I misjudged the first step, which caused me to stumble and trip on the second step. I thought I must have not turned off the lights on the porch. Obviously, I didn't. Forgetting is not like me.
The darkness wrapped the porch, slowly pressed the porch into black, and then swallowed the porch as a whole. It's too dark, I can't see the front door clearly.
I straightened my body and looked back. The street is very quiet. Surprisingly quiet. There is no wind. No street noise. There are no cars and pedestrians. There is no sound except my own breathing, which comes high and heavy, crashing and receding on my head. My fingers are tingling, and my heart is beating.
I took the last step, and it is there—my door. It opened its mouth slightly, and whispered something to me while turning sideways. I stretched out my arm and pushed it, and it swayed inwards.
Didn't I lock the door, or at least, close it? First the light on the porch, now the door? Common sense tells me to stop, turn around, don't go in.
I walked in.
I saw the shadow of a man with his back to me. He searched my living room and is now rummaging through my bookshelf. Throw away the books, look at the decorative boxes, and then throw them aside. He has read most of the things on the bookshelf. Maybe a third of the books are still on the shelf. The rest were scattered on the ground, discarded, or stepped under his shiny leather wingtips.
"What are you doing?" I said.
The man turned around to face me, and at this moment, I noticed that it was Ben.
"You are here," he said.
"What are you doing?" I said again. This time, I called out. When I saw the appearance of a stranger at home, my fear turned into anger, because I knew it was Ben.
"What do you think I'm doing? I'm looking for it!" He still yelled at me. he is very angry. I can tell from the way he walks, the tension on his shoulders, the jerking movements, and the way he clenches his teeth. His muscles are erected like water bottles on both sides of his neck.
"What are you looking for?"
He searched through the remaining books on my bookshelf, and then turned his spinning and destructive attention to my desk.
"Oh, don't do that," he said. "Don't be so slow. You know what I'm looking for."
"No, I don't know," I said.
"Look," he said. "I'm not interested in playing mental games with you, Abigail. Tell me where it is."
"I'm not playing a mental game. I have no idea what you are looking for."
He raised his head, opened the contents of the drawer of the table, and looked at the tabletop.
"I see, you are still a bitch," he said.
"Get out! Get out!"
"I'm not going anywhere, Abby. You already have it. I know. It's mine. I want to get it back."
"I don't have anything for you!" I screamed.
""Where did you put it? Some precious place? Where I don't want to see? It's useless," he said. "I know all your precious things. "
He walked through the wall of pictures my father took when I was a little girl. I entangled them and framed them and hung them on the wall. They are more important to me than anything else. Except for the work boots that he wore on the day of his death, these are the only things he left me. I put them behind the closet because I can't bear to know their existence.
Ben took a picture from the wall, in which I hugged our old red dog, grinning, two of my front teeth, my braids and freckles were missing, squinting in the sun. He lifted the photo in the frame over his head in a dramatic manner, put it on his knees, smashed the glass, bent the photo and the mat. He took the mattress from the back, looked at the broken picture frame, as if there was something to hide in it, and threw the picture frame and broken picture frame on the floor.
"No," he said. ""Not there. Maybe this?"
He took another picture from the wall. This one belongs to my father and me. My dad used his tripod to take it away. We all laughed. He probably told a joke exactly like him before the blinds closed.
Ben held up the screen, preparing for a knee smash.
"No!" I shouted.
I rushed to him and reached for the photo. Ben changed his swing instead of putting the rack on his knees; he swung it, hitting the side of my head with a baseball bat.
The power of that blow knocked me down. I tried to restore my balance, but I couldn't do it. Before falling into the TV, I managed to cover my head with my arm. The TV fell on the wall with me. We landed with a bang, and landed on the floor with a bang.
I sat on the floor and looked up at Ben. I was about to ask him what was going on when he hit me in the face with the broken frame in his hand.
"Where, Abby?" He hit me again. His photo frame fell off, so this time he used his fist.
He has never hit me with his fists before.
"Stop!" I cried. My hand immediately reached where he hit me in the face. My cheek was hot and sore, and it felt like it was about to explode. I gobbled up and stood up. The beast in my heart knows that I need to stand up and persevere. Once I stood up, I was shaken, unstable, and panicked, but I managed to stay vertical.
