Chapter Eight: Bound Wounds: The Cyclical Scars of Zheng Tai's Wrist
1862 Words
The fog pressed against the window, thick as sodden felt, saturated with the cloying tang of antiseptic, chemical solvents, and the metallic sweetness of rust. It permeated every frigid molecule of air in Room 307, seeping into Chen Mo’s pores. He huddled at the foot of the icy cot, a puppet nailed to concrete, only the phantom chill of the tiny white pill lingering on his fingertips. Xu Na’s despair, the putrid stench, the icy dread—all coalesced into a suffocating shroud. From the corridor’s depths, beyond the iron door of the "Tranquility Chamber," an ineffable, watchful void seemed to linger. Outside, the frozen-grease fog churned silently; within the walls, a faint, resonant hum pulsed—the slow, cold blood-flow of this steel leviathan.
High on the wall, the surveillance dome’s faint crimson light glowed—an unblinking beast-eye, steady, cold, pitiless, surveying the cramped cell.
Chen Mo’s gaze, fractured yet unyielding, remained fixed on the small patch of filth beneath the door crack. In the dimness, the half-buried white pill fragment—Lenais (narcotic designation)—gleamed like a pearl defiant in polluted depths, stinging his eyes. The cold residue on his fingers was visceral confirmation. This! The potent surgical-grade psychotropic, trafficked in shadows! Its presence here, entwined with the abomination within the Tranquility Chamber, beneath the serene facade of "Hope" Deaf-Mute School—what grotesque, sanguinary tapestry it wove!
He surged upright, agony lancing through torn muscles, the thick, metallic air choking his throat, yet forcing a final, desperate clarity. His gaze, feral, swept the cold iron bed frame, the peeling plaster, locking onto the worn plastic duffel in the corner—his meager past, his pitiful belongings.
The clue! It must be inside!
He lunged, tearing the zipper open, hands raking through the coarse fabric like claws. Sweat, salty and stinging, seeped from his temple wound into his eyes, painting his vision crimson. Old jacket… shirt… a thick, greyed cotton coat, worn soft, clearly meant for a daughter too frail to wear it…
Nothing!
His heart seemed gouged out. Fingers numb, trembling, the icy tide of despair surged anew… His mother’s worried face, Xiaoyu’s pallor on the hospital bed, Li Entai’s mask of benevolance flickered through his mind…
Impossible! There must be more!
At the precipice of desolation, his probing fingers struck something hard beneath the coat’s hem! A sealed, unyielding bulge!
His heart jolted like a live wire!
He tore! No tools! Chen Mo bent, teeth sinking into the thick seam stitching the bulge. Sharp friction jarred his jawbone! Cheap white polyester thread snapped strand by strand! He ripped the heavy cotton lining—a pungent wave of camphor and aged printer’s ink assaulted him—revealing a small, precisely folded, yellowed fragment of ancient newsprint, brittle with time, lying in his sweat-slicked, trembling palm!
At its edge, etched in lead-grey, its edges blurred by cheap printing yet its core structure starkly clear—a Morse Code Reference Chart! Like divine script!
Found!
Blood roared in his ears! Elation fused with crushing purpose, his knuckles cracking as he clenched the precious scrap!
*CRASH—!!!*
A thunderous metallic impact exploded against the heavy steel door behind him! Chen Mo’s scalp prickled, ears ringing! Instantly followed by the excruciating shriek of thick chains dragging across concrete! Screeeech… Scrape… Clank!
Locked! Someone was locking him in?! Outside?!
Adrenaline flooded his limbs! Chen Mo spun, body coiling like a spring, pressing flat against the cold wall’s shadow in one fluid motion! One hand shoved the newspaper fragment deep into his innermost shirt pocket! The other snatched the cheap plastic ballpoint pen from the desk! His eyes, hardened steel, riveted on the door!
Outside—silence. As if the cataclysm had been auditory hallucination.
Yet every nerve screamed! His skin prickled, sensing the pressure shift beyond the door! His icy gaze scanned the small, milky observation window above—darker now, shrouded in deeper gloom!
He pressed against the rough, cold wall, a statue fused into stone, breath suspended, heart seemingly stilled. Only the surveillance dome’s faint, low-frequency hum remained—a cold, mocking drone.
Squeeeeak—
A short, sharp, tortured groan of rusted hinges ripped the silence—from a nearby room (308? Farther?).
Then—a muffled cacophony: choked despair, frantic struggle tearing sheets—a beast throttled mid-roar! Abruptly silenced! Only suffocating stillness! Seconds later, the heavy scrape of something dragged across cold cement! Shhhh… Shhhh… Weighted like sacks of gravel! Then—a single, stifled, guttural gasp—as if a chest were punctured!
"Hhgh…!"
The voice! A boy’s, its pre-pubescent clarity mangled by agony and suffocation!
Chen Mo’s blood reversed course! Numbing cold shot from soles to crown! Zheng Tai?! The ghost-silent boy, wrists perpetually swathed in pristine white bandages?! Taken?! Next door?! Now?!
Footsteps erupted! Chaotic! Heavy! Echoing with brutal stomps! Not Hu Qiang’s controlled menace! More like disturbed worker ants, tools clanging! Thud! Thud! Clank! The direction unmistakable—not the stairs! Deeper into the corridor! Towards the abyssal darkness! The "Tranquility Chamber"!
Chen Mo’s heart threatened to burst! He lunged! Pressed his right eye to the narrow, icy slit beneath the door!
In the failing, candle-gutter light of the hall, two young orderlies in stained navy overalls—lean but ruthlessly efficient—dragged a slight figure by the ankles, like butchers hauling a carcass!
