Wild Fire Bids Farewell To Summer Chapter 33

After the Big Cold 2

The view begins to collapse from the edge.Wei Zhiheng stared at the crack on the north wall of the art classroom in Changgu Tower. The crack extended from the window corner to the ceiling, a dislocation of the limestone wall.The fixed black shadow on the upper left suddenly squirmed downwards, not spreading, but peeling off in one piece, like a wall peeling off after getting wet.The black swallowed up the three iron blades of the ceiling fan, swallowed up the trembling halo of the tungsten wire, and swallowed up the outline of the Green Cen Mountain outside the window.Finally, there was a light spot in the center, the size of a coin, which dazzled, and then went out.

Not dark.It is nothingness.Black doesn’t even exist, it’s just the cessation of the visual function.

Wei Zhiheng blinked his eyelids.The eyelashes rub against the cornea, making a subtle rustling sound.He stretched out his right hand, spread his fingers, and stopped ten centimeters in front of his eyes – a distance where he should have been able to see the outline of his palm.Now there is only touch: the tremors of the muscles under the skin are transmitted from the wrist bones to the knuckles, and the fingernails are lavender with a white edge.He couldn’t feel his fingers shaking in the air, he could only hear the dry sound of his joints rubbing together.

“The light is broken.” Wei Zhiheng said.The sound came out of his throat, smelling of blood, and was muffled.

Huang Jinye stood in front of the easel.He held the old SLR camera in his hand, with a black body and a silver lens.For the past three weeks, this camera has only recorded the process: the flow of platelets in the IV tube, the refraction of the setting sun on the limestone.Now the viewfinder is a uniform white with no focus.He put down the camera, and the metal came into contact with the still life table, making a dull impact sound.

He turned around and took out a pencil from the iron pencil case.2B, yellow hexagonal pen barrel.He picked up the pencil sharpener, with the blade exposed by three millimeters, and began to sharpen the first pencil.

The blade scraped against the wood, making a rustling sound.Sawdust curled down, pale yellow, and accumulated on the edge of the painting table.Wei Zhiheng’s eardrums sunk inward as he listened to the sound.The sound has weight and sinks to the ground level.He was sitting on a high stool, his hands folded on his knees, his right hand pressing his left hand on the coin-sized piece of purpura.The skin under my palms was beating, and my pulse was racing.

Huang Jinye finished cutting the first one.The nib is conical and has a sharp graphite core.He placed the pencil on the corner of the table, parallel to Wei Zhiheng’s left hand.Then pick up the second one.

The rustling continued.Wei Zhiheng put his right hand into his trouser pocket and touched the limestone specimen with his fingertips.Ivory white with gray flint bands, flat base and sharp edges.The spot where I cut my finger that night on the stairwell.He tightened his grip, and the edge cut into the pads of his fingers, stinging.He misperceived: the stone expanded in his palm and turned into a huge limestone, pressing on his thigh, and the weight made him fall downwards.

The second pencil was halfway sharpened, and Huang Jinye’s hand shook.The blade scratched a deep groove on the pen barrel and the pen core broke.Without pausing, he directly removed the broken core with his fingers. The black debris bounced up and landed on the terrazzo floor, forming a geometric shape.He picked up the third one and whittled harder, sawdust flying, and the broken pieces showed sharp edges.

There was a rustling outside the window.It was the janitor, wearing an orange vest and sweeping the hallway with a long-handled broom.The broom bristles scraped the terrazzo floor from far to near, paused for half a second at the door of the studio, and then moved away.The sound was filtered by the door panel and became muddy.

Wei Zhiheng stood up.The knees rubbed together, making a dry sound, and there was a dull pain in the bone marrow cavity.He stepped forward, landing with his right heel first, and a dull impact echoed in the empty classroom.He walked toward Huang Jinye, his steps dragging, his right hand hovering by his side, his fingers spread wide.He stopped thirty centimeters away from Huang Jinye, leaning forward, his center of gravity unstable, and his knees shaking.

“I can’t see the vanishing point.” Wei Zhiheng said.The voice is soft and the airflow rubs against the vocal cords.

Huang Jinye paused for a moment while sharpening his fourth pencil.The blade hovers three millimeters above the pen barrel.He didn’t turn his head because he knew the other party couldn’t see him.He continued whittling, and rustling sounds filled the gaps in conversation.

Wei Zhiheng stretched out his left hand.His fingers hovered on the side of Huang Jinye’s face, stopping five centimeters away from the skin.The fingers were spread out, the joints were stiff, and the fingernails were tinged with light purple.The air smelled of turpentine, heavy and thicker than usual—turpentine has become thick after the Great Cold, when the temperature dropped to three degrees.He misperceived: in front of him was not Huang Jinye’s face, but a limestone cliff with vertical flint strips that were raised, rough, and cold.

He dropped his hand.

