Wild Fire Bids Farewell To Summer Chapter 10

Xiaoman

The smell of disinfectant water rises from the ground.Wei Zhiheng was sitting on the blue plastic chair in the corridor, feeling the smell spread over his ankles, with the yellow-brown color of iodine and the astringency of 84 disinfectant, sinking to the height of his knees.He stared at the tiles on the opposite wall, No. 17, cracked, with strips of limestone flint embedded in the porcelain surface.

There was a cough from the third clinic on the left.It wasn’t an ordinary cough, it was a muffled sound of internal organs being squeezed. There was a sound, a pause, and then another sound, as someone smashed a stone in the chest.The wheelchair rolled over the terrazzo floor, and the rubber wheels rubbed against the floor tiles, making a whimpering sound that lasted slowly and for a long time until it disappeared around the corner of the stairs.

Wei Zhiheng put his right hand in his trouser pocket and touched a hard object with his fingertips.The limestone that scratched my finger in the stairwell was ivory white with streaks of gray flint.The bottom of the stone is flat, and the cut surface is warmed by body temperature, but the edges are still sharp.He rubbed the old scar with his fingertips, causing a slight rustling sound as the skin rubbed against the stone.

There was another lump in the left trouser pocket.Tinfoil, crumpled, with green stripes, the packaging left over from the hypoglycemic emergency.He pulled it out, unfolded it in his palm, and smoothed out the wrinkles.The reflection of light from one side of the aluminum foil revealed the purpura under his nails – light purple, with the congestion spreading from the base of the nail bed to the fingertips.

A hair falls on the phone screen.It’s not that it’s torn off, it’s that the entire hair has fallen off, leaving white spots on the roots.He picked it up and looked at the light. The hair was transparent and the hair follicles shrunk.There should be more on the pillow.He turned his head and smelled his shoulder. There was a sweet smell of rottenness in the fabric of the school uniform. The smell of rotten apples seeped out from the collar, mixed with disinfectant, and settled in the lower part of the nasal cavity.

The old man sitting next to him moved half a foot to the side.The plastic chair legs scraped against the ground, making a shrill scream.The old man held an apple in his hand. The peel was brown and had been oxidized for a long time. His nose was twitching. His eyes glanced at Wei Zhiheng’s collar and then quickly looked away.

“Wei Zhiheng.”

The nurse stood at the door of the bone puncture room. The hem of her white coat was stained with a little yellowish brown, which might be iodine or old blood.There is also a drop on the cuff, shaped like a map of Guangxi, with irregular edges.Wei Zhiheng stood up, his knees making a slight friction sound.He walked toward the door, his steps steady but his waist already tense.

The diagnosis and treatment bed has an iron frame and is covered with disposable blue sheets, which have a plastic texture and make a dry sound when rubbed.He lay on his side as instructed by the nurse, with his left hip facing up. His school uniform pants were lowered below his hips, and his skin was exposed to the air conditioning, causing goosebumps to form.The sterilized cotton swab rubbed over the posterior superior iliac spine. The yellow-brown color of the iodophor formed a crust on the skin, and the coolness penetrated the pores.

The doctor wears rubber gloves with thick fingers and calloused palms.He pressed Wei Zhiheng’s hip bone, found the depression, and used his nails to pinch out a crescent-shaped white mark.”Local anesthesia,” the doctor said, his voice coming out from behind the mask, muffled and blurry, “It’s a little swollen.”

The fine needle is inserted first, and a cold swelling sensation is produced when the medicine is injected.Wei Zhiheng stared at the fire extinguisher in the corner, which was red and the pressure gauge pointer pointed at the green area.At the count of twenty, the anesthetic takes effect and the skin becomes distant, separated by a layer of cotton.

Then came the steel needle.

Made of stainless steel, long, reflective, and appears cold silver under fluorescent light.The bevel of the needle tip is triangular with sharp edges.The doctor placed his palm against the end of the needle and applied vertical force, not stabbing, but pressing, like using a screwdriver to pry a rusty lock.

