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墨書 Inktalez
When I first started elementary school, I was filled with boundless energy, and my curiosity and desire for the world were insatiable. Every unknown corner and every vibrant scene had an endless allure for me.
At that time, I often roamed the woods with my playmates, chasing after the chirping cicadas; stepping into blooming flower fields, I would chase the butterflies dancing gracefully.
Our laughter and cheers echoed through the flower fields, carefree and joyful. However, amidst our play, there were occasional mishaps; sometimes I would get hit on the head by stones accidentally thrown by my playmates, blood streaming down from my scalp.
I often wondered if these childhood injuries shaped my way of thinking, making it different from others, more unconventional.
Back then, my understanding of the world was quite simple; I didn't know the vastness of the sky or the complexities of human relationships.
We played adult role-playing games without any reservations, mimicking the words and actions of grown-ups. I still remember one time when the boy next door suddenly asked me to take off my pants and lie down. Although I complied, I didn’t really understand what it meant at that moment.
This question didn’t trouble me for long because the innocence of childhood allowed me to quickly forget this little episode.
But as I grew older, when I recalled this experience again, it became difficult to speak about it, and I could no longer seek an answer.
...
The small shop at the entrance of the elementary school was always tempting to me, especially the spicy strips and peanut candy that had a magical appeal.
After much hesitation, one day I secretly took two five-cent bills from the jar while my mother wasn't looking to buy those delicious snacks.
That same day, she noticed it.
She picked up a hanger and chased me, hitting me while crying, "You little troublemaker, where did you learn to steal? Did I spend money to send you to school just for you to learn this?"
I cried in pain from the beating and ended up being punished by kneeling at the entrance of the rented low house for an entire afternoon.
It was also during that time that I developed an indescribable fondness for a little troublemaker in my class. His fearless nature and willingness to challenge authority seemed to compensate for the oppression and constraints I felt at home.
Once, I mustered the courage to write my name in ink on his notebook, trying to express my feelings. I told myself it was just a case of mutual affection. But the next day, I was questioned by his friends.
They clearly knew it was me; they were certain and convinced it was me, but I did not admit it.
I faced the gaze of my classmates fearlessly while sitting in my seat, but inside, I was tumultuous, secretly thinking, "If only I hadn't crossed out the name he wrote."
Not long after, I fell seriously ill and had to take more than two months off from school.
During that time, my hands were covered with dark bruises from needles as I faced those somewhat pretty nurse aunts every day until they could no longer find suitable spots for injections, allowing me to finally return home.
The pain and boredom during that period made me long for school days even more, but when I tried to find some lost fragments in the shards of memory, I realized I couldn't pick them up no matter how hard I tried.
I can't recall when my grandmother moved in with us, continuing our family's noisy life;
I also can't remember how my father was accused of fraud right after joining the leadership team and ended up deep in police trouble. During that time, our home was filled with gloom and tears. My mother ran around everywhere, shedding tears to clear my father's name.
Although he eventually cleared his name, his position was still demoted.
Perhaps it was my youthful inexperience, lacking humility. When faced with pain and complexities I did not wish to confront, I simply chose to bury them deep within my heart.
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