Lin Xingmian's Past

Her mother soon had a new family. She had a stepfather and a stepsister.

They moved across the ocean, to a place where it always seemed to rain.

The new house was large and quiet. Her mother's smile became polite, and her words were always "your uncle" and "your sister."

She curled up in a corner of the spacious guest room, like an old piece of luggage temporarily set aside.

School was another long winter rain.

Language was a barrier, her Asian face made her an outsider, and her silence was an unforgivable sin.

Her textbooks would "accidentally" fall into the sink. Nauseating sauces would be poured into her lunchbox, and her locker would be stuffed with mocking notes.

On the coldest rainy day, she was locked inside the empty gym equipment room until nightfall, when a patrolling janitor finally found her. Soaked to the bone and shivering so hard her teeth chattered, she sat hugging her knees amid a pile of mats, like a kitten abandoned by the roadside, its fur drenched through.

When she got home, her mother only asked why she had gotten herself so dirty again. She told her to behave herself and stop provoking her classmates.

A hot shower could not wash away the chill lodged between her bones.

School and home were tunnels stretching in opposite directions, both endless, with the light impossibly far away.

She began lying awake night after night, yet during the day, she was too sleepy to keep her eyes open.

The dense letters in her books danced before her eyes, while the teacher's voice drifted near and far.

The girl in the mirror had a pale face, dark circles beneath her eyes, and was so thin that her school uniform jacket hung loosely from her frame.

She no longer