Chapter 4
1766words
Give up. A voice echoed in my mind. If this continues, before she drives me crazy, I'll be driven insane by this damn silence first. This kind of silence is more devastating than any noisy crowd, because it forces me to confront my most fearful, most shameful inner self, and beside me there's a living witness who shares the same fear. Surrender, in a way that won't make me completely fall apart.
My gaze fell on the sketchbook at my feet, that disguise I used to deceive the world, which had now become the only lifeline I could think of. I bent down and picked it up, my movements as stiff as a rusty robot. I took a deep breath, one filled with the pungent smell of turpentine and the musty odor of aged wood, and then, as if using every ounce of strength in my body, I pushed the sketchbook in front of Alicia Hayes, and roughly flipped it open with my fingers, stopping at a blank white page.
This was a silent invitation, and also a silent surrender. Like a gambler, I wagered my last pitiful shred of dignity, betting that she would understand my meaning—I couldn't take it anymore, say something, or 'write' something, anything at all, just to break this damned, murderous silence.
Alicia Hayes was startled by my sudden movement, her whole body jerking in surprise. Like a frightened deer, she stared bewilderedly at the sketchbook I had pushed in front of her. In those eyes that were always filled with alarm, for the first time appeared an emotion other than fear—confusion. She didn't understand why I would do this. She looked down at the blank page, then back up at me. My gaze remained fixed below her shoulders, stubbornly focused on a paint stain on the floor, using this method to show her that I wasn't looking at her, that I posed no threat.
Time froze once again. My palms began to sweat. Would she refuse? Would she see this as another form of humiliation? Just as I was about to regret my decision and wanted to pull back the sketchbook, I saw her move. She slowly, extremely slowly, bent down and took out a pencil from her art supply bag. Her fingers gripping the pencil turned slightly pale from the pressure, and her fingertips were trembling slightly.
She didn't write words.
Instead, on that pure white page, with extreme care and deliberation, she drew a tiny, curled up seed that seemed to be using all its strength to break through the soil... The seed was drawn so small, yet full of tenacious vitality, every line conveying a force unwilling to remain dormant.
At that moment, my breathing stopped. I looked at the seed on the paper, and then, as if drawn by some irresistible force, for the first time, I raised my head and looked directly into Alicia Hayes' eyes. After our secrets had been exposed to each other, this was the first time I actively and clearly looked into her eyes. They were very beautiful eyes, as clean as a sky washed by rain, but at that moment, against that clean background, I clearly saw a faint, flickering hope, like a candle flame wavering in the wind. She was hoping I would understand.
A strange, unprecedented feeling, like a warm current, washing over my long-frozen heart. So this is her language. Not words, but images. I understood. As if possessed, I reached out my hand and picked up my pencil. My hand no longer trembled; a strange calmness enveloped me. I looked at the seed that was striving to sprout; it appeared so fragile, as if it could be scorched by the burning sun at any moment, could be destroyed by a torrential rain. Driven by an almost instinctive impulse, I drew a thick, rolling dark cloud above the seed, using heavy shadows to shield it from the imagined scorching sunlight.
After I finished drawing, Qinyin immediately understood my meaning. Without any hesitation, she took my pen and beside the dark clouds I had drawn—symbols of suppression and obstacles—she gently and tenderly drew a curved rainbow. The rainbow wasn't dazzling, just a few soft arcs, yet it seemed capable of penetrating all gloom, bringing the warmest light to the seed that was struggling to grow.
I looked at the dark clouds and the rainbow, coexisting in the same small sky, just like her and me—full of contradictions yet achieving harmony in a wonderful way. I looked back at her, and she was looking at me too, with eyes where expectation had grown a bit brighter, and she even gave me an extremely tiny but incredibly genuine smile.
Our first "conversation" was completed just like that. No sound, no words, just a few simple lines, yet clearer and more profound than any language I had ever heard.
From that day on, exchanging our sketchbooks became our only form of communication in that dusty art preparation room. That massive white canvas stood silently in place, neither of us daring to touch it, as if it were a ritual requiring meticulous preparation over a long period of time. We simply came to this "secret base" after school each day, and like performing some sacred handover ceremony, exchanged each other's sketchbooks.
Alicia Hayes' sketchbook became the only "scenery" I dared to gaze at for extended periods. There were none of those distorted negative expressions from the real world that would make me feel guilty. Her world was filled with soft colors and warm kindness. Today she drew a cat napping on a windowsill, with sunlight casting a golden edge around its body; tomorrow she drew a steaming cup of red tea, with an extremely tempting little cookie placed beside it; the day after she drew some unknown wildflowers swaying in the wind. Looking at her drawings, my constantly tense nerves would unconsciously relax, as if my eyes were being soaked in the gentlest spring water, washing away all the malicious "noise" attached to them.
And my sketchbook became her "voice" where she could freely express herself. At first, she only drew simple things to answer my "questions." I would draw a question mark, and she would draw a leaf falling on water, telling me her mood was calm that day. Later, she began to draw more complex things in it, drawing words she wanted to say but couldn't speak out loud. Once, she drew a little girl standing alone on an empty stage, with spotlights glaring harshly on her. The girl's mouth was open, but no sound came out, while below the stage were countless dark silhouettes filled with mockery. Looking at that drawing, it was as if I personally experienced her nightmare, a sharp pain piercing through my chest. Beside that little girl, I drew a giant figure wearing headphones, shielding her from all the gazes directed at her.
And so, we exchanged our nightmares through our paintbrushes, while sharing the sparse moments of light from each other's worlds. We became familiar with each other's lines, just like we knew each other's handwriting and voice. I knew that behind every gentle curve she drew, there hid endless longing and struggle. And she surely understood that behind every sharp straight line I drew, there was unvented panic and self-loathing.
Until one day, after finishing a painting, Qin Yin pushed her sketchbook toward me, then pointed at the huge blank canvas in the center of the room. I knew the time had come. It was time to face the real reason we were locked in here.
We finally began discussing the theme of the painting titled "Collision." I picked up my pen, and almost without any hesitation, drew in my sketchbook the scene that had been lurking in the deepest recesses of my mind all along—a person curled up into a ball, tightly hugging their knees with both arms, while around them were dense, countless eyes full of contempt, disgust, and impatience, along with twisting mouths that were opening and closing. This was my world, a crowded hell filled with malicious stares and silent mockery.
After I finished drawing, I pushed the sketchbook toward her. I didn't dare look at her reaction, afraid she would be frightened by the darkness in my drawing, afraid she would, like others before her, show that expression I knew all too well—a mixture of fear and rejection.
However, she just quietly looked for a long time. Then, she picked up her pen and drew a window beside my curled-up figure. It was a bright, open window, through which sunlight poured in unreservedly, the light warm and gentle, so clear that one could see the tiny golden dust particles dancing in the air. The sunlight fell on the back of the curled-up figure, as if silently telling him that even if the whole world was filled with malice, there would always be a ray of light willing to stay for you.
After she finished drawing, she looked up at me. I looked at the window she had drawn, and then at the person wrapped in darkness that I had drawn. Darkness and light, despair and hope, confinement and exit... they existed simultaneously on this small piece of paper, opposing each other, yet each indispensable.
I understood. This was what we were destined to draw. It was her, and it was also me.
I picked up my pen and wrote two words at the bottom of the drawing: "Two Worlds."
Qin Yin looked at those two characters, and then nodded firmly. In her eyes, there flickered a kind of light that I had never seen before—steadfast and bright. We had finally found a common theme for that upcoming "collision." On one side was my darkness, and on the other side, her light.
