Raindrops pattered against the car window, swept by the wipers into blurry water streaks. The light from the headlights was drowned by the heavy rain, leaving only a faint shadow; flashing road signs receded rapidly, like terrifying ghosts.
“Shen Jiankun, explain yourself right now!”
The voice was loud, familiar, full of anger. His body trembled slightly; everything before his eyes was pitch-black and piercingly cold.
“I said, we can pay the money back together! There’s news that the stamped tax is about to…”
The wheels suddenly rolled over a speed bump; a strong jolt came with a squealing sound of rubber friction.
“Can’t take it anymore? What do you mean?!”
He clenched the phone tightly; rough breathing echoed in the car.
“30 years old? Am I not 30 too?! You fucking have a younger brother! … Don’t fucking bring up Director Song, don’t fucking bring up that money, tell me! You fucking give me a straight answer!!”
The roar was answered by a whisper, soft and pained, full of apology… The beeping busy tone sounded in his ear.
Something slid from his eyes; a bright light suddenly pierced the rain curtain, pierced the blur before his eyes, and came straight at him.
Screams came from beside him, along with the sharp screech of slipping tires; glass shattered instantly, iron rods pierced his skull, his knees and ribs were crushed and torn, and overwhelming pain surged over him.
“Ugh…”
A slight tremble, and Chen Yuanming opened his eyes. The pain was so vivid, following him like a shadow; cold sweat slid down his spine, soaking his clothes.
He struggled to breathe, wanting to escape the nightmare, but the heavy cotton quilt pressed on him like a boulder, and he could not move even a fingertip.
He panted for a long time, letting the pain sweep over his body, until two other sounds came from the silence. One deep, one shallow—two breaths.
The heavy one snored slightly, occasionally smacking its lips, teeth making faint grinding sounds; the other was much softer, just steady nasal breathing, inhaling and exhaling, as peaceful and quiet as anyone lost in sweet dreams.
Accompanied by these two sounds, Chen Yuanming finally relaxed his body and escaped the nightmare.
The imagined pain all faded, leaving only a sticky, sweaty wetness. His thermal underwear was completely soaked, and his body was as cold as if immersed in ice water.
After hesitating for a while, Chen Yuanming reached his hand into the quilt and rustled as he took off his clothes.
It was early January, long past the heating season, yet there was no warmth in the room at all. Cold wind swept in through the window cracks, whistling against his face; the temperature inside was almost the same as outside.
The quilt on him was stuffed with old cotton, thick and heavy, never warm, and soaked with cold sweat, making it even more unbearable.
Under the influence of the cold, his mind gradually cleared, but his movements became even slower.
This room was only about ten square meters; the small bed beneath him was squeezed into the corner by the window, only three or four steps from the other large bed, and he could wake the two sleeping people with one careless move.
The thermal underwear was very loose, but when he took it off, the collar still brushed against the gauze bandage on his head, bringing a real burst of pain. Chen Yuanming made no sound and gently placed the two wet garments beside his pillow.
Moonlight shone in through the thin curtain, silver light as bright as a streetlamp spilling onto the pillow, reflecting a thin, slender arm.
The skin was a little dark, almost no flesh could be found on the wrist bone; the fingers were long, the middle knuckle dry and protruding, and only here could one see a hint of adulthood.
Looking at this hand, Chen Yuanming felt dazed. In his impression, this hand should be larger and stronger, with blue veins covering the back, joints somewhat deformed from years of toil… That should have been a man’s hand, not a boy’s.
Cold wind slipped along his elbow into the quilt, making the already unwarm bed even colder. The buckwheat-husk pillow rustled and pressed hard against the wound on top of his head. Chen Yuanming slowly withdrew his hand and tucked the quilt tight.
It had already been seven days; ever since that fight, many things and many people had suddenly appeared in his head, while everything around him had become unfamiliar, as distant and blurred as if he had left for decades.
He had once thought he had been beaten stupid, that he had some mental illness, but the continuous and utterly real nightmares left him unable to deceive himself any longer.
In the dream was a car accident, replayed in slow motion again and again, a horrific crash precise to the second. He could still clearly remember that the car he drove was an oyster-gray Audi A6L, heading along National Highway 318 toward the Chengyu Expressway.
He had driven that road many times, so familiar that he could drive it with his eyes closed, but that phone call, that heavy rain, that out-of-control heavy truck destroyed everything. In the crash, he died, not even leaving a whole corpse.
Yet everything was so absurd. Because now, at this very moment, it was 1991.
In this era, his memory should not contain Audi, should not contain “FAW-Volkswagen,” should not contain terms like “National Highway 318” or “Chengyu Expressway.”
But the memories in his mind were so vivid, so real that it made his hair stand on end. It seemed he had already lived through his entire life, only to be like an old cassette tape, rapidly rewound to side A.
What had left its normal track, plunging him into endless nightmares? Who exactly had died? Was it himself? If that was real, then who was he now?
His thoughts were chaotic and overflowing, the wound on his head throbbed faintly, and amid this pain and confusion, Chen Yuanming slowly curled up his body and closed his eyes.