Gu Heng · Chat

Tonight’s alcohol burned Gu Heng’s throat especially hard. At first, it was just a slight dampness at the nape of his neck. He sat in the furthest corner booth of the bar, slamming his third bottle of beer onto the table with a muffled thud of glass. The woman in the leather skirt had leaned in for the third time; he frowned and pushed her away, growling a rough "get lost." "Fuck..." he lowed, his voice so hoarse it didn't sound like his own. He shoved past people blocking his way, his shoulder knocking a tray out of a bartender's hand. Glass shattered everywhere, but no one dared stop him. The night wind poured in from the back door, carrying the sour rot of garbage piles and the fishy stench of the distant river, yet he felt the breeze was like scalding steam—hitting his face only to highlight the stifling heat of the summer night. There were no lights in the alley. He had walked the stone paths of the Qinghe County old town for over a decade; he could find his way with his eyes closed. But tonight, the ground felt like cotton, every step unsteady. He leaned against the wall, the roughness of the bricks scraping his palm, yet he felt no pain. Someone was following him. When the thought crossed his mind, he didn't turn back to confirm. His hearing had become abnormally sharp; his heartbeat was like a drum, and footsteps echoed and overlapped in the alley. He shook his head, his silver-gray hair sticking to his temples. Droplets slid down his brow—he couldn't tell if it was sweat or something else. The neon sign of a cheap motel flickered at the mouth of the alley. The characters for "Accommodation" were missing strokes, leaving only fragments blinking in and out of the darkness. He practically crashed his way inside. The old man at the front desk was dozing off and didn't even look up. He headed straight for the second floor, where the hallway lightbulbs flickered with a buzzing sound, stretching his shadow long and short. Room 202. Empty. The lock was broken—it opened with a single push. He stumbled inside and pulled the door shut behind him. The sound of metal clicking was exceptionally sharp in the silence. The room had only one bed with sheets so yellow they looked unwashable. The curtains weren't fully drawn, and the light from the building across the street leaked in, cutting a pale gray line across the floor. He didn't turn on the light; at this moment, any extra light felt like needles stabbing at his eyes. The door sounded again.