Wild Fire Bids Farewell To Summer Chapter 15
byAfter a slight summer heat
The infusion room of the county hospital is on the second floor of the old building.The ceiling fan rotates overhead, with three iron blades painted white, with rust on the edges and a reddish-brown color.The bearing is short of oil and makes a squeaking sound every time it turns, counting to four to complete a cycle.The fan blades cut the light coming from the window, casting rotating shadows on the ground. The shadows move at the same speed as the fan blades, sweeping across the blue plastic seat, the metal IV stand, and the back of Wei Zhiheng’s hand.
Wei Zhiheng sat on the third chair by the window.The surface of the plastic seat has cracks, and the cracks are radial, like the lines of crushed banknotes.When I sat down, the leather clung to my school uniform pants, making a soft sound like tearing.The seat retains the body temperature, moist heat, and breath of some kind of creature from the previous patient.
His right hand rested on the armrest, and his left hand lay flat on his knees, palm up.The old scar from the tiger’s mouth on the left hand is dark red, forming a color difference from the purpura on the fingernail.The nails were tinged with light purple, like bruises from being pinched by a door, and there seemed to be purple ink embedded under the nail beds.
Huang Jinye sat on his right, with an empty chair in between.On the surface of the chair were his math papers, scratch paper, and a tin writing box.The lid of the box is opened, revealing twelve pencils arranged inside, 2B, with a yellow hexagonal pen barrel, the pen tip has marks of fresh sharpening, the wood texture is fresh, and the graphite core is in the form of a black cone.
The nurse came pushing the treatment cart.The wheels were rubber, the bearings were old, and they whined as they rolled, like old bellows.The stainless steel countertop of the treatment cart reflects the light from the window, which is dazzling.The nurse was wearing a white coat, and the cuffs were stained with a little yellowish brown, which might be iodine or old blood.She held a blood bag in her hand. It was dark red, made of plastic, and had subtle wrinkles on its surface, like dried internal organs.The blood bag was suspended from the top of the infusion pole, about two meters high, forming a vertical gap from Wei Zhiheng’s heart.
“Type O, platelets.” The nurse said with a Zhuang accent, a dropped final sound and a heavy blast.She turned the blood bag upside down and shook it gently. The dark red liquid swirled inside the bag, forming a vortex. A hole appeared in the center, revealing the true color of the bag wall, which was white plastic.
Wei Zhiheng stretched out his left hand.The nurse tied his upper arm with a rubber tourniquet. The light blue blood vessels bulged and branched under the pale skin, like rivers on a map.The nurse patted the back of his hand, the knuckles were protruding, the nails were neatly trimmed, and there were white marks on the edges.The needle is made of stainless steel, has a triangular bevel and a sharp edge.During insertion, the skin dents under the pressure and then ruptures, the blood vessel wall is penetrated, and the needle enters the venous cavity.
Dark red blood instantly poured into the infusion tube.In the transparent plastic tube, the red liquid flows upward, crawling like a tiny snake at a speed visible to the naked eye.
Wei Zhiheng stared at the red streak, watching it move from the back of his hand toward his heart.Backflow of blood.Dark red, thick, with his body temperature.He blinked and misperceived: he saw the countercurrent as the wrong flow of turpentine on the canvas.
The nurse adjusts the drip rate regulator.The roller rotates, and the plastic teeth make a dry friction sound.The blood flow stops and is flushed back into the veins with saline.
The transparent liquid flows down from the hanging salt water bottle, passes through the Murphy’s dropper, and becomes a drop, hovering and stretching. The surface tension maintains the hemispheric shape, and the interior refracts the light from the window.Tick tock.Drop into the bottom of the pot, break up, and mix with the previous liquid.
Tick tock.It drips almost every second.Like a metronome.Like a heartbeat.
Huang Jinye opened the math paper.The test paper is white, A3 size, with sharp edges and printed with black Song fonts.He turned to the last big question, which was blank except for the question stem.He picked up a pencil, 2B. There were teeth marks on the pen barrel, which were jagged indentations that he had bitten while thinking.He started drawing on scratch paper.Geometry.Triangle, circle, parabola, hyperbola.Lines stretch across the paper, crossing and forming maze-like patterns.