The first resistance comes from the skin, a thick, tough, old canvas.The second blow touched the periosteum, and a dull pain exploded.Wei Zhiheng’s lower lip was bitten by his teeth, and the smell of blood spread in his mouth, mixing with the astringency of iodophor.His left toe twitched on the edge of the bed, and his nails – the purpura spread under the nail bed, which was lavender – dug into the plastic film of the mattress, making a harsh scraping sound.

The steel needle rotates.The thread-like needle bites into the bone cortex, making a tooth-piercing friction sound. The frequency is the same as the sound of the ceiling fan bearing running out of oil in the Changgu Tower art classroom, but the amplitude is greater, and the vibration resonates in the lumbar spine.Wei Zhiheng counted the rotations: one, two, two and a half.Each circle brings a deeper grinding sensation, with a drill-like diamond head, and high-frequency vibrations are transmitted through the pelvis to the whole body.

The moment the needle enters the medullary cavity, the resistance disappears.After missing a step, the turpentine bottle slipped from his hand and he felt weightless for a while.The doctor pulled the needle plug, and negative pressure formed. A feeling of emptying rose from deep in the spine, and the internal organs were about to collapse into the hole.

0.5 ml of dark red liquid was sucked into the syringe, mixed with fat droplets, and formed a wall on the inner wall of the syringe.The color is darker than venous blood, almost black, dried turpentine, deteriorated watercolor paint.

Remove the needle.Press.The cotton ball was soaked with blood and turned from white to red in just three seconds.Wei Zhiheng turned over and sat up. His waist was sore as if he had been hit continuously by a heavy hammer. The dull pain spread radially to his sacrum, making him unable to straighten his waist.He bent over to tie his shoelaces, and his right hand was shaking—a subtle tremor in the muscles under the skin, starting from the inside of the wrist, jumping one by one, and spreading to the knuckles.Platelet counts are already lower than normal, capillaries are fragile, and muscle control is lost.

The shoelaces came apart.He bent down to tie the shoelaces, and as soon as his fingertips touched the shoelaces, his waist spasmed, like steel needles stirring in the seams of his bones.He arched his back, holding on to the iron frame of the treatment bed with one hand, and reaching for his shoelaces with the other, his posture twisted into a right angle.His fingertips touched the shoelaces, but he couldn’t exert any force. The knot slipped and became tighter and tighter.The nurse handed over a pair of scissors, with plastic handles and yellow color.He cut the shoelaces, and the cut was rough, like a ruptured tendon.

He sat on the hallway bench for another forty minutes.It wasn’t the doctor’s orders, it was just that he couldn’t get up.The blue paint of the plastic seat peeled off, revealing the yellow foam underneath, and it made the sound of gas being squeezed when you sat on it.The seat was sticky and hot, and the body temperature left by the previous patient had not dissipated, mixed with the smell of disinfectant, and settled at ground level.

He smelled the scent of his own sleeves.It’s not turpentine, it smells like rotten apples, the sweet rot of ketoacidosis exhaled from the lungs and deposited in the collar.The old man sitting next to him was chewing on an apple. The peel was brown and had been oxidized for a long time, and it made a wet and sticky sound when he chewed it.The old man moved half a foot to the side, his nose quivered, his eyes glanced at Wei Zhiheng’s collar, and he fanned his nose with his fingers.

Another hair slipped from the top of the head and swirled on the armrest of the blue plastic chair. It was black and slender.

“Wei Zhiheng.”

The doctor stood at the door of the consulting room, holding a piece of paper in his hand.Report sheet, white, with sharp edges.The drop of iodine on the sleeve of my white coat has dried and turned into a brown scab, like a birthmark.

