Chapter 7: Contempt and Scorn
2464 Words
The telephone’s shrill, saw-toothed shrieking continued to claw through the clinic’s subterranean corridor, its echoes vibrating loose clumps of damp plaster and mold from the walls.
Li Pockface, arms folded in smug observation of Zhang Chi’s degradation, jolted violently at the assault on his ears. His improvised toothpick clattered to the wet floor. His gloating expression froze, morphing into irritated astonishment at the interruption.
“Damned ghosts! Who calls at this hour?!” he spat.
Zhang Chi, equally assaulted by the cacophony, found the violent nausea momentarily suppressed by the sheer auditory pain. Gasping, he levered himself up from the filthy pit’s edge, his bloodshot gaze snapping towards the source of the noise—a decrepit junction box convulsing on the far wall.
This derelict place had a working phone? In this forsaken abyss?
“Bloody pestilence!” Li Pockface grumbled, shuffling reluctantly towards the box in his worn rubber shoes. “County bureaucrats, no doubt! Harassing for reports! Report this, you bastards!” He kicked aside debris, tore away cobwebs shrouding the box, and revealed a cracked, dust-caked plastic handset.
He snatched the grimy receiver, spittle flying as he bellowed, “WHO?! Bellowing like a stuck pig at this hour?!”
Zhang Chi seized the moment. He wiped filth, tears, and snot from his face, leaning against the crumbling, damp wall as his stomach churned. He watched Li Pockface with icy detachment.
Faint, urgent speech crackled from the receiver, distorted by distance and static.
“What gibberish?! Signal’s chewed to rags! Speak plain!” Li Pockface roared impatiently.
The voice persisted, seemingly emphasizing something.
Li Pockface’s expression shifted oddly. He frowned, tilting his head, straining to hear.
“Who…? Who arrived?!” His voice suddenly spiked an octave, thick with disbelief. “…Who?! Zhang Chi? Which Zhang Chi?!” He whirled, his gaze lancing like a searchlight onto Zhang Chi!
Zhang Chi’s heart lurched.
The call… was for him?
Here? Now? In this pit?
Who? A spark, frail and desperate, flickered in his frozen core. Director Liu? The county? Checking on his delayed arrival?
Before the spark could catch—
Li Pockface’s astonishment lasted less than two seconds.
Then—
His pockmarked face rapidly contorted with deeper suspicion, wariness, and a sneer laced with mockery.
“Heh… The new doctor, you mean?” Li Pockface’s voice turned syrupy with sarcasm, pitched deliberately loud for Zhang Chi’s benefit. “He’s here! Just finished painting the floor! Still heaving bile! Precious cargo, this one!”
He leered at Zhang Chi, his mouth a cruel slit. “Quite the grand entrance! Barely landed and county brass come calling? Impressive connections! What altar must we appease?!”
The words dripped with venomous insinuation and probing malice.
*CLACK!*
Before the caller could respond, before Zhang Chi could glean another word—
Li Pockface stabbed the disconnect button with brutal force!
A dismissive, drawn-out sneer followed:
“Tch!”
Finished.
Hung up.
Zhang Chi’s briefly suspended heart plummeted like a stone into an icy abyss, the impact a physical ache.
That fragile spark extinguished by malice.
Not concern.
Suspicion. Scorn. A naked, contemptuous welcome.
Li Pockface turned, his earlier surprise vanished.
Only naked, mocking disdain remained, as if watching a pitiful farce.
He sauntered closer, scrutinizing Zhang Chi like tainted goods, his lips curling into a grotesque rictus. “Well, well! Boy! Got pull! Barely through the door and county bigwigs send their ‘warm regards’! Pulled some strings, eh?”
He leaned in, voice dropping to a venomous whisper that carried like a blade: “Spill it! Whose coattails? Deputy Wang? Bureau Chief Ma? Our little shrine’s humble. If the Buddha don’t burn incense, we get… uneasy!” His eyes, a mix of disdain and avarice, seemed to strip Zhang Chi bare, seeking the hidden patronage.