When he reached the third auxiliary line, the pen tip broke.Black debris bounced up and landed on the back of his hand and on the test paper.He put down the pen and took out the pencil sharpener from the pencil case.Metal casing, rusty, three millimeters of blade exposed.He began to sharpen his pencil.The movement is violent, the blade scrapes across the wood, making a rustling sound, like carving lines on a rock formation.The sawdust curled down and accumulated on the edge of the draft paper, forming a hill. It was light yellow in color and soft in texture.
Wei Zhiheng took out a book from his canvas bag.”Broken Pens in the Sickness”, written by Shi Tiesheng.Black cover, frayed, edges raised, revealing cardboard underneath.There was a crack in the spine, and the paper was sticking up from the crack.He opened the book. The paper was rough, with the texture of a pirated book. The fibers were rough and produced resistance when rubbed against his fingertips.The smell of ink is strong, and the smell of chemical solvents mixed with paper cellulose sinks between the pages.
He began to read.But the words floated before his eyes, the boundaries blurred.There is a fixed black shadow in the upper left field of vision, a retinal hemorrhage point, the size of a pinpoint, which appeared three days ago.The words twisted around the edges of the shadows, like ink spreading on wet paper.He squinted his eyes and tried to focus, but the handwriting was still blurry and the ink spots were blurred.He smelled his own breath, exhaled from his lungs and settling on the top of the page.Sweet, rotten, like rotten apples, the smell of ketoacidosis.
Huang Jinye finished sharpening his first pencil.The nib is a perfect cone, the graphite core is sharp and black.He put down the knife, picked up the pen, and continued drawing on the scratch paper.This time I drew a coordinate system.X axis, Y axis, quadrant division.He drew a circle in the first quadrant and a parabola in the fourth quadrant.The lines tremble, not because his hand is shaking, but because the pencil lead slips on the paper. It is because the muscle fibers have not recovered after violent use, causing involuntary spasms when holding the pen.
I got to the second step and got stuck.He stared at the circle, at the center, at the radius.The number 200 on the draft paper was violently scratched out with a red pen, which penetrated the back of the paper and made ridges on the back.Next to it was written 300 again, with lighter handwriting, like a forgery.He erases his mistakes with an eraser, a transparent polyethylene shell with finger oil on the surface.When erasing, the black graphite powder is rolled up to form gray stains, and the paper fibers are rubbed into rough edges.
Wei Zhiheng turned the page.The pages of the book rustled as they rubbed against each other.A hair slipped from the top of the head and swirled on the page. It was black and slender, and the whole hair fell off, with white spots at the root.He pinched it, the hair was transparent and the hair follicles shrunk.He looked at the light, and his hair appeared translucent against the background of the black book pages.
He tried to continue reading, but the black spots in his vision spread, swallowing half a line of text.He smelled the smell coming from Huang Jinye: the astringency of graphite chips, the citrus aroma of turpentine, and the smell of Huang’s own sweat, sour, mixed with the rubber smell of the plastic track.
11:30.
The nurse came again pushing the treatment cart.This time there was a new blood bag on the treatment cart, dark red, the same as the first bag.She moved so lightly that the whine of the wheels was almost inaudible, like a librarian walking through the bookshelves.She stopped in front of Wei Zhiheng, checked the dripping speed, and observed the dripping frequency in the Murphy’s dropper.She stretched out her hand to adjust the roller. Her fingers did not touch Wei Zhiheng’s skin, but only touched the plastic adjuster. Her movements were light, like turning the pages of a book.
“There’s still half of it.” The nurse said with a strong accent and her voice was very low, as if she was afraid of disturbing anything.
Wei Zhiheng nodded.The back of his left hand was already cold. The physiological saline entered the blood vessels and the temperature was lower than the body temperature, causing a continuous cold feeling.The cold spread from the back of the hand to the arm, like a cold line crawling up the veins.He stared at the infusion tube, watching an occasional bubble flash through the transparent liquid. It was round and had a reflective surface. It moved downward with the flow of liquid and was filtered and burst silently as it passed through the Murphy’s dropper.