Wei Zhiheng stood up. The soreness in his waist made his steps crooked, like that of a sprinter when his knees are filled with water.He held on to the corridor wall. The limestone wall tiles were damp, and white frost was rubbed on his fingertips. The powder was embedded in the gaps between his nails, making them dry.When he walked into the consulting room, he noticed that the hem of the doctor’s white coat was still stained with a little fresh yellow-brown dots, like splashed muddy water.

“Sit.” The doctor pointed to the chair opposite.

Wei Zhiheng sat down, unable to straighten his waist, so he could only arch his back and press there with the weight on his back.The doctor pushed the report sheet over and circled a number on the paper with a pen: 90%.

“MDS-RAEB-t type,” the doctor’s pen hit the table, and the plastic pen cap collided with the wood, making a crisp clicking sound, “90% of the original cells. If you delay any longer, it will really become leukemia, do you understand?”

Wei Zhiheng stared at the number.Ninety percent of malignant cells proliferate abnormally in the bone marrow cavity, occupying the space of normal hematopoietic cells.The production lines for red blood cells, white blood cells, and platelets were crowded.He thought of the “Skylight” series in the Changgulou Art Classroom – only one-third of the work was completed, and the ultramarine blue diluted with turpentine was still drying on the edge of the palette, forming ring-shaped cracks.

“Chemotherapy,” the doctor flipped the medical records, and the edge of the paper scratched Wei Zhiheng’s fingertips, leaving white marks, “six courses of treatment. Each course lasts three weeks. All hair will fall out. The immunity is extremely low, so isolation is required. The cost…”

The doctor quoted a number.Wei Zhiheng didn’t hear clearly, he was calculating.My mother weaves strong brocade with water ripple patterns, which sells for 80 yuan per meter, and she weaves ten centimeters a day.Dad repaired picture frames for fifteen yuan a day, four of them a day.How many meters does mom need to knit for that number?How many do you need dad to fix?He couldn’t figure it out. His waist hurt too much, and the pain interfered with his thinking.

“How long will it take?” Wei Zhiheng asked.The voice is dry, and the friction of the vocal cords produces a rough sound, with a sweet and greasy smell unique to ketosis.

“Half a year.” The doctor looked at him, “The cure rate is over 90%. You are in the early stage of turning gray, and it’s not too late to cure it now.”

Wei Zhiheng looked down at his left hand.At the tiger’s mouth, the scar from the scratch in the stairwell was still there, dark red, forming a color difference from the purpura under the fingernails.He clenched his fist, and his nails left four crescent-shaped indentations on the palm of his hand, pressing on the coin-sized ecchymosis – bleeding under the skin, irregular edges, and a purple-black center.

He touched his hair.It is soft and soft, reaching the shoulders. When I was painting, I tied it into a small knot and tied it with the thread left from my mother’s tapestry.Six courses of treatment, eighteen weeks, four months.The kapok season has passed, the phoenix flowers have faded, the summer vacation is over, and the second year of high school has begun.The canvas will still be blank, the hair will fall on the pillow, the fallen leaves of autumn, the threads cut by my mother when she weaved tapestry.

“I’ll consider it,” Wei Zhiheng said.

The doctor frowned and said no more.Wei Zhiheng picked up the report sheet, and the edge of the paper cut into his fingertips, forming white marks.When he walked out of the consulting room, the soreness in his waist prevented him from straightening up. He held on to the wall and walked towards the end of the corridor step by step.

There is a dark patch on the back waist of the school uniform pants.It wasn’t sweat, it was blood oozing from the bone-piercing wound. It soaked through the two layers of fabric and spread on the indigo school uniform. The color turned black, like an ink stain.People passing by glanced at it and quickly looked away.

The long-distance shuttle bus from Guangxi to Nanning stops at the simple station at the back door of the hospital.The car body is white, and the peeling paint skin reveals a rusty red color, like purpura on the skin.Wei Zhiheng put in coins and got on the bus. The coins fell into the iron box, made a hollow impact sound, rolled down, and stopped.

