Zhan Heng · Chat

When you pushed open the door, he was sitting at the workbench with his back to you. Spread out on the desk was a charcoal sketch—you, asleep in the wicker chair on the balcony last week, the strap of your nightgown slipped to your shoulder, revealing half your collarbone. He sat there watching it for a long time, a cup of cold tea by his side, looking as if he were frozen in the picture. You stood at the door for a long time. Rain hammered against the skylight, as dense as drumbeats. You stepped forward, and the textbook slipped from your arms, hitting the floor with a "thud." He whipped his head around. In the first second, he saw it was you, and his tensed shoulders relaxed slightly. In the second second, he saw the look in your eyes—that relaxation vanished instantly. In the third second, his gaze slowly moved down from your face: you were wearing his old shirt as pajamas, with only the middle two buttons fastened, the collar wide open, your wet hair dripping. Droplets slid down your collarbone, soaking into the fabric and leaving dark wet marks. The charcoal pencil in his hand was placed on the table with a "clack." The sound was light, but you could hear something suppressed within it—like the final ounce of force before a charcoal stick snaps. "Why are you back?" His voice was flat. As flat as a steel plate. But the tips of his ears were red, a faint pink spreading down from the pinna, the patch of skin beneath his silver hoop earring burning hot. You didn't answer. You walked up to him, getting so close that you could smell the turpentine and cold rain on him. You looked up at him, your nineteen-year-old face illuminated by the desk lamp, looking wet and soft. "Dad." You called to him. Then you raised your hand, your fingertips touching the silver chain hanging from his neck. The chain was cool; you followed it upward, your thumb brushing over his collarbone and stopping at the edge of his open shirt collar. His skin shuddered violently beneath your fingertips. "Your shirt," you said softly, "is comfortable to wear." He looked down at your hand. He watched your fingertips resting beside his collarbone, watched the water dripping from your wet hair onto the chest of his shirt. Then he looked up—that gaze, his pupils constricting, something deep within his eyes fracturing. *This isn't right. My daughter is wearing my shirt, why is she acting like this? This isn't right, this isn't right, the script is wrong, she's my daughter.* The next second, he suddenly grabbed your wrist. His grip was hard. Hard enough to make your knuckles ache. He gripped your wrist and yanked you half a step away from him, his other hand slamming onto the desk with a "bang"—the entire workbench shook, the charcoal pencil rolled to the floor, and a corner of the sketch flipped up from the vibration. He called your full name. His voice was pressed extremely low, so low it was hoarse, the end of his words carrying a jagged tremor. You had never heard him speak in such a voice before; it was like a string that had been stretched for too long, finally being plucked to its limit. "Do you know what you're doing?" It wasn't a question. He stared at you, his stray hairs falling to cover half an eye, his Adam's apple bobbing violently. Then he released your wrist—but the force didn't dissipate; he reached around to grip your shoulders and turned your whole body around. Before you could react, he was already sitting in the chair, pinning you facedown across his knees. You lay across his lap, face down, smelling the scent of turpentine on the fabric and the cool temperature of his body. One of his hands pressed down on your lower back, heavy; you struggled once, but couldn't move. Then, his palm came down. "Smack—" Through the thin layer of the shirt, the warmth of his palm was solidly imprinted on your buttocks. It wasn't heavy, but it was loud enough, enough to make your whole body freeze instantly. It felt as if the air had been shattered by that slap. You lay on his lap, your mind going blank with a roar. He stopped. His palm still rested on your buttocks, trembling slightly. His voice pressed down from above your head, completely hoarse, every word sounding as if it were being ground out of his throat: "You are... nineteen this year." "Smack." A second one, landing in the same spot. It was a bit heavier than before, his entire palm pressing down, the dull thud penetrating the fabric. You flinched, your fingers clutching the fabric of his pant leg. "I've raised you for twelve years, taught you to dress properly before leaving your room, taught you to keep your distance from others, taught you—" He paused. His palm hung in mid-air, not coming down. You heard his breathing become heavy and erratic, as if he were struggling to suppress something. "Taught you to be upright." His voice dropped, sinking to a mere breath, "...And you?" The third one. It was heavy. Through the fabric, you felt your buttocks heat up, as if scorched by fire. He didn't lift his hand immediately; his palm just stayed there, scorching and slightly trembling. He looked down at you lying on his knees—your stray hairs scattered, a section of your pale neck exposed, your shoulders shaking slightly. He suddenly withdrew his hand. It was quiet for a long time. Long enough for the sound of rain to fill the studio again, long enough for you to hear the rising and falling of his chest as his breathing gradually leveled out. His palm came down, not to strike again, but to cover the back of your head. His palm pressed against your wet hair, pausing for a few seconds, and then his thumb slowly brushed against the ends of your hair. "...Go change." His voice was incredibly hoarse, sounding as if he had cried and then swallowed it back. He gently helped you up from his knees, steadying you. You turned to face him and saw that he was looking down, avoiding your gaze, his jaw so tight that the line from his Adam's apple to his collarbone looked as hard as if carved by a knife. He reached out and flipped the sketch over on the desk, face down. Then he looked up. That gaze—the shock had dissipated, replaced by a weariness that had been shattered and pieced back together repeatedly, and a trace of pain that wouldn't go away, no matter how he tried to suppress it. He raised his hand, using the back of his finger to gently touch the corner of your reddened eye. "...Don't cry." His voice was very soft. He withdrew his hand and turned his chair to face away from you, his shoulders slumping slightly. With his back to you, he whispered: "Close the door. Once you've changed... come out for dinner." The tips of his ears were still red. The whole area was flushed deep red.