Zhang Chi’s fists clenched until knuckles whitened.
Nails bit deep into his palms.
He swallowed the coppery tang rising in his throat.
Explain? To this maggot?
Only deeper humiliation!
He averted his gaze from Li Pockface’s repulsive visage.
His eyes, colder, harder, fixed instead on the wooden door upstairs—the door to the Director’s office, the semblance of order.
The call was over.
Irrelevant.
Now.
The office.
He needed to report. To sleep. A place to lie down. Another second with Pockface, and he feared he’d snap that filthy neck.
Zhang Chi hauled his mud-smeared suitcase onto his shoulder.
His body trembled from the vomiting, his steps unsteady.
But he summoned every shred of strength. Straightened his spine.
His gaze, like iron spikes, targeted the stairwell. Step by deliberate step, he advanced.
Li Pockface, ignored, bristled at the defiance. “Hey! Where you think you’re going?! Deaf?!”
Zhang Chi marched on.
“Stop! Think knowing some county clown makes you special?! Here! Dragons coil! Tigers crouch!” Li Pockface bellowed, chasing him, spittle flying.
Zhang Chi remained deaf.
He surged up the stairs.
Escaped the dank underworld.
Back into the foul-aired lobby.
The familiar, nauseating stench enveloped him. His stomach convulsed again. He choked it down.
Target locked.
He strode towards the splintered wooden door at the corridor’s end, the sliver of jaundiced light beneath it.
He reached the door.
Before his knuckles could strike wood—
“Mmm… Director Qin… gently… on duty… don’t rush… ah…” A voice, cloying and serpentine, oozed through the crack. It slithered into Zhang Chi’s ears.
Accompanied by heavy panting and the rhythmic scrape of wood on wood.
Then—
A man’s voice, thick with lust: “Sweetheart… fear nothing… none dare intrude… this week’s report… let me… inspect thoroughly… deeply…”
Scrape… Rustle…
*BANG!*
Zhang Chi could endure no more.
Not rage. Utter revulsion.
He lashed out with his boot! Kicked the rotten door with savage force!
*CRASH!!!*
The impact reverberated through the corridor!
The door flew open, hinges shrieking, slamming against the inner wall!
The scene within lay exposed.
A shabby office.
Windows shut. Curtains drawn.
On a scarred wooden desk—a young woman in a cheap, crumpled pink nurse’s uniform (top buttons undone), pinned face-down amidst scattered files!
Skirt hiked to her waist!
A man in a similarly wrinkled white coat (slightly better than downstairs), his belly straining the buttons—Director Qin!—pressed against her from behind! Trousers sagging, pale buttocks exposed! Grunting with effort!
The desk legs shuddered violently.
A flimsy cardigan and lace underthings lay discarded on a chair.
The violent entry, the sudden light—
“WHO?!” Director Qin shrieked, terror-stricken, his arousal instantly deflating. He spun, his flabby face a mask of shock and fury! Seeing Zhang Chi—mud-caked, eyes murderous, blocking the doorway—he blanched. “You… What do you want?!”
The nurse scrambled up with a shriek, yanking at her skirt.
Zhang Chi felt a stench fouler than the sewage pit surge into his skull. Darkness threatened his vision. His stomach heaved violently. The nausea suppressed downstairs roared back.
This place!
From doctors to nurses to the director!
Rotting! Stinking!
“Reporting!” Zhang Chi ground out the words, voice raw with unconcealed disgust. He didn’t enter. From the threshold, he hurled his mud-sodden, ash-scorched transfer letter onto the floor inside like refuse! “Zhang Chi! Read it yourself!”
Done!
He spared not another glance for the obscene spectacle.
A second longer, and he’d vomit.
He spun on his heel.
Strode away.
Not downstairs.
Towards the dim corner where a few grimy armchairs slumped against the wall.