He chose the window seat in the third row from the bottom.The faux leather surface of the plastic seats is cracked, with radiating cracks and a dried out palette.When I sat down, the leather clung to my school uniform pants, making a soft sound like tearing.The seat retained the body heat, moisture and breath of some kind of creature from the previous passenger.

He couldn’t sit up straight.The severe pain in his waist forced him to lie on his side, occupying two seats, with his right shoulder pressed against the window, his left knee curled up, and his knee pressed against the back of the front seat, forming a twisted angle.The waistband of the trousers was loose because the shoelaces were cut, and slid down, revealing the skin above the hip bones, which was pale and had bulging purple blood vessels.

The conductor came over, a middle-aged woman, chewing betel nut, her teeth red.”Buy tickets, two.” She tapped the armrest of the seat.Wei Zhiheng took out his wallet, his fingers trembling, took out two banknotes and handed them over.The movement stretched his waist, causing a dull pain. He took a breath, and the air flow squeezed out from between his teeth, making a hissing sound.

“Two seats get two tickets, rule.” The conductor put away the money and glanced at the skin exposed at the loose waist of his trousers, and then at the blood stains on the seat – when he was lying on his side, blood oozed from the bone wound, leaving a dark red dot on the plastic seat with wet edges.She said nothing more and took a step to the side. The smell of betel nut juice was pungent.

The shuttle starts.The diesel engine roars, and low-frequency vibrations are transmitted to the sacrum through the seat frame, resonating with the soreness after bone marrow puncture.Wei Zhiheng’s stomach contracted, and acid water surged into his throat. He swallowed and tasted the bitter taste of bile.

The vehicle drove out of the city and entered the G210 national highway.The mountain road is winding, with hairpin turns appearing continuously.Every time he turned, centrifugal force threw him toward the window, and his shoulder blades hit the glass with a dull sound.Sticky sweat – his, and the accumulation of dozens of previous passengers – oozed from the surface of the plastic seat, forming a slimy layer between the fabric and skin.

The seat next to her was a middle-aged woman, with a woven bag placed at her feet. The smell of sour bamboo shoots was exposed from the mouth of the bag. It was fermented, pungent, and mixed with the smell of diesel, forming a turbid atmosphere in the car.She glanced at Wei Zhiheng, then at the two seats he occupied, then stood up and walked to the front row.

Wei Zhiheng turned his head and faced the window, with the tip of his nose almost touching the glass.There were fingerprints from the previous passenger on the glass, they were greasy and the swirls of fingerprints were clearly visible.

Outside the window, kapok trees line both sides of the road.The flowering period is coming to an end, and the red flowers are sparse, like spots after blood loss.Most of the flowers have fallen, leaving only bare branches piercing the sky.But there are still broken flowers hanging on the branches, swaying in the May wind.

A kapok tree fell.

It breaks away from the branch, spins, and falls in a parabola.Wei Zhiheng’s vision tracked the red mass, and the bleeding spots on his retina made it look like a drop of suspended blood.Flowers smashed against the car window – silently.The glass blocked the sound of the impact, and there was only visual confirmation that it hit the glass, bounced off, swept back, and disappeared in the dust kicked up by the tires.

But he heard it.

He heard the sound of kapok hitting the glass.It’s not the softness of the petals, but the dull sound of the liquid, the sound of blood drops hitting the answer sheet, and the sound of the bone marrow puncture needle being drawn out.Tick ​​tock.He counted, tick tock.Each falling kapok is a drop of blood, dripping from the veins of the sky and hitting the car window, forming a red stain.

The shuttle was bumpy.After passing through an unpaved road section, the spring shock absorber failed and the entire car body bounced up. Wei Zhiheng’s head hit the metal frame of the roof rack, making a hollow echo.The pain spread from the top of his head to his lumbar spine, superimposed with the soreness after the bone penetrated, causing him to groan. The air flow was squeezed out from the compressed glottis, hissing, intermittent, and weak.