The figure wore only faded grey uniform trousers, cinched cruelly at the waist with a belt. Bare feet, ankles painfully thin above, were grotesquely swathed in thick, new bandages! Stark white, edges blotched with palm-sized, weeping stains of deep crimson! Skin peeked through gaps—bruised purple, swollen, raw! The wrists were horrific—crushed, mangled, as if ground by heavy, jagged metal! Flesh torn open, revealing deeper, darker red! Fresh torture!
Zheng Tai!
The lead orderly, impatient, jerked his shoulder, brutally adjusting the "burden." Zheng Tai’s head lolled. For a fleeting instant, his face flashed into Chen Mo’s view—paper-white, contorted by inhuman terror and agony! Beneath thick lashes, eyes once perpetually downcast were shattered voids! Lips bitten through, crimson threads snaking down his chin! But the most soul-freezing sight—the trailing orderly’s hand, encased in a grimy, yellowed cotton work glove, clamped like a vise on Zheng Tai’s throat! On the glove’s back, a coiled, serpentine tattoo—deep blue vines—glowed with malevolent phosphorescence in the dim light! Its tendrils ended in sinister, dark purple leaves!
They were suffocating him! Silencing the death rattle! Silencing any "sound"!
Chen Mo’s fingers clawing the door seam whitened, knuckles cracking, threatening to pierce the cold steel! Rage, a conflagration, threatened to erupt from his throat! He wanted to roar! To shatter the door!
Yet, at the precipice of incinerating fury—
Zheng Tai’s eyes—dilated voids of agony, filmed with pain—suddenly! Blindingly fast! Rolled upward!
Within the shattered emptiness, as if drilled by an invisible auger—two points of fierce, dying-star light blazed forth! Unerringly! Precisely! Locking onto Chen Mo’s hidden, spying eye!
Contact!
Time froze! In that electric instant!
Zheng Tai’s cyanotic lips twisted into a profound rictus! The movement tore his split lip wider, blood beading! Not a smile! A silent, soul-rending shriek of ultimate torment! A grotesque, soul-shattering mockery and accusation! And his left hand—not fully pinned, limp at his side, wrapped in thick, fresh, blood-soaked bandages—its five finger-stumps encased in filthy gauze—jerked upward as if electrocuted!
The five bound fingertips moved! With impossible, piston-like precision! Not random spasms! A coded sequence! Forceful! Rhythmic! Short! Sharp! Clear! Like a programmed machine activating! Each flexion, each knuckle press radiated immense force—as if twisting! Coiling! Pulling! An invisible noose! Each movement squeezed more dark blood through the bandages!
*THUD!*
A mud-caked combat boot sole slammed into view! Carrying bone-shattering force, it crashed into Zheng Tai’s defenseless right flank—a canvas of old and new scars!
CRUNCH! The sickening sound of splintering bone!
"Ghh—!" A strangled, lung-collapsing gasp—cut off at the larynx!
Zheng Tai’s body arched violently—a bowstring snapped! His expression froze in that microsecond—a mask of agony beyond endurance! The fierce light in his eyes imploded—extinguished! Only deathly grey vacancy remained! His head lolled like a broken joint. Limbs went utterly slack—a marionette with severed strings.
"Fuckin' deadweight! Stop squirming! 'Upper Ceremony' waits!" The kicking orderly spat, his voice low, ice-cold, dripping with utter disregard for life. He ground his boot heel into Zheng Tai’s crumpled form—a nauseating squelch of flesh. "Move it!"
Heave! The lead orderly brutally adjusted the limp burden on his shoulder, pace quickening. Two brutal shapes, carrying a broken, rag-doll husk of a boy, vanished into the corridor’s end—the dark, reeking maw of the "Tranquility Chamber"!
The heavy footfalls, the fading clang of tools, the cloying stench of blood and disinfectant—all swallowed by the dark.
The corridor reclaimed its silence. Only scattered, sticky beads of dark crimson blood remained on the cold cement, glistening like infernal amber under the weak light.
Chen Mo’s strength evaporated. He slid down the cold steel door, collapsing onto the hard cement floor. The rough metal pressed against his sweat-chilled back, radiating waves of bone-deep cold.
Zheng Tai’s final, agonized gaze locking onto him! The blood-streaked rictus of mockery! The lightning-fast, machine-precise dance of the bandaged fingers! The gloved hand, crawling with that vile vine tattoo…
Shards of bloody reality, like shrapnel, tore through his consciousness. He squeezed his eyes shut! Not random struggle! Zheng Tai’s finger movements! Precise rhythm! Deliberate!
*CRACK!*
A sharp, brittle snap echoed in his palm.
The cheap plastic pen, clenched with berserk force, bent and shattered! Jagged shards stabbed deep into his palm flesh! Warm blood welled, trickling between his fingers, pooling in small, shocking crimson stains on the grey cement.
The pain in his palm felt distant, unreal. All sensation was consumed by the boy’s final, silent brand—Zheng Tai.
The bandages, blindingly white, newly applied. Each layer concealed deeper wounds. Each wound marked another cycle of torment. This time, the grinding wheel of that cycle had been forced open—by a soul sacrificing itself to splinter the mechanism!
That silent, transfixing gaze! The agony-twisted yet eloquent grimace! The encrypted dance erupting from blood-soaked bindings…
It was no longer the futile thrashing of a silent victim.
It was a cipher carved in flesh!
A blood-red coordinate fired from despair’s abyss towards the light!
A final SOS, ignited with all life’s energy, before the throat was crushed and the voice silenced!
Chen Mo uncurled his trembling, bloodied right hand. Shattered pen fragments mingled with torn flesh. A cold power, like a subterranean river breaking through permafrost, surged from his core.
The soul huddled within, bound by fear and duty, felt something… pried open by brute force. Beneath the fissure—seething magma!
The fury of awakening, molten rock pent for eons beneath the earth, had found its fault line.
- Writer
