Chapter 37
The color screen was suppressed, like the static on an old-fashioned television, crackling for a while before returning to its usual stillness. I sat in front of the television, watching its blank screen, repeatedly unplugging and replugging its power cord.
There was a sound outside the door; I knew my family was home. I quickly scurried back to my room, the largest and most exquisite in the whole house, its beauty and comfort evident even during its renovation. I nestled in a chair; my homework lay on the table, along with a bed, a calendar, and a guitar. There were other things in the closets and drawers, and blankets on the bed. I smiled happily. A small mirror reflected my face; I quickly patted it, making its smile even more vibrant—I practiced smiling like this every day. The cook had finished cooking; I could smell the aroma from upstairs. The hired help knocked on my door; no one had ever knocked before. I thought it was a new person, so I quickly opened the door and smiled brightly at her, only to find it was the same person as before.
"..."
I slowly lowered my head, feeling a little embarrassed. She had laughed at me before, and I had sworn never to speak to her again. Would she think I was smiling at her?
"Go downstairs quickly." She spoke to me in a gentle tone that was completely different from before, her soft fingertips resting on my shoulder. "The master and mistress must be getting impatient."
I timidly looked up at her, and her eyes were filled with a loving smile. I mustered my courage and tugged at her sleeve. She was a little stiff, but didn't pull away. "Thank you!" I said to her. She finally saw my good qualities, didn't she? She wouldn't treat me like before anymore, and I would forgive her. Actually, I never held a grudge against her. I had seen her when I was little; she had smiled at me then, so I always felt she hadn't done it on purpose.
She must have her reasons! I skipped downstairs, stopping just before reaching the bottom. My steps were light and slow; if I made a sound, I had to be firm, back straight, eyes straight ahead, and hands still… I reached the dining table. My parents and brother were already eating, the table filled with laughter and chatter—no talking while eating. I sat in a chair with my back to the door. The food in front of me was plentiful: the most delicious braised pork, the freshest and most valuable fish, and fragrant, perfectly cooked peas. The vegetables gleamed coolly under the light. I carefully placed each item in my bowl, taking no more than three bites.
I put down the serving chopsticks and finally felt a sense of relief. My feet fidgeted restlessly under the tablecloth. Mom picked up a boneless lamb chop for my brother, leaving enough space for it to potentially tap against the rim of his bowl. Dad gently inquired about my brother's work, and my brother smiled and said, "Thank you, Mom," swallowing the meat before adding, "Everything's going well, thank you for your concern, Dad." I unconsciously stuck my chopsticks into the rice, the clumps quickly drying and scattering. I stared at the direction it went, landing here, there, outside the bowl, the oil-soaked grains looking disgusting.
The stark white light shone on it, making my eyes sting. It took me a while to belatedly realize that rice can't go outside; its life has only two endings: the land and the stomach. Before it enters the stomach, there are several side stories: staying in a bag, getting crawled by insects, becoming moldy, and becoming useless and inedible.
I was startled, knowing this couldn't be seen by anyone, and quickly picked it up before anyone noticed me. The slightly hard grains of rice couldn't be crushed by my fingertips for a moment; it was the hard rice that my parents and brother loved to eat. I pinched it open, squeezing it piece by piece into my palm, making my hands greasy and sweaty.
I nervously looked around, but still no one was watching me. My mother tapped the rim of my bowl lightly with her chopsticks, the crisp sound snapping me back to reality. I immediately sat up straight, ready to eat. The braised pork was as greasy as my palm, its sweet, soft texture turning into a slippery, muddy mess on my tongue. It slid from my tongue down my throat, quickly down to my stomach, which couldn't digest the muddy taste. To counteract this, I picked up some fish. The fishy smell was overwhelming, subtle yet undeniable. It was better than the braised pork; it had a unique characteristic of being an aquatic animal yet possessing a land-like aroma. The earthy smell sealed my throat, thrashing around in my mouth, as if it had come alive and needed to escape. I opened my mouth, but before it was gone, my father spoke again: "Eat properly. What are you doing looking like that?" Just like any father who loves to tease his beloved child.