He shook his head, as if to clean it up. He took a few steps back. He looked depressed, but I was not fooled.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. He said softly: "You have to tell me where it is."
"I don't know what you are talking about," I said. "Really, I don't—"
"Don't lie!" he growled. His face suddenly became angry. He paced back and forth in front of me. A lion. A predator. I walked sideways along the wall, trying to pass between him and the front door.
"I don't know why you lied to me," he muttered to himself.
"I didn't lie," I said. My cheek was sore. I was surprised to find that the injury was so bad. Is it broken? "You hurt me. You really hurt me this time, Ben."
"You hurt me, Abigail!" he growled. He gave me a push. I think he might beat me again, or worse. He didn't, at least not at that time. He shook his head again, "I'm fed up, Abby. I don't want to play your stupid game. Send me back."
"Send you back? What are you talking about?"
"You took my things. I need it." Either give it to me or send me back," he ordered.
I tiptoed, step by step, until I had a clear shot to the front door. When I did this, I turned around and ran.
As a result, I haven't climbed far enough.
He lunged at me and knocked me to the ground. He fell on me. He turned me over, spread his legs apart my upper body, and put his legs on the outside of my upper arms. I twisted and tried to get out from under him. I tried to struggle, kick, and beat, but he nailed me in such a place, and I couldn't move.
He grabbed the sides of my head with two big hands, lifted it up, and then slammed the back of my head against the floor. My teeth rattled. The white-hot pain was so intense that I could smell my nose and the taste, it was in my mouth. It smells and tastes like metal.
"Wake up!" he shouted.
boom.
"Please. Please, stop!" I pleaded.
"Wake up!" He yelled again, this time only a few inches away from me.
He slammed my head against the floor for the third time.
"Wake up!"
boom.
boom.
boom.
There was a loud thunderous noise after another, without stopping. Because I slept for so long, maybe several days. How long has it been? I did not rest at all.
boom.
boom.
boom.
Next came the shouting.
"If you don't open the door, I will report it to Jǐng. This is not a joke. I am not joking with you. If you are inside, open the damn door!"
I opened my eyes. I saw the ceiling above me, the ceiling I was very familiar with, and I tried to sit up. The heavy burden was on me, and I couldn't move. I am a small spot in a huge, still body. I'm just eyes, nothing else. My head banged loudly.
"Wait. "I'm coming" is what I want to say but can't say.
"My phone is here, I'll call 911 now. Just fucking now." He was angry. "Please." He was worried.
Stand up, I force myself. stand up! The burden on my chest began to lighten. I can feel my fingers, toes, and all other parts of my body shrink back and wrap my eyes tightly.
"Come." This time there was a voice. "I'm here," I said loudly.
I pulled myself up, and with a lot of effort, I moved my leg to the edge of the bed. Go, go, go, stepping on one foot in front of the other until I reach the door. Open the latch, slide the latch, turn the handle, and open it.
"Oh my God, you look terrible," Jason said. He is standing on the other side of my door. When he said it, his phone was in his hand. He walked in, swept his foot, and kicked in a pile of newspapers, takeaway menus, magazines, and other things piled on the steps in front of my door. "I thought you were dead."
I don’t know what to say, and I don’t know if I can say anything reliable. My tongue is stuffed with my mouth, thick, dry, foreign.
Jason held a pile of letters in front of me. "Mail," he said and threw it on the coffee table. "yours."
He turned to face me with his hands on his hips, "I really want to report to Jǐng. I really thought you were dead, then I was the one who found you dead, and that would ruin my whole day."
"I'm sorry if it wasn't for you to find me dead," I forced myself to say it, and then smiled as much as I could. It must be a disgusting smile. He made a face.
"But there is good news. I don't have one," I said. "DaDa."
"You look terrible."
"Yes, you mentioned it. I feel terrible. I don't know what's wrong with me. I just think that fifty percent of people are sleeping and fifty percent are sicker and half dead. "
"Oh, Abby," he said. His face softened, and he sat on the sofa with his limbs stretched out. "Does your terrible math still have room to take a shower 100%?"
I glared, "Yes, I still have 100% room in math to make new friends."
He said: "Plan. Take a shower first. Second, let's go have coffee, and third, find a new friend, not only to find your dead body, but also to keep your job." (to be continued) (end of this chapter) )