Touch your fingertips to your brow bone.Skin contact.Huang’s brow bone protruded, forming a horizontal bulge.Wei’s fingertips pressed lightly, without force, just feeling.The hardness under the skin, the curvature of the bones, and the tiny particles above the brow bone – scars after acne healing, or stone dust deposits.He misperceived: It was the weathered surface of limestone, rough and porous.

Huang Jinye’s right hand hovered over the pencil sharpener.He didn’t move, his breath was hot and bloodshot on Wei Zhiheng’s wrist bones.His eyelashes trembled rapidly under his eyelids.

Wei Zhiheng’s fingertips slid downward.Slowly, like a geologist measuring faults.He touched the center of his eyebrows, the depression between his eyebrows, which was soft and slightly moist with sweat.Then slide it down to the bridge of your nose.The bridge of the nose is straight, like the columnar joints of limestone. The skin is smoother than the brow bone, but still slightly rough, and the pores are expanded.He pressed the side of the bridge of his nose with his fingertips and felt the subtle step at the junction of cartilage and hard bone.

Stop action.

Hover your fingers over the middle of the bridge of the nose, stopping three centimeters from the tip of the nose.Wei Zhiheng’s breathing became heavy, and the sweet rot of ketosis, rotten apples mixed with rust, settled in the air between the two.Huang Jinye’s breathing stagnated, his chest remained expanded, and his ribs pushed up against his skin.

Wei Zhiheng continued to slide down.Touch the tip of your nose with your fingertips.The tip of the nose is soft, supported by cartilage, the skin is tight, and there is oil secretion.He misperceived that the tip of his nose was the edge of Tunbang’s skylight, vertically downward and bottomless.His fingers lingered on the tip of his nose, pressing lightly.

Then go down and separate to the sides.Touch your fingertips to your cheek.Stubble.A dense, hard, tingling sensation came from Wei’s fingertips, sharp, stimulating multiple points at the same time.He misperceived: It was not stubble, but stone powder on the surface of the limestone, granular and sharp.He retracted his fingers slightly and pressed them up again, feeling the rough resistance.The yellow stubble is black and has not been shaved for three days. It is about two millimeters in length. The root is thick and hard, and the tip is sharp, like chips from a stone factory.

Huang Jinye’s jaw was tense and his masseter muscles were bulging.He held the pencil sharpener tightly in his right hand, the metal shell embedded in the palm prints.

Wei Zhiheng’s fingertips slid towards his lips.There was a crack in the center of the upper lip, dry and bloodshot, with raised edges.He touched the crack lightly with his index finger and felt the moist blood and warmth.Then he slid down to his lower lip, which was thicker and softer, like a curved surface of limestone eroded by water.He gently pinched his lower lip with his thumb and index finger, feeling the thickness and temperature.He misperceived: they were thin slices of shale, with clear layers and brittle.

Huang Jinye’s lips trembled under Wei’s fingertips.He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue felt heavy.He made a breathy sound, hissing, like an underground river flowing in a limestone cavity.He closed his mouth, biting the tip of Wei’s index finger with his teeth, and held it gently without force.

Wei Zhiheng did not retract his finger.He felt the hardness of the teeth, the smoothness of the enamel, and the softness of the gums.He misperceived: It was the bottom surface of the limestone specimen, which was flat, cold, and had tiny pores.His index finger lingered on Huang Jinye’s teeth, pressing them, feeling the outline of each tooth, like reading Braille, like identifying the sequence of strata.

Huang Jinye released his teeth.He raised his right hand and hovered over Wei Zhiheng’s left shoulder, stopping five centimeters away from the sweater.Fingers splayed, joints stiff.He didn’t fall, he just hovered, letting his body temperature conduct in the air.Exchange hot and cold.

Wei Zhiheng took back his hand.The fingers left Huang’s face and hovered in mid-air.The fingertips were stained with Huang Jinye’s saliva. They dried and became sticky, just like the feeling of dried turpentine.He moved his fingers to the tip of his nose and smelled.The smell is complex: the citrusy aroma of turpentine, the astringency of stone powder, the rust of blood, and the sour smell of sweat.

He lowered his hand and let it hang by his side.The purpura on the fingernails appears as a darker shadow in the blind field of vision.He turned around and walked towards the easel, his steps dragging, his right foot dragging along the terrazzo floor.He accurately stopped in front of the high stool, sat down, his buttocks touched the wooden seat, and let out a squeezing groan.

Huang Jinye continued to sharpen his fifth pencil.Rustling sound.The accumulation of sawdust has formed a small hill, which is light yellow and has a soft texture.He pushed the sawdust aside with his fingers and pushed it to the edge of the corner of the table, where black graphite shavings had accumulated.Yellow and black mix to form a gray-brown sedimentary layer, like a stratigraphic section.

Outside the window, the cleaning lady is back again.The broom scraped against the wall, made a final rustling sound, and then disappeared.The whistle from the military training of the first year of high school came from the distance. The copper whistle had a high frequency and pierced the air, but it was distorted by the echo in the studio and turned into a low hum.

