Running in pain

Author: Wang Yang
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-06-01
Features: My hometown is Fenghuang City, a picturesque small town nestled deep in the mountains of Guizhou. Geographically, Fenghuang is an isolated city, far from Guiyang, Chongqing, and every other city—it’s a shining pearl buried in the deep mountains. Unlike other provinces, where cities are contiguous and neighbor each other, driving out of Fenghuang reveals nothing but rolling mountains. Mist rises from the valleys, clouds and rosy mists swirl, resembling the immortal paradise of Penglai, untouched by mortal life. A beauty in a secluded valley, standing alone in the world. This is Fenghuang. Before the age of 17, I had no history; without stories, there is no history. A loving father, a kind mother, a warm and harmonious family. Since the first grade of elementary school, I served as a class monitor until high school graduation. Passionate about arts and culture, at 16, when the provincial dance and drama troupe came to Fenghuang City to recruit performers, I sang two songs and was immediately accepted. I almost packed my bags and left with them—if it weren’t for my mother desperately stopping me from becoming a “.” At 17, I was selected by the Public Relations Association to participate in a fashion show, reveling in the embrace of glamorous makeup and elegant attire. Some subjects were my weak spots; my Chinese teacher granted me a privilege: I could skip class, read novels, or write, as long as I didn’t disturb others. Because “Yang Qianqian’s Chinese proficiency is already sufficient; there’s no need for further study.” Math wasn’t my strong suit, and sometimes my exam scores were unsatisfactory. Some boys showed interest in me, but my parents’ strict upbringing made me afraid to fall into the “quagmire” of early romance. I would sneak a peek through the doorframe and quickly slip away. In a few words, I sketch out my life at 17. So monotonous. In the eyes of others, I was an undeniable lucky girl, living in a sweet fairy tale, yet I didn’t feel happy. Melancholy is noble, happiness is shallow. A city girl born in the 1970s and raised in the 1980s, I had never starved, never been sent to the countryside, never been abandoned by my parents, and had not even experienced a meaningful first love. Life was like a flawless egg, so even minor ailments, like the frail Lin Daiyu or the sickly Xi Shi with furrowed brows and a worried heart, at least gave me some reason and capital to wallow in self-pity. Yet I happened to be lively and robust, full of vitality, growing up smoothly like a puppy without a single bout of illness. As a “literary youth,” I was constantly frustrated by the lack of writing material. Despite artfully pressing dry autumn leaves and petals into book pages and writing cloying poems like “These drifting rose petals are my broken and fragmented heart” beside them. I also cried and sighed alone under a lone lamp in quiet, dim nights, but it was all pretense. Life was like a calm, slow, and dull river, flowing steadily without haste, even when occasionally a few ripples stirred, they were insignificant. At that time, I couldn’t understand, couldn’t write down, that life unrefined was the truest happiness. When your life, unpolished, can become a novel, then your life is basically a tragedy. Because literature mostly speaks of suffering. And when I finally realized this, when I finally understood the value of it, everything was already too late! This foolish and dull me, frantically reaching out to grasp my 17-year-old happiness, but heaven mercilessly took everything away, giving me no chance for regret or awakening. This is an irreparable regret! Through the dust of more than a decade, I clearly see that autumn afternoon, with the rare bright sunlight of Fenghuang City, the 17-year-old Yang Qianqian walked briskly on the streets, full of satisfaction and joy. The overflowing happiness seemed to burst from my chest, eager to share it with every passerby. That day, I won first prize in the Fenghuang City Middle School Literature Competition! At that time, romance novels by Qiong Yao were all the rage, so I imagined the image of a heroine in such novels and spent 10 yuan on a purple silk fabric. I drew a sketch on paper and asked a tailor to make a long dress with a large hem, a waist tie, and wide “water sleeves,” looking ethereal. The award ceremony was grand and solemn. TV reporters with huge cameras ran around, and newspaper reporters’ cameras flashed “.” In this “very Qiong Yao” purple dress, I walked into the venue, immediately attracting everyone’s attention. I proudly swung my waist-length black hair and strutted through the crowd, as if a star walked on the red carpet to the Oscars. The mayor personally presented me with the award certificate and prize, urging me, “I hope you can become a writer respected and loved by readers in the future!” I pouted and said nothing. In my small heart, I didn’t think being a writer was something extraordinary. My interests were incredibly broad. In singing, dancing, speech, and performance competitions held at school, I always dominated, winning multiple “grand prizes,” with a sense of “May the wind be favorable, may my horse gallop swiftly, and in one day, I shall see all the flowers of Chang’an.” Youth means infinite possibilities. What surprised me was the thick envelope with “one hundred yuan” written on it. 100 yuan! What does that mean? In 1989’s Fenghuang City, 1 fen could buy a stinky tofu, 3 fen a plate of silk babies, 5 fen a bowl of cold noodles, and a few yuan could buy a piece of decent fabric. Yet my short story, no more than a thousand words and taking only one or two hours to write, earned me 100 yuan! After the award ceremony, I rushed out excitedly and bought a set of long purple clothes I had longed for—tight-fitting t-shirts and baggy lantern pants, looking cool and spirited. Then I started carefully selecting gifts for my parents. 100 yuan vanished instantly. Holding a pile of gifts, I was overjoyed. I was still just a high school student, yet not only could I “support myself,” but also “show filial piety to my parents.” What could be more proud and joyful than that? I seemed to see my father’s loving and approving smile, my mother preparing a table full of delicious dishes to celebrate my victory. I rushed happily toward home, eager to reach that bright, warm, and happy place, so impatient because of the excitement that I almost ran. But the 17-year-old me didn’t know that I was running toward a nightmare that would never awaken again. Just as I thought I had reached the peak of happiness in life, fate quietly changed the color of my life. Like a grand and magnificent symphony suddenly inserting a rest note, the beautiful music stopped, replaced by endless pressure and harm. From that day on, my life was opened by suffering, and I embarked on an endless journey of pain. P3-5