bruises and silence
I got home a little late that night. As soon as I opened the door, I saw my father smashing a wine bottle on the ground. Glass shards flew to my feet, and my mother screamed and hid in the corner of the sofa, her hair a mess of tangled straw.
"You brat, where have you been running around?!" Dad's bloodshot eyes swept over me, the smell of alcohol mixed with anger assaulting my senses. "The teacher just called and said you dropped five places in the monthly exam! I raised you all these years just so you could date and squander money?!"
I instinctively stepped back, my back hitting the door frame, and I gasped in pain—the spot where Li Zichen had pushed me away during the day was now burning hot.
"I didn't..." Her voice was barely audible, like a mosquito's hum. She knew that arguing was useless. In this house, any explanation was considered "talking back" and would only invite a heavier beating.
"Nothing?" He rushed over, his rough hands grabbing my arm and dragging me towards the living room. "I think you're asking for trouble!"
The mother cried out from the side, "Stop hitting him! The child is still young..." But her voice grew softer and softer until only sobs remained—she was used to it, used to curling herself up into a ball and pretending not to see.
The moment the belt lashed my back, I bit my lip hard, refusing to cry out. Tears that I hadn't shed even when I was bullied in middle school flowed like a broken string of pearls. Not from the pain, but from the despair. We were arguing about Li Zichen's hair clip all day, and now I was getting beaten up here. It felt like I was only alive to endure this.
"You dared to date! You never studied properly!" My father's roar, mixed with the sound of the belt tearing through the air, was like a blunt instrument repeatedly pounding on my nerves. I curled up on the ground, my arms protecting my head. I could feel the clothes on my back being torn by the whip, and my skin burned with pain. It was hard to tell whether the bruises were new or old.
After what seemed like an eternity, he grew tired of hitting me, slammed the door shut, and went into the bedroom, cursing under his breath. My mother timidly approached, trying to help me up, but I abruptly shook off her hand.
"Don't touch me." The voice was so hoarse it didn't sound like his own.
She paused for a moment, a hint of guilt flashing in her eyes, but ultimately turned and went into the kitchen, bringing out a basin of warm water and iodine, which she placed on the floor next to me without saying another word.
I lay on the cold floor, smelling the stench of alcohol and iodine in the air, and suddenly felt ridiculous. Li Zichen said I "see everyone as a bad person," but aren't the real bad people right beside me? Those so-called "family members" are more terrifying than the classmates who bullied me in junior high—they use the guise of "for your own good" to trample on your dignity and don't even allow you to fight back.
It was late at night, and I quietly got up and went back to my small room. The moment I locked the door, all my strength seemed to drain away. As I took off my clothes, the back I saw in the mirror was shocking; new red marks were layered on top of old bruises, like an ugly painting. I gritted my teeth and applied iodine. When the cotton swab touched the wound, I trembled with pain, but I stared intently at myself in the mirror.
Shen Zhixia, look, this is your home. This is the life you thought you could escape.
The next day at school, I wore my thickest hoodie, wrapping myself up like a dumpling. During morning reading, Li Zichen sent me a message: "I'm sorry about yesterday, I was too harsh with my words."
I stared at the screen for a long time, my finger hovering over the input box, but I couldn't type a single word.
He doesn't understand. He never will understand why I fuss over a hairpin, or why I react so strongly to the word "suspicious." He lives in the sunlight, while I'm used to hiding in the shadows; the slightest disturbance makes me feel like the sky is falling.
During recess, he ran to our classroom door, holding a bottle of milk, and smiled at me: "Don't be angry, okay? I returned Lin Wei's hair clip to her, really."
The sunlight fell on his face; it was so clean, as if it had never been tainted. But looking at him, I only felt a stinging pain in my eyes. The wound on my back still throbbed faintly, a reminder of the humiliation I had endured the previous night.
"Li Zichen," I lowered my head and said softly, "Let's... stop contacting each other for now."
His smile froze, and the light in his eyes dimmed: "Why? Just because of Lin Wei? I already said we're just friends..."
“It’s not because of her,” I interrupted him, looking up and staring directly into his eyes. “It’s because I’m tired.”
I'm too tired to explain anymore, too tired to keep tug-of-war between sweetness and pain, too tired to find a corner to quietly lick my wounds.
He opened his mouth as if to say something, but in the end he just frowned, turned around, and left.
Watching his figure disappear at the end of the corridor, I suddenly breathed a sigh of relief, but also felt an emptiness in my heart. The wound on my back still ached, but something seemed to hurt more than the wound, slowly cracking open in my heart.
The wind was strong that day, making the classroom windows rattle. I lay on the desk, buried my face in my arms, and smelled the mixture of iodine and tears.
It turns out that some pain is unavoidable. Just like these bruises on my back, no matter how many layers of clothing I wear, I can't fool myself.
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