He couldn’t take it.
Another second in that basement cell, breathing mildew and piss, seeing Li Pockface’s face—
He’d torch the damned place.
Lobby corner.
Dust-coated armchairs, upholstery blackened with grease.
Zhang Chi slammed his heavy suitcase down.
He collapsed onto the outermost chair, strength spent.
Dust billowed visibly.
Cold.
Hard.
Greasy.
Painfully uncomfortable.
But no mildew. No sewage. No rutting boar of a director.
Zhang Chi threw his head back against the icy chair frame. Eyes squeezed shut.
Chest heaved.
Stomach spasms and the metallic taste warred within him.
He craved a cigarette. Found only a pulpy mess in his soaked pack.
“Heh… Tsk tsk…” Li Pockface’s footsteps approached, accompanied by his grating chuckle. Muffled sobs from the nurse and Director Qin’s enraged bellowing followed: “Gawk elsewhere! Back to work! One word leaks—I skin you alive!”
Amidst the chaos.
Zhang Chi felt a sharp gaze upon him.
The red-lipped woman from the registration window? Peering through a crack, eyes cold?
Old Chen Hunchback, arrived now? His rheumy eyes gleaming strangely?
All cold stares.
Scorn.
Schadenfreude.
Watching an intruder, a rule-breaker, a director-offender, a soon-to-be-crushed insect.
Zhang Chi kept his eyes shut.
But he felt it.
Like countless fine needles pricking exposed skin.
Icy.
Bone-deep.
He leaned against the cold chair. The dampness on his clothes began to dry, leaving chilled patches. Exhaustion pushed him towards numbness.
Time blurred.
Dawn approaching?
Or the lights failing again?
The lobby bulb flickered erratically, adding to the ghastly atmosphere.
Dragging footsteps neared.
Zhang Chi’s eyes snapped open!
His gaze was lethal.
Chen Hunchback’s wizened face appeared a few paces away, his watery eyes holding a mix of timidity and unsettling curiosity.
“Er… Young… Doctor Zhang…” Chen rasped, rubbing gnarled hands, his voice dry, a blend of forced deference and morbid interest. “Director Qin… uh… says… assigned you a consulting room… Shall I… show you? Rest… your feet?” He gestured towards a darker corridor.
A consulting room?
Not the basement cell?
A “favor” after being caught?
A glacial, mirthless twist touched Zhang Chi’s lips.
A smile?
More a grimace.
He uttered no word.
Slowly rose.
Every muscle screamed.
He shouldered the battered case.
Like bearing a mountain.
Ignoring Chen Hunchback, he walked towards the indicated darkness.
“This way! Here!” Chen scurried after him, leading him down a dimmer side passage.
A thicker stench assaulted them—disinfectant laced with the coppery tang of blood. More nauseating.
A scarred, old sign hung crookedly: Internal Medicine & Emergency.
The door stood open.
Empty.
Tiny.
A pitted wooden desk.
A broken swivel chair.
A dust-choked viewbox.
Rusted oxygen cylinders piled in a corner.
An antique wooden medicine cabinet.
Nothing more.
Bare.
Looted.
Chen Hunchback hunched further, pointing a crooked finger. “See! Director Qin says! Doctor Zhang, city expert! Great skill! Mighty talent! Gets the finest room! Emergency Department!” He emphasized “finest,” his eyes screaming your doom awaits. “Yours now! Emergency duty… heh… never idle!”
Zhang Chi ignored the sarcasm.
“Finest room”? Not even a decent stethoscope! Oxygen tanks rusted to instability!
He set down the case.
Approached the desk.
The surface was filthy. Dark, dried stains of unknown origin.
Zhang Chi pulled a half-soaked packet of tissues from his pack. He began scrubbing the desktop.
Slowly.
Mechanically.
A ritual.
Chen Hunchback watched, expression baffled. “Well… I’ll… busy… Director Qin might… need me…” He scuttled away, surprisingly spry.
