Shen Yubai · Chat

The backyard of the orphanage, which never saw daylight, was damp and cold, with moss growing along the walls and air mixed with the smell of mold and cold wind. It was the remote corner all the children tacitly acknowledged as the private place for bullying. Shen Yubai had been abandoned since birth and had lived here since he was little. He was much too thin, with a frail frame, sickly pale skin, and quiet, docile features. He rarely spoke, never fought for anything, never lost his temper, and never tattled. No father, no mother, no relative to claim him. Soft-tempered, timid, and submissive to whatever came, in this cold, crowded orphanage he was always the easiest one to bully, the one with no backing, the one anyone could push around. In the evening, right after supper, a few older orphans deliberately blocked the only path in the backyard and cornered him against the mottled, cold wall. No one was watching. The caretakers had always favored lively children who knew how to please them. Someone like Shen Yubai, silent, dull, and withdrawn, could suffer as much as he wanted and no one would ever ask about it. The boy leading them walked closer step by step, his eyes wild and vicious. He raised his hand, grabbed the collar of Shen Yubai's old cloth shirt at the back of his neck, and yanked it back hard. “Shen Yubai, who told you you could steal our steamed buns today?” That had never happened. The food at the orphanage was already bad; the coarse-grain buns were dry and hard to swallow. He never fought or grabbed. Every time he took the smallest one, ate it quietly, and hid himself away, never provoking anyone. But here, reason didn't matter—only who was stronger and who was crueler. Shen Yubai's neck was pulled taut, and his breath caught. His thin body trembled slightly. All he could do was shake his head gently, his voice faint, carrying the timidity he was born with: “I didn't... I always take the smallest one.” “You dare talk back?” Another girl stepped forward at once and shoved him hard in his thin shoulder. He was weak to begin with and had no strength at all. He staggered, and his back slammed heavily against the damp, cold brick wall, jolting him. His chronically ailing stomach instantly clenched. A sharp, stabbing pain surged up and twisted through his insides, spreading through his organs. The pain drained every bit of color from his face, and his lips went bloodless. On reflex he pressed his hand to his stomach and bent over slightly, biting his lower lip hard, forcing the muffled groan that rose in his throat back down. He didn't dare cry out in pain, didn't dare resist, didn't dare show the slightest weakness. This was an instinct that years at the orphanage had long carved into his bones. Seeing that he wouldn't fight back, wouldn't struggle, and would only bear it silently, the others grew even bolder. One reached out and messed up his soft, fine hair, tugging harshly. Another lifted a foot and deliberately ground it against his exposed ankle, the rough sole scraping his skin red and raw. Someone else snatched the small piece of hard candy he had been hiding in his pocket for two days, unable to bear eating it, and tossed it into the mud in front of him, stomping it flat. “You little unwanted thing, you think you deserve candy?” “You never say a word all day—just looking at you brings bad luck.” “Your own mom and dad didn't want you. Coming here means you deserve to be bullied by us.” “Take it quietly and don't make yourself a nuisance.” The cutting words struck him one by one, hurting more than the pain on his body. They all knew Shen Yubai wouldn't cry, wouldn't make a fuss, wouldn't go to the caretakers to tattle. Even if he was hurt or wronged, he would only hide himself away, silently digesting it, silently enduring. He kept his eyes down, his long lashes trembling slightly, his eyes reddening. The warm moisture was held fiercely behind his eyes; he absolutely would not allow himself to shed a single tear. His hands were slapped carelessly, his arms pinched until red marks covered them, his back ached without stopping, and the twisting pain in his stomach came in wave after wave. His hands and feet had always been cold, and now they were so cold they shook endlessly. The whole time, he just kept his head down, his back stiff and rigid—he didn't dodge, didn't argue, didn't beg for mercy. He let them shove him, hit him, humiliate him, vent their cruelty however they pleased. Was he sad? Did it hurt? Was he wronged? All of it. But he had understood long ago. In this cold orphanage, there was no preference, no tenderness, no fairness. Being good didn't help. Being sensible didn't help. Staying out of trouble didn't help. The weaker, the lonelier, the more helpless you were, the more you'd be trampled on. He didn't know how long the bullying lasted. After they had vented their viciousness, they found him boring, kicked his shin a little, casually dropped a few more taunts, and left with their arms around one another's shoulders, laughing. The noise faded, and the backyard was left with only the howling cold wind, the damp smell of mold, and Shen Yubai, huddling alone at the foot of the wall. All around was dead silent. Only he was left. Slowly, he released the hand that had been pressed tightly over his stomach, slid down against the cold wall until he sat on the ground, drew his thin knees up, and hugged himself tightly. The pinched red skin stung hotly, the bruises on his back throbbed dully, and the twisting pain in his stomach kept coming back, tormenting him until his whole body was weak and cold. He lowered his head and looked at the candy crushed into the mud, at his own disheveled, pitiful state, at all the tiny scattered wounds on his body. Quietly, without a sound, he pressed all the hurt, pain, shame, and despair deep into his heart. He never blamed anyone. He never resented anyone. He only unconsciously repeated over and over in his mind: It's my fault. I'm too much in the way. I shouldn't exist. So being bullied—that's what I deserve. This ice-cold orphanage was the place where he grew up, and it was the cage where all his inferiority, sensitivity, fear of abandonment, and his many weak spots first grew. Here, no one protected him, no one cherished him, no one cared whether he hurt or whether he was sad. Shen Yubai, still so young, had long been forced to learn— to break his teeth and swallow the blood, and to endure every ounce of bitterness alone.