Chapter 11 Zhao Qingda is a pervert
Wen Xiaoxiao pieced together the fabric she brought back from the tailor shop under the lamp, and took apart an old thermal underwear as a reference. She stayed up for two nights to make herself a set of close-fitting thermal underwear.
The stitching is fine and the size is accurate. When worn, it fits perfectly, neither too loose nor too tight.
She looked at herself in the blurry mirror again and again, and for the first time felt a faint sense of accomplishment that her hands could create something so real.
The next day, she carefully wrapped up the clothes and took them to the tailor shop, showing them to Master Hu with some trepidation.
Master Hu inspected it inside and out, then had her try it on to see how it looked. "Hmm, it's mostly there, the size is pretty good."
She nodded, pointing with her finger to two barely noticeable seams under her armpit and on the inside of her trouser leg.
"Here, the stitches were done too hastily, and the thread is a bit crooked; here, the hem could be tucked in a little more, it's not neat enough. Remember, tailoring is a meticulous job that requires patience; you can't rush a single stitch. If you rush, the work will be rough, and it won't be comfortable or look good when you wear it."
Wen Xiaoxiao nodded repeatedly, keeping every word of Master Hu's words in mind.
Upon returning home, she immediately removed the two stitches, and following the instructions, she held her breath and sewed them back on.
When it was shown to Master Hu again, the old master finally showed a rare smile: "That's right. That's how craftsmanship is made."
The apprenticeship was tough; there were many odd jobs, learning was slow, and I was often scolded.
But Wen Xiaoxiao felt that a place in her heart that had been silent for a long time was being gradually pried open and filled.
She was no longer the woman who could only crochet a few cents' worth of tablecloth edges, waiting for her husband to give her money for household expenses, and silently withering away in the courtyard.
She held the needle and thread in her hands, watched the fabric transform into clothing, and pondered the dimensions and cuts. Although she was still a humble apprentice, she seemed to have grasped a glimmer of hope that she could stand on her own two feet.
With a more active mind, he also became bolder.
She figured that practicing with the sewing machine in the shop all the time wasn't a long-term solution. If she could have her own, she could practice at night and learn faster.
A new Butterfly brand sewing machine costs 285 yuan.
This is an astronomical price for her.
The only source of money she could think of was Zhao Qingda.
That day, Zhao Qingda unusually returned home on time, his face expressionless, but he didn't cause any trouble.
Wen Xiaoxiao took a deep breath, suppressing the disgust and humiliation in her heart, and understood the principle of being humble when asking for favors.
Instead of her usual simple meal, she specially cooked two dishes that Zhao Qingda liked: a plate of stir-fried pork with chili peppers and a plate of scrambled eggs with chives. She also warmed a small pot of wine.
At the dinner table, Zhao Qingda was somewhat surprised and glanced at her a few more times, but he didn't say anything and continued eating and drinking on his own.
After he had finished eating and drinking and his complexion had softened, Wen Xiaoxiao took the opportunity while clearing the dishes to lower her head and say in as calm a voice as possible, "Qingda, I want to... discuss something with you."
"Speak," Zhao Qingda said, picking his teeth.
“I’m learning tailoring, and I’m thinking of… buying a sewing machine so I can practice more at night. I asked around, and it’ll probably cost… 285 yuan.” As she finished speaking, her heart clenched, awaiting his sarcasm or rejection.
Zhao Qingda was silent for a moment, his gaze sweeping over her. As if he had thought of something, a cryptic smile appeared on his lips.
Without asking any further questions, he simply pulled out his wallet from his pocket, counted out three crisp hundred-yuan bills, and slapped them on the table: "Three hundred, take it. We can talk about it if it's not enough."
So quick? Wen Xiaoxiao was stunned, looking at the three hundred yuan as if it were a hot potato.
Of course she knew the money wasn't given away for nothing. The familiar, possessive glint in Zhao Qingda's eyes made her instantly understand the price.
"Thank you," she said dryly, reaching for the money. Her fingertips had barely touched the banknotes when Zhao Qingda grabbed her wrist with considerable force.
"Go to bed early tonight." He leaned closer, his voice low and tinged with the smell of alcohol, the meaning clear.
Wen Xiaoxiao froze, abruptly pulled her hand back, grabbed the money, turned and hurried to the kitchen, scrubbing the dishes vigorously. The sound of rushing water could not wash away the nausea and desolation welling up in her heart.