Wei Zhiheng put his right hand into the collar of the sweater and felt under the collarbone.There was a piece of purpura there, the size of a coin, with a purple and black center.He picked at the edges of the purpura, and his nails dug into the skin, causing sharp pain.He misperceived: What he picked out was a fragment of limestone with sharp edges and a gray-white color.He held this fragment of imagination in the palm of his hand.

Huang Jinye sharpened his sixth pencil.The blade was dull, and sharpening turned into scratching, making a harsh sound, like a steel needle biting into the bone cortex.He continued compulsively, and the scar at the tiger’s mouth oozed blood again. Blood beads flowed along the palm lines to his wrists, dripping on the hill where pencil shavings accumulated. Dark red dots smeared among the light yellow sawdust.

Wei Zhiheng raised his head.He faced the window, though he could not see it.He misperceived: outside the window was the limestone section of Greencen Mountain, with vertical flint strips that were straight and parallel.He counted the non-existent textures, one, two, three.On the seventh count, he stopped.

“The light is gone.” Wei Zhiheng said.

Huang Jinye finished sharpening his sixth pencil.He arranged six pairs of pencils on the edge of the table, with the pen tips pointing in the same direction.He didn’t stop, picked up the seventh one, and continued whittling.Rustling sound.The sawdust continued to accumulate, covering the previous bloodstains and forming new layers.The blood solidified under the sawdust and turned dark brown.

Wei Zhiheng took out his empty-framed glasses from his pocket.Plastic material, black, no lens.He put them on, with the temples pressed behind his ears and the nose bridge resting on the bridge of his nose.Without the lenses, the field of view does not change, it is still empty, but the edges of the frames create a slight sense of pressure on both sides of the cheeks.

He raised his hand and slid his fingers along the edge of the frame, from temples to cheekbones, feeling the cold and smooth plastic.He misperceived that the frame was the wall of the skylight, and he was stroking the inner edge of the shaft.

Huang Jinye sharpened his eighth pencil.His right hand was shaking, and the muscles under his skin were trembling slightly, starting from the inside of his wrist, jumping one after another.He tried to control it, but the more he controlled it, the worse it shook, and the blade left a crooked groove on the penholder.He put down the knife, held the pen core between his thumb and forefinger, and broke it off. Black powder leaked from between his fingers and landed on the hill where the sawdust accumulated.

He turned around and looked at Wei Zhiheng.Wei was sitting on a high stool, wearing empty-rimmed glasses, his face facing the window at an angle.His left hand hangs by his side, his fingers spread out, and the fingertips are still moist from the touch.He held the limestone specimen in his right hand and raised it in front of his chest. The stone made a slight collision sound when it came into contact with the plastic frame of the empty glasses.

Huang Jinye walked over.The steps are heavy and light, heavy on the right and light on the left. When the knees are bent, they make a dry friction sound.He stopped in front of Wei Zhiheng, twenty centimeters away.He bent down, picked up the accumulated pencil shavings, yellow sawdust and black graphite powder from the ground, and held them in his hands.

He straightened up and raised the pencil shavings in his hand in front of Wei Zhiheng, stopping ten centimeters from the tip of his nose.

“Smell.” Huang Jinye said.Single word, rough.

Wei Zhiheng breathed in.Nasal cavity dilation.He smelled the smell: the astringency of pine shavings, the fishy smell of graphite, the rust of blood, and the sour smell of sweat.He misperceived: it was gas gushing from the underground river, sixteen degrees Celsius, with the mineral smell of dissolved limestone.

He stretched out his left hand and inserted his fingers into the pencil shavings held by Huang Jinye.It feels cold to the touch, like ash, like the powder of weathered limestone.The wood chips are soft and the graphite powder is smooth.He clenched his fists, and the pencil shavings were squeezed and embedded in the gaps between his nails, mixing with the previous stone powder and blood to form red-gray mud.

Huang Jinye watched Wei Zhiheng’s hand move in his palm.Look at those lavender fingernails opening and closing in the gray-black powder.He kept his hands cupped.

Wei Zhiheng let go of his hand.The pencil shavings slipped from the fingers, fell back into Huang Jinye’s palm, and also fell on the floor, making a slight rustling sound.He retracted his hand and clenched it into a fist, his nails leaving four crescent-shaped indentations on his palm.

Outside the window, the sunlight after the severe cold was pale and shone on the two of them without any warmth.The pencil shavings in Huang Jinye’s hand piled up into a hill, with a sharp top and dark red blood spots scattered around the edges, like a miniature limestone peak that was calcifying.

The ceiling fan was spinning overhead, its bearings were starved of oil and made a squeaking sound with each revolution.Wei Zhiheng listened to this sound, which was in sync with the rustling sound of Huang Jinye sharpening his ninth pencil, forming an irregular rhythm.Pencil shavings continue to accumulate on the ground between the two people, yellow and black mix, covering the texture of the terrazzo, forming a new layer of sediment.