Wild Fire Bids Farewell To Summer Chapter 16

Before summer heat

The whistle of the high school military training came up from Jiujiu Square.The copper whistle, with its high frequency, became dull and sank between the floors across three floors and two rows of camphor trees.

Wei Zhiheng is sitting on the third drawing table in the art classroom of Changgu Tower.Your right hand hovers over the drawing board, with your fingertips touching a 2B pencil.The purpura on the palm suddenly swelled, and the bleeding point as big as a needle cracked under the pressure. Blood beads seeped out from between the fingers, dripping on the corners of the paper, and mixed with the traces of dried turpentine to turn purple-brown.He let go of his hand, and blood formed a thin film on his fingertips.Use your left hand instead.

The left hand holds a 2B pencil, yellow hexagonal, with the right hand’s teeth marks on the pen barrel – half-moon shape, with varying depths, exposed wooden texture, and white edges.

The index finger of the left hand is pressed against the penholder, and there is no thick callus on the inside of the first joint of the middle finger.The skin is thin, with bulging purple blood vessels branching under the pale skin.He experimented with painting limestone specimens on a still life table.When the pen tip comes into contact with the square sketch paper, the surface of the paper has a grainy feel and resistance is generated when it rubs against the fingertips.

The lines extend from left to right.

It is not a straight trajectory, but an irregular wave that bulges on the paper to form a ridge.The scratching of the pen tip makes the sound of nails scratching the blackboard, high frequency and harsh.The fibers on the paper surface were scraped up to form burrs, graphite penetrated into the depressions, the color was dark black, and there were jagged tears on the edges.

The hands are resisting.

The muscles in my left hand are sore, not a dull pain, but a burning sensation.The tendon stretches at the wrong point, running from the inside of the wrist to the elbow.Wei Zhiheng increased his strength, trying to flatten the wavy line.The pen core broke with a click, and the black debris bounced up, fell into the gap between the nails of the left index finger, and was embedded in the half-moon-shaped depression.Black, granular.

He stared at the severed core without blinking.There is a fixed black shadow in the upper left part of the visual field and a retinal hemorrhage.In his eyes, the severed core became the broken end of the barbed wire, sharp and pointed upward.This is misperception.He raised his left hand to brush it, and the movement stretched his waist. The depth of his iliac bone expanded and contracted, and the dull pain from the bone marrow puncture was still there.

His fingers hovered three centimeters above the paper, twitching.The purpura on the fingernails burned when I exerted force, and the purple-black ecchymoses under the skin swelled.

Huang Jinye sat on the drawing table on the right, with his right shoulder leaning against the window frame.He didn’t look at Wei Zhiheng’s face, but stared at the hovering hand – the graphite shavings between the fingernails, the white marks left by the fingertips pressing against the paper, and the protruding veins on the inside of the wrist.Blue-purple, branched, visible under the skin.

Huang Jinye stretched out his right hand and hovered in mid-air.The fingers are spread out, the joints are stiff, and there is white stone powder on the edge of the nail plate.It was brought from Mother’s factory and cannot be washed off.He adjusted his pen-holding posture to imitate the angle of Wei Zhiheng’s left hand. His wrist was violently turned inward, his knuckles protruded, and his muscles trembled in the unfamiliar posture.

An old injury in my right knee made a clicking sound with the change in posture.The water in the joint cavity swayed, making a muffled sound.

He drew lines on the scratch paper.The right hand imitates the shaking of the left hand, and the lines are also skewed, forming a mirror image of the waves on Wei Zhiheng’s paper.Folded in half, reflection in water.But he stroked harder, the tip of his pencil pressing into the paper and raising ridges on the back.The paper fibers break, forming ridges.

Wei Zhiheng’s left hand fell again.

I got a newly sharpened pencil, 2B, with a smooth barrel and no tooth marks.He drew a second line, trying to correct the skew of the first.The strokes were slower and heavier, the tip of the pencil scratching against the paper with a rustling sound.But the rhythm is chaotic, sometimes twice per second, sometimes with a three-second pause.The line breaks in the center of the paper, forming a black hole that intersects the first line at an acute angle, a support-like structure.Paper fibers torn.

The paper is dirty.The little finger of the left hand was pressed against the paper as a fulcrum. The wound came into contact with the dust on the paper, causing a slight stinging pain that was intensive and continuous.The sweat from the fingertips seeped into the paper fibers, forming a light gray halo next to the graphite lines with irregular edges.

“It’s broken again.”

Wei Zhiheng said.The voice was dry and squeezed out of the throat. The friction of the vocal cords produced a rough sound, with the sweetness unique to ketosis, and it sank to the height of the tabletop.

