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墨書 Inktalez
I stood behind him while he was taking photos, making sure not to block the light or get in the frame. But unexpectedly, he turned around and snapped a picture of me. I was caught off guard and hurriedly turned my head to dodge.
"Please don’t take my picture. I really don’t like being photographed. I even skipped my graduation photos in college; I’m not in any of my classmates’ graduation pictures."
"But you’re beautiful."
"But when I see my own face, I feel disgusted. How can that be beautiful?"
"From the inside out."
What a ridiculous statement!
He didn’t show me the photo he took; instead, after fiddling with the camera, he acted as if nothing had happened.
"Let’s go to Boardwalk."
Boardwalk, a popular spot in Qingdao, still buzzed with local residents despite fewer tourists than in previous years. The beach, waves, and visitors together created a vibrant scene.
We walked along the long Boardwalk, holding onto the iron railing as waves crashed on both sides. Ahead was a pavilion-like building with intricate carvings and beautiful architecture. We circled around it, but I had little interest in going inside while he ventured in alone. When he came out, we headed back.
It was indeed a rather dull outing.
Yet he seemed genuinely excited; I envied him for having the ability to feel joy.
On the subway ride back, a cool breeze blew down from above, and the crowded passengers pressed us close together. We sat on the cold bench, our hips touching, elbows brushing against each other, shoulders nudging. Suddenly, he turned his head and whispered in my ear,
"Let’s go to Beer Street tonight."
I instinctively replied, "Sure."
Immediately after saying it, I regretted my response.
Beer and Beer Street inevitably meant entertainment venues—places I had lived through yet deeply despised, like an unsightly scar glaring in my memories and heart.
Go ahead; you’ll have to face it sooner or later. You can’t hide from your past forever, I reassured myself.
The extravagant night was filled with bright lights and loud music, handsome men and beautiful women, endless supplies of draft beer and cheers. A guitarist sang passionate songs on the central stage while I sat on the sofa, trying to appear shy as if I were new to this scene. Yet that familiar feeling—the deep-seated marks etched into my bones—made me grab a large glass filled with beer and down it in one go.
My best record was downing three bottles of beer in a row; bottled beer couldn’t compare to draft beer's potency. After finishing one glass cradled in both hands, my chest felt suddenly open—not that it was about physical space but rather that barriers within me had dissolved.
To hell with it! I’m just a drunkard in this lively scene!
All those past events—the cheers, the old men who wrapped their arms around my waist, those hands that rested on my chest, those rough touches on my thighs—returned to me tonight at this moment!
I am nothing but a whore, a pure whore, a college student, a hostess, a hostess in college. For money, to escape the poverty and insecurity deeply rooted in my mind, I stumbled into this industry.
When did it all begin?
I held my glass and swayed my body to the music, trying to shake off the shame and pain, to roll them out of my thoughts! Roll them out of my past! Roll them out of my life!
At seventeen, I faced bullying in school, carrying wounds and fierceness as I rushed to the college entrance examination. Having been in the top class since I started school and consistently appearing on the honor roll, I was not surprised when I failed the exam. I barely passed the undergraduate threshold.
I wanted to study abroad, but my family was too poor to afford it—what a dream!
I went to a third-tier university with tuition fees that were outrageous—what a dream!
"Repeat the year; we can't afford you," my father said.
"I won't! I will never repeat the year!"
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