Wound
The night was thick and indissoluble, like spilled ink. The dim streetlights barely illuminated the old city's bumpy alleys. The air was thick with the greasy smell of food and the faint, sour odor of garbage cans.
Lin Xiyan dragged his feet forward. The cafe where he worked closed late, and when he finished packing up, the streets were deserted. The strap of his backpack, which contained the workbooks he was about to do and the textbooks for tomorrow morning, hurt his shoulders a little. His stomach felt empty, a faint sour taste in his mouth. He wondered if he could still buy the cheapest bread at the convenience store before it closed.
He had taken this shortcut home countless times. It was narrow and dark, but it saved him ten minutes. The old buildings on either side were like silent giants, their windows mostly dark, with only a few scattered lights shining through.
The sound of footsteps was especially clear in the silence, tap, tap, tap. He lowered his head, looking at the small stain on the tip of his shoe, his mind still replaying the hug under the banyan tree during gym class today. The warmth, the touch, the smell... it felt like an unreal dream. The side of his neck still seemed to itch from being rubbed by the furry hair.
He subconsciously raised his hand and touched there, his fingertips were cold.
Just as he was distracted, a figure suddenly jumped out from the dark alley next to him. The movement was so fast that only a blurry black shadow and a pungent smell of alcohol were left behind.
Lin Xiyan didn't even see the other person's face clearly. He only felt a sharp blow to his arm, so strong that he stumbled back two steps, his back hitting the cold, rough wall. Then, a sharp, cold pain came from his right upper arm near his shoulder, like being stabbed by an ice pick.
He groaned and his face turned pale in an instant.
The figure succeeded in his attack, but without even looking at him, he immediately retreated into the dark alley like a frightened mouse. The sound of his footsteps hurriedly faded away and soon disappeared into the depths of the night.
Everything happened so fast that only the lingering smell of cheap alcohol in the air and the burning pain that quickly spread across his arm proved that what had just happened was not an illusion.
Lin Xiyan leaned against the wall and took several seconds before slowly lowering his head.
There was a cut on his right arm's school uniform jacket, the dark fabric slowly deepening and bleeding. He stretched out his left hand, his fingertips trembling as he touched the wet spot. Raising his hand, in the dim light of the streetlight, he saw a sticky, dark red liquid on his fingertips.
Blood.
He stared at the red spot for several seconds. His mind was blank, and the first thought that popped into his head was: My uniform is torn. I need to mend it. Otherwise, I won't have a replacement.
Then came the delayed, sharp pain, which surged out from the wound in waves, running through his body along the nerves, causing fine cold sweat to seep out of his forehead.
He leaned against the wall, breathing slightly, waiting for the severe pain to pass.
There was no anger, no fear, not even much surprise. Just a deep, bone-deep exhaustion and bewilderment.
Oh, stabbed.
What bad luck.
He thought slowly. Perhaps he was trying to rob someone? But the most valuable things he had were his broken phone and a few old books in his backpack. Or maybe he was just drunk and acting crazy? Who knows.
Anyway, it happened. That's it.
He didn't even look in the direction the man had fled. There was no point in looking. Call the police? Too much trouble. Go to the hospital? That would cost money. The little change in his pocket was only enough to buy steamed buns for tomorrow's breakfast.
never mind.
He endured the pain and used his uninjured left hand to slowly remove the heavy schoolbag from his right shoulder and shift it to his left shoulder. The movement involved the wound, and he bit his lower lip tightly, making no sound.
Then he stood up, head lowered, and continued walking. His steps were slower and heavier than before. His right arm hung at his side, and every movement caused excruciating pain. Blood dripped from his fingertips, leaving intermittent, inconspicuous dark spots on the potholed concrete.
The dim street lights stretched his shadow very long and distorted it on the mottled wall, like a silent and twisted ghost.
The surroundings remained silent. Occasionally, the sound of a television program or the faint sound of a couple arguing drifted through the window. No one poked their head out to see what had just happened. The world went on as usual, indifferent to his plight.
He got used to it too.
The pain made him feel a little dazed. The fragments of warm embrace in his mind were cut by the sharp reality and the more familiar, cold loneliness.
It seemed... this was how it was supposed to be. All the fleeting, insincere warmth would eventually be shattered by the cold reality. Just like the day his parents suddenly left, just like the cold, closed doors of his relatives.
He is the one...who will always be left behind. The one who will always encounter misfortune.
The wound throbbed with pain, and the cold wind rushed into the gaping wound, making him shiver.
He shrank his neck and buried his face in the collar of his old school uniform, trying to absorb a little warmth. His left hand tightly grasped the strap of his schoolbag, his knuckles turning white from the force.