He used his left hand to pull at the paper.Violently, the paper peeled off the drawing board, groaning like it was breaking.The edge of the paper was sharp and cut the pulp of the left index finger. Blood beads immediately poured out and penetrated into the paper fibers, forming a dark red halo on the edge.Mixed with the black of graphite, it turns into purple-brown.

Blood dripped on the painting table.Irregular round shape with jagged cracks on the edges.Wei Zhiheng stared at the drop of blood. It was turpentine dripping from the tip of the pen, and it was the reflection on the limestone specimen.This is misperception.He clenched his fist, and his nails left four crescent-shaped indentations on his palm, pressing against the coin-sized piece of purpura.Dull pain sharp.

Huang Jinye stood up.The hems of his sports shorts were frayed, exposing white fibers, and his right leg made a dry friction sound when he bent it.He walked behind Wei Zhiheng and stood there watching.The breathing was heavy and rough, spraying on the back of Wei Zhiheng’s neck, hot and rapid, with the smell of sweat and the astringency of stone powder.

Wei Zhiheng crumpled the damaged paper into a ball.The grip strength of the left hand was insufficient and the muscles spasmed. The paper was squeezed and deformed in the palm of the hand, making the sound of fibers breaking.The air inside is squeezed out, forming a dense sphere.He raised his hand and threw it towards the cardboard box in the corner of the classroom.The paper ball flew in the air in a parabola, hit the edge of the carton, bounced off, fell to the ground, and rolled to Huang Jinye’s feet.It was dusty and gray-white, contrasting with the purple-brown blood stains on the paper.

Huang Jinye bent down and picked it up.His right hand still maintained the awkward pen-holding posture, and his wrist bones made a slight clicking sound.He held the ball of paper with his left hand and unfolded it.The crumpled paper unfolded in his palm, the fibers stretching and rustling.The skewed lines on the paper, the broken pencil marks, and the blood stains on the left hand are all exposed to the afternoon light.The sun shines in through the window at a 45-degree angle, casting shadows on the folds on the paper.Ridge, valley.

He walked to the north wall of the studio.There was a blank space where the curriculum had been pasted, but now it had been torn off, leaving a light rectangular mark.There is residual paste on the edges, which is yellow and crusted.Huang Jinye tore off a piece of old tape from the edge of the drawing board. It was a transparent, narrow strip with sticky residue, and a few crooked hairs and sawdust stuck to the edge.He tore it open with his teeth, the plastic crackling with fatigue.

He pressed the crumpled drawing paper against the wall.The four corners of the paper were smoothed and the wrinkles were forcibly straightened.He applied tape, first to the upper left corner and second to the upper right corner.The tape was not sticky enough and the corners of the paper were raised. He pressed hard with his fingertips, and sweat seeped out from between his fingers, leaving fingerprint vortexes on the surface of the tape.Threads, traces of grease.

Third post, fourth post.The paper is fixed to the wall, askew, wrinkled, and the wrong lines exposed to the light.

Huang Jinye took a step back, looked at the piece of paper, and then looked at Wei Zhiheng.His right hand was still hanging in the air, maintaining the awkward pen-holding posture. His muscles were trembling, spasming, and electric current was passing through him.

Wei Zhiheng looked up.His vision distorted the paper, lines twisting around the edges of shadows, ink smearing on the wet paper.He squinted his eyes, trying to focus, but the writing was still blurry, a canyon of wrinkles on the paper.The sunlight moves and projects the fingerprints left by Huang Jinye when he applied the tape onto the paper.Clear traces of grease, water stains, ghostly handprints.

“Draw again.”

Wei Zhiheng said.He stretched out his left hand and hovered over the drawing board, his fingers spread out, the joints stiff, the knuckles protruding, and the skin taut.

Huang Jinye came over and took out a newly sharpened pencil from the pen holder.2B, yellow hexagon, conical tip, sharp graphite core.He did not hand it to Wei Zhiheng, but forced the pencil into Wei’s left hand.The hexagonal pen barrel touched the palm of my hand, which overlapped with the purpura and caused a dull pain.

Wei Zhiheng’s fingers twitched the moment they touched the pencil.The muscles tightened, the nails left scratches on the pen barrel, and the wood chips were embedded in the gaps between the nails, mixing with the previous graphite chips.He didn’t look up, but clenched the pen tightly, his knuckles turning white.The force is too strong and the pen barrel deforms in the palm of the hand.