I nodded repeatedly, swallowing them all. The disgusting fumes and dirt made me shudder. I quickly went to eat the peas; their pale green color was serene and comforting. Their skins reflected the light, the light converging into a single point, flowing and glistening with oil like sewage from a sewer. I counted several similar scars on them, wondering where they would ultimately point. The small peas clung to the tip of my chopsticks. I was determined to swallow them, but they remained on my teeth and tongue, refusing to come down. The soft, gritty texture, the pea's own fishy smell, lingered. When the cold oil solidified on top, the warm saliva made it come alive. Oil and water never seemed to mix; my mouth was fighting.
"Isn't this our family's favorite dish?" my brother asked me, puzzled. "Why do you look like you're eating it so uncomfortably?"
I smiled and nodded; of course, this was our family's favorite dish. I used serving chopsticks to put peas on Dad's plate, fish on Mom's, and braised pork on my brother's. I devoured most of the remaining food in my bowl, all while trying to maintain proper etiquette. I wiped the grease from my lips with a wet wipe, but my palms couldn't be wiped clean in front of everyone. Why did you get food on your hands? Why were you careless? Why don't you have proper dining etiquette? We hired such a good teacher to instruct you. Did you even try? I endured the sticky, almost stiff feeling on my palms; the crushed rice grains were almost dry, so my senses were becoming dry too.
I dashed into the second-floor bathroom to wash my hands and lips, hesitated for a moment, then poured hand soap into my mouth and spit it out. I was quick-witted; I locked the door immediately after entering, so I didn't have to worry about anyone coming in. I looked at myself in the mirror: my lips were very red, my cheeks had a light pink tinge in the almost flashing light, and my eyes were bright and oily. I nodded in satisfaction, but before I could open the door, someone else opened it.
I was startled and quickly stepped back. It was the hired woman, holding a phone in her hand. I didn't know if she was taking photos, recording videos, or making calls. I nodded blankly at her, then realized we had broken the ice—we had shaken hands and made peace! I gave her the biggest smile I could muster, because I felt my usual smiles were too ordinary, too calm, and everyone had long taken them for granted. Her hand trembled, and the phone fell to the ground.
I don't know why, but she pointed at me. I turned to look at myself in the mirror. I had bright red lips, faded cheeks, dark eyes, and a glaring white light above me. The corners of my mouth were turned up as wide as a person could.
I reached out to grab her, but she turned and ran. I bent down to pick up her phone; before the screen could even be turned off, messages in the group chat kept popping up and down. I clicked on the top of the list of quoted messages. In the video, I was laughing. I tried to pull up her sleeve; the caption read, "A guy who can't read the room, a useless person, shamelessly smiling at others, unaware of how much others hate him, utterly oblivious."
I was dazzled by the light. The sticky feeling in my palms was gone, but it still felt like summer sweat, the sweat of nervousness, saliva, snail slime—things that are everywhere and ubiquitous. I rubbed my hands vigorously against my pants until they were almost raw, only then realizing the pain.
I stood on the second-floor railing and looked down. My parents and brother were still together, eating their meal, their laughter drifting upstairs. I cautiously entered the room with the television. Even after just a short time outside, I couldn't bear the dust anymore; I closed the door and sneezed several times. I plugged the television in and out of the socket, then plugged it in again. It made two buzzing noises, but the screen still wouldn't light up. The black screen, displaying no pictures, sat there quietly, as it had been since before I was born. I still wanted to see it.
What stories are on TV? Are they any more difficult for me to understand than those descriptions of economics, literature, computers, stocks, human nature, education, machinery, tea, death, God, or books?
But the children at school clearly say that television is the most interesting thing in the world, because it has "cartoons".
...No, maybe I remembered it wrong.
I thought about it, and they meant "smart TV," a wall-mounted LCD screen, which my brother, dad, and mom all have.
I hugged it slowly with a guilty conscience, thinking that it was old and I couldn't abandon it, because there was no one here who would take care of an old creature.
How could I not be sad? I hoped that one day it could overcome its age and tell me a story too. At that time, I would be overjoyed, so overjoyed that I would believe that someone in this world could truly transcend age for me. But it has worked so hard, so hard that its parts are damaged, so hard that the inside of the display screen is already broken, and the wires are scattered, and I didn't even know it at that time.
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com