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Qingming: Seven Days of Soul Transfer
墨書 Inktalez
The plaster on the wall at home had peeled off again, and a musty smell filled the air. My father was sitting in front of his phone, live streaming. His plump face glowed under the blue light of the screen, looking particularly greasy.
"Hello, everyone! Welcome to Qiang's live stream!" he grinned, revealing his yellowed teeth stained by smoke, occasionally pointing at my mother who was kneeling on the floor.
"Today we continue to train my disobedient wife!" he shouted excitedly, the old chair beneath him creaking under the strain.
He squinted his eyes, which were squeezed into slits by his fat, staring at the rolling comments: "Do you want to see a dog eat shit? Send me a cloud-piercing arrow, and I'll perform right away!"
I clung tightly to the door frame, hiding in the shadows. My mother knelt there with a bit in her mouth, a belt tightly pressed into the corners of her lips, drool mixed with sobs trickling down her pale chin. Her frail body struggled continuously, her throat emitting angry whimpers.
I wanted to rush in and stop it but feared it would bring even greater disaster; perhaps I would be the next one to wear a bit and kneel on the ground.
My father extended his thick foot, hesitated for a moment, then suddenly stomped down on my mother's head, forcing her face against the floor. She began to struggle violently, veins bulging in her neck, and a fierce look erupted in her once dull eyes—something I had never seen in her before.
"Tsk tsk tsk, quite fierce," my father said as he pressed down harder, his voice trembling slightly. "Isn't this how we treat disobedient ones? If you’re enjoying this, send me some 666!"
The comments in the live stream rolled by like crazy:
"This woman needs training!"
"Damn, it looks painful but so thrilling!"
"The host is so fierce, giving you a thumbs up!"
"This is too much... I'm reporting this!"
"Shut up, you moralists! This couple is just playing with their kinks!"
Watching those comments made my stomach churn.
As the live stream continued, Grandma walked in holding a bowl of steaming braised pork rice, reaching out to feed Dad. "Son, you must be exhausted. Hurry, eat while it's hot; I made it just for you."
With that, she shot a cold glance at Mom on the floor. "That worthless piece of bone won't die from being hungry for a few meals."
Dad's hand trembled noticeably, nearly spilling the bowl. He forced himself to remain calm as he took it from her. "Mother, I can do it myself."
Something felt terribly off. In the past, when Grandma fed him, he would open his mouth without hesitation, enjoying it as if it were his right. When had he ever needed to serve himself?
Suddenly, Mom charged at the wall in a fit of rage, producing a dull thud. Blood instantly streamed from her forehead, staining her disheveled hair. Yet she seemed oblivious to the pain, continuing to slam into the wall while letting out primal roars.
"You've gone too far!"
Grandma's expression changed in an instant as she snatched up a feather duster that had been resting against the door and struck Mom fiercely, the sound sharp and crisp. "Pretending to be crazy? I'll beat you to death, you worthless wretch! Behave yourself!"
I cowered behind the door, my teeth chattering—not because of Grandma's ferocity; her cruelty and violence towards Mom had long been an unshakeable shadow in my childhood memories.
What terrified me to the point of suffocation was the scene before me that completely shattered my understanding of reality.
When Dad used to hit Mom, he resembled a crazed beast; every punch was meant to draw blood. He wouldn't stop until she was covered in bruises and on the brink of death. That raw, unmasked malice had been my deepest nightmare.
But now this version of Dad—though he spat venomous words and performed cruel actions like stepping on heads during the live stream—his movements appeared awkward and clumsy, as if he were mimicking an abuser.
Even stranger was the look in his eyes when he glanced at Grandma. From childhood onward, Dad had always been Grandma's favorite. Yet just moments ago, when she fed him, I distinctly saw a flicker of fear in his gaze.
And there was "Mom," kneeling on the ground with blood trickling down her forehead. Her body trembled under the blows of the feather duster, but the fierceness in her eyes sent chills down my spine.
That was not my mother; my mother—Lin Xiu—had only fear and despair in her eyes and never dared to look anyone directly in the face like that.
"Son, I've made you some nourishing old hen soup; it's very good for you. Drink up."
After finishing her assault, Grandma switched back to her maternal facade and approached with a clay pot in hand. Dad instinctively reached out to take it but suddenly turned to me, extending his hand slightly. "Let Xiao Yan have a taste too..."
"You drink!"
Grandma scolded sharply, "What kind of worthless person drinks the nourishing soup!"
Dad abruptly averted his gaze, lowered his head, and clutched the jar, no longer daring to look at me as he gulped down the soup.
Since I was little, I had felt like a transparent person in this family; Dad had never seen me. He wouldn’t even blink if I starved to death in front of him, let alone offer me a sip of soup.
In the dead of night, I quietly approached Dad's room.
Peering through the crack in the door, I saw him facing the mirror, his hand stroking his plump face.
His eyes were filled with disgust, tinged with an indescribable sadness.
That sadness was something I had seen too many times on my mother's face.
As I gazed at this absurd scene before me, my heart raced wildly.
Had they exchanged souls?
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