Leave. I have a love fever.

Author: Zhi Xin
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-08-01
Features: A runaway girl, your escape is merely moving from one cage to another—you will regret it.
1 That year, I seemed to be 16. They broke the glass cups, thermoses, full-length mirrors, and television sets. I couldn’t imagine life without full-length mirrors and television sets. Checking the mirror before leaving each day, watching others on TV after returning—these were my habits. Teacher Cha asked me, "What are your hobbies?" I said, "Looking in the mirror and watching TV." He shook his head and said, "These are bad habits, how can they be hobbies?" "What’s the difference between a habit and a hobby, Teacher Cha?" "Habit is a neutral term, hobby is a positive term. Positive means good, beautiful—do you understand? The opposite is a negative term, meaning bad, ugly." Without Teacher Cha’s permission, I wrote "Looking in the mirror and watching TV are my habits" in my diary. I originally wanted to add the word "bad," but my mother said, "Drinking, gambling, and prostitution are bad habits." The full-length mirror was gone, the television was gone. The sky was just starting to show hints of light—grey with streaks of white, white with streaks of blue, like black ink spreading on paper, then a little more blue ink. If the sun came out, it would be like adding a little red ink. With this thought, I found a pen in my drawer and picked up a red thread by the way. I didn’t know why I took the red thread. I took the pen because I deluded myself into thinking I could make a living with it someday. But why take the thread? Was I going to spend my life sewing and mending? Years later, when talking about my run away event with others, they asked me what I took with me. I said, "A pen and a red thread." I wanted to run away. I couldn’t stand life without full-length mirrors and television sets—it was them, just them, who deprived me of the right to have habits. They were my father and mother. I walked into the living room, passed through my father and mother, and glanced back at them. I said, "Day is breaking." My father asked me, "Chengzi, do you know where I put my cigarettes?" I shook my head and continued walking out. My mother asked me, "Chengzi, why didn’t you bring your school bag?" I calmly said, "I forgot my school bag at school." I kept walking. When I locked the last iron door of the house, I heard the sound of a fragile item breaking—"clang," as if it was a farewell salute for me. If I wasn’t mistaken, that should have been the half-human-tall porcelain vase left by my grandfather. "I’m leaving," I said to myself, then waved at the house, not taking a single cloud with me. P1-2