He took out his cell phone.The screen lit up, showing the time, but he couldn’t see the numbers clearly—the hemorrhages on his retinas turned the screen into a halo.He edited the text message, the recipient was “Wei Mingyuan”:

“I want to finish that series of paintings.”

The cursor flashes after the period.His thumb hovered over the send key, the number 1 on the rubber key smoothed away.His thumb was shaking, and the muscles under his skin were trembling slightly, making the cursor jump on the screen.He pressed it.

Sending failed.Red exclamation mark.The signal grid shows “E”, 2G network, the message cannot be delivered.

He took a deep breath, and the soreness in his waist produced a rhythmic dull pain with his breathing.He clicked Resend.Spin, wait, fail.Try again.His thumb slipped on the screen and he pressed the wrong key. The word “paint” became “hua”. He deleted it and re-entered it. He pressed the wrong key again and the word “group” became “zu”.The screen was stuck and the input method was unresponsive. He pressed the power button hard, and the phone screen went black, then lit up again, indicating that the battery was low at 20%.

He waited.The vehicle drove through a tunnel, and the darkness lasted for fifteen seconds. The phone screen was the only source of light, and the blue-white light illuminated the purpura under his nails.Exiting the tunnel, the signal is restored and the grid is full.He typed again, this time slowly, with one finger:

“I want to finish that series of paintings.”

Press send.The keys sink and make a clicking sound.The SMS icon rotates and the message is sent successfully.

The shuttle bus continued to bump.The smell of diesel seeped in through the gaps in the air conditioner and settled at the bottom of the car, a layer of heavier air.Wei Zhiheng pressed his forehead against the car window. The coolness penetrated his skin and stimulated the blood vessels in his frontal lobe, causing a painful contraction.Outside the window, another kapok fell, red and silent, with blood dripping on the white canvas.

The pain in my waist continued, and there was a steel needle still inserted into my iliac bone, which was spinning and grinding with every bump of the vehicle, making a sound like geological drilling.He closed his eyes and heard the blood hitting his eardrums, the rushing low-frequency noise, and the underground river changing its course.

The woman sitting next to her opened the woven bag, and the smell of sour bamboo shoots became even stronger.Someone started vomiting, and from the front row, there was a sour smell.Wei Zhiheng did not open his eyes.His right hand was in his trouser pocket, and his fingertips touched the limestone specimen. The cut surface was warm and the edges were sharp. It was a piece of bone taken out of the body.

When the vehicle drove into Guixi County, the sticky heat on the surface of the plastic seat matched his body temperature, and it was unclear whether it was his sweat or the seat’s breath.The kapok continued to fall outside the window, silently, but he felt it was deafening.

The shuttle stops.Wei Zhiheng stood up, his knees making a scraping sound.As he walked down the steps, the soles of his shoes made a crisp impact as they touched the cement floor.The soreness in his waist prevented him from straightening up. He bent down, carrying a huge weight, and walked slowly, step by step, towards the direction of the teacher’s family building.

Behind him, the shuttle bus started, and diesel exhaust sprayed on his trouser legs, forming gray stains.A kapok flower fell on his right shoulder, red, a drop of blood, and an unfinished sentence.He raised his hand to brush it, and the movement pulled his waist. Severe pain arose suddenly, like steel needles stirring in the bones.His fingers hovered over the petals, twitching and trembling.He withdrew his hand and left the flower on his shoulder, red and dry, like an old blood scab.

He continued to walk forward, and the soreness in his waist produced a rhythmic dull pain with the pace, his heartbeat, the second hand, and the grinding sound of the bone marrow puncture needle rotating on the bone cortex.The outline of the teachers’ family building looms in the field of vision, blurred at the edges and eroded by hemorrhages on the retina, a melting watercolor painting.

He took out his phone, and the screen was still on, showing the successful sending icon.He stuffed it back into his trouser pocket, and the limestone specimen was in the other trouser pocket. Through the cloth, two stones were pressing against his thigh bones, one on the left and one on the right, as heavy as a paperweight.