Sure enough, the noise from the east wing started again that night.
Wen Xiaoxiao was like a piece of wood without feeling, letting herself be manipulated.
Zhao Qingda probably felt that having spent money gave him an even greater sense of unbridled conquest, and his actions became even more rude and domineering than before.
Wen Xiaoxiao bit the corner of the blanket, enduring waves of discomfort, until Zhao Qingda accidentally touched something, and lamp oil suddenly splattered onto her skin. She finally couldn't bear it anymore and let out a short, shrill scream: "Ah—!"
The sound was particularly jarring in the still night, piercing through the thin walls.
Zhao Fei, who was in the main house, was already having trouble sleeping because of the commotion in the yard. When he heard this scream, which was not joyful but rather full of pain, his heart skipped a beat, as if he had been stabbed hard by a needle.
He sat up abruptly, his fists clenched tightly, and in the darkness, the veins on his forehead throbbed faintly.
That bastard Zhao Qingda! What is he doing?! What does he take Xiaoxiao for?! An uncontrollable anger and intense heartache surged in his chest, making him almost want to rush over and smash open that door.
In the end, he simply lay back down heavily, covering his head tightly with the blanket, but the scream echoed repeatedly in his ears like a demonic sound.
In the east wing, Zhao Qingda was also startled by the scream, and then muttered impatiently, "What are you yelling about!" Soon, Zhao Qingda's screaming started again.
After an unknown amount of time, Zhao Qingda finally got tired and went to sleep.
Wen Xiaoxiao curled up in the darkness, her hands trembling as she touched her chest.
It's burning hot there; the skin must have been burned.
Cold tears slid down silently, mingling with sweat and soaking the pillowcase.
The feeling of humiliation overwhelmed her like a cold tide.
Zhao Qingda is a pervert!
She paid the price of physical pain and loss of dignity for three hundred yuan and a scar on her chest that may leave a mark.
The next day, before dawn, Zhao Qingda, having eaten and drunk his fill, left feeling refreshed and invigorated.
Wen Xiaoxiao slowly got up, looked in the mirror, and started to undress.
Sure enough, there was a red patch above my chest, with the skin broken in the middle and a little bit of tissue fluid seeping out; it looked painful.
She stared at her pale, vacant reflection in the mirror, and it was as if she could see Zhao Qingda's departing figure through the mirror.
Bearing humiliation and hardship—only now did she truly understand the blood-soaked weight of those four words.
She gently wiped the wound with cool water, applied some cheap gentian violet, and then found a faded short-sleeved shirt with a high collar to wear, completely covering the scar.
I ran into Zhao Fei in the courtyard this morning.
Zhao Fei immediately noticed that she was wearing an inappropriate high-necked top in the middle of summer, and her complexion wasn't very good either. He couldn't help but ask, "Xiaoxiao, aren't you hot wearing such a high-necked top?"
Wen Xiaoxiao subconsciously raised her hand and gently touched the wound through her clothes. The stinging pain made her frown slightly. She lowered her eyes and whispered, "It's not hot, it's okay."
Looking at her evasive eyes and slightly trembling fingertips, Zhao Fei recalled the scream from last night. He understood perfectly well what was going on, and a feeling of suffocation rose in his chest.
He wanted to say something, to offer comfort, or simply to let them know, but from what standpoint could he speak? His cousin? His brother-in-law?
In the end, he could only sigh deeply and say nothing.
A few days later, the second-hand "Butterfly" sewing machine that Wen Xiaoxiao had asked Master Hu to help her buy arrived.
Wen Xiaoxiao didn't buy a new one. She had finally managed to get some money from Zhao Qingda, and she had to save it. This secondhand one cost her 165 yuan.
Although it's a bit old, after wiping it clean and applying oil, the machine head is shiny black, and the foot pedal is flexible.
Together with the delivery person, she carefully carried the heavy machine into the main room of the east wing and placed it against the wall.
She stroked the cool metal body and wiped the peach wood-colored tabletop, her eyes sparkling with an unprecedented light.
This is more than just a sewing machine; it's something she acquired at an unspeakable cost, a stepping stone to an unknown but perhaps more autonomous future, a small, secretly opened window for herself in this suffocating life.
She treasured it like a precious gem.
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