spoon poured down against my inner thigh, I heard the sizzling sound of flesh meeting heat, like frying fish during New Year celebrations. Oil splattered into my stepfather's wine glass as he grinned with yellowed teeth, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow.
When the attic window was adorned with ice flowers, the sound of my Stepfather's snoring drifted in, wrapped in snowflakes.
I was counting the coins hidden in my coat when suddenly, I was yanked down the stairs by my hair. The tearing pain on my scalp reminded me of last winter, when that wild rabbit was skinned alive by my Stepfather.
My Mother's new Cashmere Shawl brushed against my face as her sharp nails dug into my arm. "You little thief, dare to steal money?" At the moment my Stepfather kicked open the door, I saw his Belt Buckle glinting in the snowlight, the Metal reflection making me feel nauseous.
Icicles fell from the eaves, piercing the plastic bag I was holding.
Twelve coins rolled into the gutter, and the spoiled bun filling stuck to my fingers. Suddenly, the attic light turned on, and my Mother raised a kitchen knife to slash open my canvas bag. As sanitary pads scattered across the floor, my Stepfather's laughter shook the window frame.
He stepped on my hand as I tried to pick up my things, his shoe pressing down on my knuckles. "Learning to seduce people so early?" His Alcohol Breath sprayed against the back of my neck like a snake's tongue.
That last night, the snow fell particularly heavy. My Stepfather's cigarette butt flickered in and out of sight in the darkness. When I felt the scissors under my pillow, he suddenly turned on a flashlight.
The bright light made me tear up as he pinched my chin and shouted downstairs, "Look at the vixen you've raised!" His Adam's apple brushed against my earlobe, his damp breath carrying a rusty copper smell.
My Mother rushed up in high heels, her freshly permed curls dusted with snowflakes. The slap she raised carried a scent of perfume mixed with the stale odor of mouse urine from the attic.
As I was pushed out the door, I noticed that the inverted "Fu" character on the security door was seeping blood.
My snow boots sank into the black mud as my Mother threw down my backpack from the second floor. The moment the zipper cut across my cheek, I saw her gold ring on her ring finger gleaming.
My Stepfather exhaled smoke behind the curtains, sparks flickering like ghost lights in a graveyard, ashes piling up on the windowsill into small mounds.
As the hail struck my forehead, I felt the student ID in the pocket of my cotton jacket. The girl in the photo had a vacant stare, her lips marred by a scab.
The warm light from the convenience store filtered through the glass, and the cashier, holding his nose, tossed out a plastic bag. "If you want to die, don't do it at the entrance."
I curled up in the ATM booth, hearing the sound of my teeth chattering drown out the howling wind and snow.
The small advertisements on the metal wall rattled in the gusts, and the smiling face of the girl on the missing person notice was slowly covered by frost.
Comment 0 Comment Count