Zhang Chi stood alone in the consulting room.
Silence.
Only his own ragged breathing.
He cleared a small patch of desk.
Carefully, he extracted the plastic-sealed frame containing the divorce agreement from his pack.
The casing was caked in dried mud, slightly warped.
He pulled damp, cheap tissues (sodden with sweat and residual rain) and scrubbed fiercely at the grime. His focus was intense, almost fanatical.
Until the paper beneath the glass, bearing its crimson fingerprint, was clear again.
He placed the frame precisely in the center of the cleaned patch.
Like enshrining an icon.
A brand marking past destruction and hellish struggle.
Done.
He straightened.
His gaze swept the cell-like emergency room.
Outside the window, wild grass choked the clinic’s back lot. The sky was leaching into a deathly grey.
Bare.
Ruined.
Hopeless.
He pulled out the broken swivel chair.
It shrieked in protest.
Zhang Chi sat down.
Leaned back against the cold vinyl.
Body pushed beyond exhaustion.
Mind crackling with intensity.
Cold blood burned with scalding hate!
The humiliation of universal contempt!
The agony of being trampled repeatedly!
Vipers gnawing at his core!
Yet this hate!
This humiliation!
This searing, directionless fury!
Forged a crucible! Incinerating the last dregs of “weakling,” “failure” within him!
Amidst this silent conflagration.
Slap… Slap… Slap…
Li Pockface’s rubber soles slapped the floor again, accompanied by the reek of cheap tobacco.
He materialized in the doorway like a territorial rooster, leaning against the frame, insolent.
His pockmarked face radiated “top dog” arrogance and malicious anticipation of Zhang Chi’s downfall.
“Well, well! Doctor Zhang! Settled in?” He made a show of looking around, inspecting. “Good! Passable! Bit rough! Make do! However…”
He drew out the word, unleashing a perfectly smarmy, obstructionist grin.
“Director Qin just decreed!”
“To welcome our city expert! A grand task awaits!”
“Back mountain!”
He jabbed a finger towards the rain-shrouded peaks visible through the grimy window.
“Old Man Cao!”
“Treasure of Beiling Town! Lifelong invalid! His son? Police officer! Next county station! Handles our security!”
“Old Cao’s asthma flared! Yesterday’s downpour! Family sent word!”
“Perfect for an expert like you!”
“Director Qin trusts you! Says Doctor Zhang, big hospital pedigree! Top skill! Old Cao’s sniffles? Child’s play! Cure him! Earn your stripes in town!”
“Off you go! Address here!” He tossed a crumpled scrap of paper with a crude, near-illegible map onto the desk. “Trail’s tricky! Rain made it slick! Careful, expert! Oh! Medical kit… in that corner cabinet! Fetch it yourself!”
He jerked his chin towards a dilapidated wooden cabinet, its door hanging by a thread.
He dropped the address, turned whistling a tuneless ditty, and swaggered off, his very posture screaming I’ve dug your grave, jump in!
House call!
Fresh off the bus! Parched! Ground unfamiliar!
To the back mountains! Find some wheezing invalid too frail for the clinic?!
After the storm! Paths muddy! Treacherous!
Address? A Pockface scribble. A death trap.
Medical kit? Cabinet contents likely expired relics!
This wasn’t duty.
It was a death sentence. A setup. Ruin him before he could stand. Destroy his name.
A killing blow.
Barefaced.
Murderous.
Zhang Chi sat in the cold chair.
Eyes closed.
Unmoving.
His hands, hidden beneath the desk.
Slowly clenched.
Knuckles cracked with a sickening, brittle sound.
On his impassive face.
A muscle twitched.
The corner of his mouth.
Slowly.
Twisted upwards.
Into a curve.
Icy.
Even…
Predatory.
A lone wolf, mired in filth, provoked beyond endurance, baring its fangs.
Li Pockface!
Director Qin!
Fine.
You want to play?
I’ll play.
- Writer