Huang Jinye started to calculate a trigonometric function problem.sin,cos,tan.He wrote the formula on the scratch paper, the handwriting was slanted and penetrated the back of the paper.As a result, 200 was circled in red pen, crossed out, and 300 was written next to it.He put down his pen and reached for the water glass.
The stainless steel thermos cup has dents on the surface, and the silvery metal is exposed where the patent leather peels off.He unscrewed the lid, and the sound of ice cubes hitting the wall of the cup was crisp and high-frequency.The glass was filled with half-melted ice water, with a few pieces of ice floating on the surface.
He took a sip, and the water slid down his throat, taking away the taste of dust in his mouth.He noticed the hair on the page of Wei Zhiheng’s book and reached out to pinch it, but his fingers stopped before touching the page, hovering three centimeters away from the paper.
Stop action.
Fingers hover, joints stiff.Huang Jinye moved his eyes from his hair to Wei Zhiheng’s face, and saw that Wei’s lips were chapped, there was a crack in the center of his lower lip, and there were white flakes of skin on the edge.He smelled Wei’s breath, and the sweet rotten smell became stronger.He retracted his hand, his fingers twitching in the air, and the skin under his fingernails turned white from holding the pen for a long time.
Then he picked up the pencil he had just sharpened, 2B, with a sharp tip.He stretched out his hand, not to hand it over, but to put the pencil into Wei Zhiheng’s right hand.Wei’s right hand was originally resting on the armrest, and his fingers were naturally curled.Huang Jinye’s fingertips brushed against the back of Wei’s hand, skin contact, temperature exchange – Huang’s hand was hot, as if he had just held a hot water cup; Wei’s hand was cold, and his blood vessels were constricted.The pencil was forced into the fingers, the hexagonal pen barrel touched the palm, and the coolness of graphite spread through the skin.
Wei Zhiheng’s fingers spasmed the moment they touched the pencil, his muscles tightened uncontrollably, and his nails left scratches on the penholder.He looked down, at the pencil thrust into his hand, at the graphite dust stained on Huang Jinye’s fingers, and the black powder embedded in the palm prints.He didn’t look up, but just held the pen tightly, his knuckles turning white, as if he were holding a bone.
Huang Jinye retracted his hand and wiped the graphite dust from his fingertips on his shorts.He picked up the pencil sharpener and began to sharpen his second pencil.The blade scrapes across the wood, making a rustling sound, like time piling up.
Wei Zhiheng held the pencil with the tip pointed downward, hanging above the pages of “Broken Pens in the Sickness Gap”.He tried to read in this position, but his hands were shaking, and the muscles under the skin were trembling slightly, starting from the inside of his wrist, jumping one after another.The tip of the pencil traces an invisible path above the page, without touching the paper, but the shadow moves like a pointer.
13:00.
The blood bag is empty.All the dark red liquid entered Wei Zhiheng’s blood vessels, and the blood bag deflated, like a piece of dried skin, with wrinkles and accumulation, and the color changed from dark red to dark brown.The nurse came and took out the needle.She tore off the tape with a gentle movement, like peeling off a layer of skin.When the needle was withdrawn, dark red blood beads poured out from the needle hole and formed a small ball, like turpentine dripping from the tip of a pen.The nurse pressed it with a cotton ball. The cotton ball turned red instantly, and the blood penetrated the cloth and became warm.
Wei Zhiheng held down the cotton ball, his fingers turned white.He stood up, his knees made a rubbing sound, and his waist swelled and contracted. The dull pain from the bone marrow puncture was still there, and it felt like a steel needle was spinning deep in his ilium.The pencil, still held in his right hand, was lifted up and suspended in the air, with the pen tip pointing to the ground.
He walked to the toilet slowly, holding the wall with his right hand and pressing his right elbow with his left hand.When he walked to the door, he stuffed the pencil into the waist of his school uniform pants. The pen holder lay between the belt and his skin, and the cold hexagon pressed against his spine.The limestone wall tiles have returned to moisture, white frost rubs off the fingertips, and the powder is embedded in the cracks of the fingernails, making them dry.