Huang Jinye retracted his hand and wiped the sweat from his fingertips on his shorts.He walked back to his drawing table, picked up his pencil sharpener, and began to sharpen another pencil.The blade scraped against the wood, making a rustling sound.The sawdust curled down and accumulated on the edge of the draft paper. It was light yellow in color and soft in texture.His right hand still maintained the awkward posture, and his wrist bones made a clicking sound when he sharpened the pen.Gears wear, bones rub.

The military training whistle outside the window rang again.Closer, the sharp point of the copper whistle pierces the air, vibrating on the window glass, creating a buzzing resonance.

Wei Zhiheng’s left hand moved again.The tip of the pencil made a slight rustling sound when it touched the new paper.The lines reappear, skewed, trembling, raised on the paper, forming ridges.The folds of squeezed rock formations and the exudate after ruptured blood vessels.

He painted very slowly, pressing every stroke.Muscle soreness spread from the wrist to the elbow, the burning sensation turned into dull pain, and the steel needles stirred in the bone seams.The little finger of his left hand pressed against the paper again. The wound opened and blood seeped out, leaving red dots on the paper.Mixed with graphite, it turns purple-brown.

Huang Jinye sharpened his pencil and observed with his peripheral vision.His right hand was also shaking unconsciously, imitating the inertia and the resonance of the muscles.The pencil sharpener carved new tooth marks on the pen barrel, making them uneven.He finished peeling one and placed it on the corner of the table, lined up with the ones he had whittled before.The counting, the obsessive ritual, the transfusion of blood bags lining the shelves.

17:15.

The sun sets in the west and the angle of the light changes from 45 degrees to 30 degrees, casting long shadows on the “wrong strata” on the wall.The newly affixed piece of paper is juxtaposed with the previous ones—three, four, five.They accumulate, crooked, wrinkled, bloody, wrong lines.Geological sections, slices of time, textures of crushed shale.

Wei Zhiheng finished the last stroke.When he released his left hand, the pencil rolled onto the drawing table, making a clicking sound, and rolled to the edge, where it was blocked by the edge of the table.He looked at the piece of paper, another one that was wrong, crooked, torn, and bloody.He stretched out his hand and pulled it off again, cutting his finger again on the edge of the paper, and blood gushes out and seeped into the fiber of the paper.

He crumpled it into a ball and threw it towards the cardboard box.The paper ball hit the carton, bounced off, rolled to the ground, and stopped in the middle of the classroom, half a meter away from the carton.Blood seeped out of the paper, leaving dark red traces on the ground.Drag marks, iron oxide deposits in geological layers.

Huang Jinye stopped sharpening his pen.He walked over, bent down, picked up the bloody paper ball, and held it in his hand.Blood penetrated the paper layer and stained his fingertips red.He walked to the north wall, peeled off the tape from the edge of the panel again, unfolded it again, and applied it again.The sixth picture.

This time he pressed harder, pressing his fingertips on the paper. The sweat and blood mixed together, leaving clear fingerprints on the paper.Five oval-shaped indentations, the threads are clearly visible.Fossils in geological specimens, seals.The tape was not sticky enough and the corners of the paper were raised. He dug at it with his fingernails, and the stone powder between his fingernails was embedded in the paper.Gray-white and purple-brown blood stains form a stratigraphic sequence.

The ceiling fan continued to rotate, but the bearings were out of oil and made a squeaking sound every four revolutions.The light continued to move, illuminating the six false formations, and the shadows of the folds moved across the wall.Mountains drift and rock formations squeeze.The whistle of military training outside the window gradually faded away and turned into a vague hum.The roar of the underground river, the pounding of blood on the eardrums.

Wei Zhiheng sat in front of the painting table, his left hand hanging by his side, his muscles spasmed, and his fingers curled uncontrollably.The sawdust and graphite chips in the fingernails mix to form black dirt.Huang Jinye stood in front of the wall, with his back to Wei Zhiheng, his right hand still hovering over the last posted paper, his fingers spread out, stopping three centimeters away from the paper.

Stop action.

The fingers were hovering, the joints were stiff, there was white stone powder on the edge of the fingernails, and Wei Zhiheng’s blood was on the fingertips.Warm and sticky.He remained in this position until the ceiling fan completed its tenth rotation and made its tenth squeak.Until the light outside the window turns golden, until the six false strata on the wall take on the texture of limestone in the sunset – pale, wrinkled, bloody, sedimentary.

Then he withdrew his hand, put it into his trouser pocket, and touched the blood-stained wet handkerchief with his fingertips.The cotton cloth rubs against the tinfoil, making a rustling sound.He didn’t turn around, just stared at the six pieces of paper without blinking.