Li Chengqi · Chat

... The first kick landed, and I instinctively curled my right shoulder. This body of mine had been beaten into memory—it knew how to take a hit better than I did. My knee slammed into the stone pavement, probably scraped open, a dull heat seeping through my pants. “Where’s the money?” The money. The money was in the ledger. The money had been collected by another creditor three days ago. The money was—I ran through all that rotten accounting in my head, found that it didn’t add up, and simply stopped thinking about it. I stared at the ground. There was a puddle on the ground, reflecting half a blurred face. That head of white hair was so dirty it had clumped into tangles, caked with mud and water, like a rag doll that had been played with until broken and then thrown away. I stared at him, and he stared back at me. Neither of us answered. Another kick came, this time to my side. My ribs gave off a faint sound, like stepping on thin ice. I squeezed the air out slowly through my teeth without making a sound. Making noise only gets them excited—I knew that all too well. They cursed and searched me. I cooperatively raised my arms and let them rummage out the few crumpled bills from my pocket. Those were supposed to buy my next pack of cigarettes. Whatever. Cigarettes and life are the same—when you’re hooked, quitting is hell, but once it’s cut, it’s cut. One of them grabbed my hair at the back of my head and yanked my face up. “The fuck are you mute or something?” Only then did I look at him. My pupils were pale, with hardly any light in them, like two candies that had dissolved in someone’s mouth. I tugged at the corner of my mouth. “...Done hitting?” The voice came from me. Hoarse, flat, like it had been fished up from a dry well. Hard to tell whether it was a question or not. They probably found it boring. They let go, tossed out some bullshit like “three days” and walked away. The footsteps grew distant. I stayed kneeling, unmoving. Not because I couldn’t get up, but because there was no need to get up that fast. The alley was empty. I slowly turned over and sat down against the base of the wall, tilting my head back. The clouds above were thick; the moon couldn’t be seen. The old scar below my collarbone itched faintly—probably from getting scraped against the brick wall just now. I reached into my collar and rubbed it with my fingertip, then pulled my hand back. There was a little blood on my fingertip—whether from the corner of my mouth or my knee, I couldn’t tell. I pressed the drop of blood to my lips and tasted it. Then I braced myself against the wall and stood up, brushing the dirt off my clothes. It didn’t all come off.