Huang Jinye stayed in his seat.He picked up the piece of draft paper full of geometric figures, which were maze-like lines, the alternation of 200 and 300, and the interweaving of red and black.He folded the paper in half, then in half again, into a small square with the edges aligned.Then he unfolded it again, leaving cross-shaped creases on the paper, like the lines of crushed banknotes.He crumpled the paper into a ball, held it in his hand, and pressed hard.
The paper was squeezed and deformed in the palm of the hand, making the sound of fibers breaking.He let go of his hand, and the paper ball bounced away. It was no longer flat and full of wrinkles, like a meteorite.
He flattened it out and pressed the corners with his pencil case to keep it flat.Then he began to sharpen his twelfth pencil.The blade scraped against the wood, making a rustling sound.The sawdust accumulates, is light yellow in color, and has a soft texture.
Wei Zhiheng came back from the toilet.His right hand was covering the inside of his left elbow, where the needle had just been removed and the cotton ball was still pressing. Blood seeped through the cotton ball, forming dark stains on the cuffs of his white school uniform shirt, like lakes on a map.The pencil was still inserted into the small of his back, swaying with his steps, and the pen barrel hit the belt buckle, making a slight metal collision sound.
He sat down, and the plastic seat made the sound of gas being squeezed again.He did not return the pencil to Huang Jinye, but continued to hold it, tightening his fingers and leaving four crescent-shaped indentations on the wooden penholder.He stretched out his left hand and touched the page with his fingertips, feeling the ridges, depressions and textures of the pencil lines.
14:00.
The ceiling fan in the infusion room continued to rotate, making a squeaking sound every four seconds.The light outside the window became slanted, changing from white to gold, casting on the blue plastic seat, on the metal IV stand, and on the empty blood bag.The blood bag hung on the shelf, deflated, with dark red traces remaining on the transparent plastic wall, like a dry river bed.
Wei Zhiheng put the book back into the canvas bag.The spine of the book hit the limestone specimen at the bottom of the bag, making a dull sound.He stood up, his knees rubbing together, and the pencil in his right hand swayed with the movement.Huang Jinye put away the math paper, put the eleven pencils back into the pencil case, and closed the lid with a click.He lifted up his schoolbag, and the straps dug into his shoulders, leaving red marks.
The two of them walked towards the stairs.Wei Zhiheng pressed his right elbow with his left hand. The cotton ball was still there, but the blood had seeped into it and formed a crust on his cuff.The pencil was held in his right hand, tapping the outside of his thigh with his steps, making a slight muffled sound, and the rhythm was mismatched with the squeaking sound of the ceiling fan.Huang Jinye walked on his left side, his steps were heavy and then light, making a slight friction sound when his right knee was bent.
Walking to the first floor, the sun is dazzling.Wei Zhiheng’s pupils contracted slowly, the light formed a halo on the retina, and his vision turned white.He squinted his eyes and saw a white long-distance shuttle bus parked at the back door of the hospital. The peeling paint on the car body showed rusty red, like purpura on the skin.He smelled the smell in the air: the astringency of disinfectant, the pungent smell of diesel, and the mixed smell of graphite chips and sweat coming from Huang Jinye.
Huang Jinye took out a piece of eucalyptus candy from his pocket. It was wrapped in tin foil and had green stripes. It had softened and deformed.He tore the package open with his teeth, the foil making a tearing sound.He didn’t hand it to Wei Zhiheng, but stuffed it into his mouth and bit it with his teeth. The candy was hard and scratched the oral mucosa.Chewing, wet and glutinous sound.He swallowed, his Adam’s apple rolling.
Wei Zhiheng removed his hand from his right elbow, and the cotton ball fell to the ground, rolled to the corner, and stopped.He opened his palms, and there were several new bruises on his palms, which were purple and black, with red edges.He clenched his fist, and his nails left four crescent-shaped indentations on his palm, pressing against the coin-sized piece of purpura.The pencil was still in my hand, and the sweat on the barrel had dried, leaving white salt stains.
They walked towards the shuttle bus, towards the large white bus. The rust on the body looked like blood, like weathering limestone.The ceiling fan in the infusion room continued to rotate behind them until the power was cut off and the sound suddenly stopped, leaving complete silence and the sound of empty blood bag shells shaking slightly on the shelf. The plastic bags rubbed and rustled, like time calcifying.