We're almost home. Just turn the corner ahead.
He took one step at a time, each one arduous, and cold sweat pooled on his forehead, running into his eyes, causing a stinging pain. He blinked, his vision blurring.
Finally, he saw the familiar, peeling old building. He fished out his key, the cool metal rubbing against his palm. He fumbled with his left hand, inserting it several times before finally getting it in the keyhole.
He unlocked the door, and the hallway was even darker. The voice-activated light had been broken for a long time. He groped his way up the stairs, step by step, in the darkness. His footsteps echoed in the empty hallway, heavy and lonely.
He paused in front of his rusty green iron door, leaning against the cold panel to catch his breath. His right arm was numb from the pain, and the sticky blood stuck to his skin and fabric, making him uncomfortable.
He took out the key with his left hand again and opened the door.
A stale smell of dust and mildew washed over me. The room was tiny, just a few square meters, and I could see the end of it. There was an old bed, a rickety desk, and a simple cloth wardrobe. The windows were closed, and the air was stagnant.
He closed the door, shutting out everything outside. The world suddenly became quiet, with only the sound of his own heavy breathing remaining.
He didn't turn on the light, but used the dim light from the building opposite him to fumble and put his schoolbag on the table. Then he walked to the bed and slowly sat down.
The bed creaked under the heavy weight.
He sat in the darkness, motionless. After a long while, as if gathering some strength, he turned slightly to the side and, with great difficulty, bit by bit, used his left hand to pull his right arm out of his torn school jacket.
The movement inevitably affected the wound, and he gasped in pain, his vision went dark, and the cold sweat on his forehead broke out even more violently.
I finally managed to take off my coat and tossed it at my feet. Underneath it was an old T-shirt, the collar loose from all the washing, with a dark patch of stain on the shoulder and sleeves, sticking clinging to my skin.
He couldn't see the wound clearly, nor did he want to see it. He only knew that it was still bleeding slowly.
He sat in silence for a while, then stood up and shuffled over to the simple, shared washbasin in the corner of the room. He turned on the faucet, and ice-cold water flowed out.
He bent down, scooped up some cold water with his left hand, and splashed it roughly on his face. The icy water gave him a shiver, and his mind seemed to clear a little.
Then he turned sideways and carefully placed the wound on his right arm under the water.
The cold water washed over the wound, bringing a sharp sting, even more distinct and intense than when he was stabbed just now. He clenched his teeth tightly, and supported himself on the edge of the cold and wet pool with his other hand, knuckles whitening with force, to prevent himself from groaning.
The water washed away the bloodstains, revealing the flesh underneath. It was a not-too-long but quite deep cut that looked somewhat hideous in the dim light.
He glanced away and continued to run cold water until the bleeding seemed to slow, then he turned off the tap.
The room fell silent again, with only the sound of water dripping into the sink and his suppressed, heavy breathing.
He walked back to the bed and pulled out a roll of yellowed, aged medical gauze and a half-empty bottle of iodine from under his pillow. He always kept these things on hand, and whenever he got hurt at work or was in trouble, he would handle it himself.
He sat down on the bedside and, using his teeth and left hand, clumsily unscrewed the cap of the iodine bottle. A strong odor filled the air.
He dipped his left hand in iodine and applied it to the wound on his right arm. The pain from the liquid irritated the wound, causing him to shudder, and a layer of cold sweat instantly broke out on his forehead. He bit his lower lip tightly, and the tip of his tongue tasted a hint of rust.
His movements were clumsy and difficult, and several times the cotton swab nearly pierced the wound. But he showed no expression, simply silently applying the solution over and over again, as if he wasn't treating his own flesh.
After applying the medicine, he began to use his left hand and teeth to try to wrap the gauze around the wound. This process was even more difficult. The gauze kept slipping off, pulling on the wound, and the pain made him black out.
After several attempts, I finally managed to wrap it around a few times and tie a crooked knot. It might not be tight enough, but at least it covered the wound.
After doing all this, he seemed to have been drained of all his strength. He fell backwards and collapsed on the hard bed, looking at the blurry patterns on the ceiling.
After the intense pain, there was a deeper fatigue and numbness. The burning pain in his right arm reminded him of what had just happened.
In the darkness, he opened his eyes, but his focus was unfocused.
It seems... not so unbearable. Once you get used to the pain, it's just like that.
He just felt a little cold, and his empty stomach began to ache.
He curled up, wrapping his good left arm around himself, and sniffed softly.
The air was filled with the smell of iodine and lingering, cold loneliness.
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