I laughed when I saw my biological father posting from a nursing home: "My daughter is holding a grudge about being beaten as a child, what should I do?" It was 3 AM on the other side of the ocean. Insomniac, I was scrolling through my phone mechanically when I spotted a familiar profile picture. It was my dad. I checked the IP address. Confirmed. The post included a photo of the nursing home's gray, peeling walls: Worked hard to put my daughter through her PhD, only for her to run off to a foreign country and never return. I've been paralyzed for ten years. My only wish is to see her one last time. Begging netizens for help. My daughter's info is: !@#$%^ Seeing that he posted my name and address from grad school, I laughed again. He will never find me. 1 When I was five, my mom ran away. She left decisively. It was raining that day, and it felt colder inside the house than out. She squatted down and hugged me, her bones pressing painfully against me. Her voice trembled uncontrollably: "Yingying... Mom isn't running away, I just can't survive here anymore... I'm sorry... I can't take care of you..." She didn't say, "I'll come back for you when I'm settled." She just said, "I can't survive." At five years old, I truly understood what "despair" meant for the first time. She left almost empty-handed, except for a small cloth bag. I later found out she took the last bit of savings we had—my dad wasn't "famous" back then, just a washed-up calligrapher with a temper far bigger than his reputation, drunk all day long. My dad, a contemporary celebrity? A calligrapher? Heh. That came later. In my hazy childhood memories, his "fame" was built bit by bit alongside the sound of shattering liquor bottles and my mother's screams. His calligraphy was famous for its wild cursive style, and the man himself was the same—unhinged. Like, genuinely maniacal. My nightmare started long before he gained that hollow fame. He always beat me. His tool of choice was "elegant"—a thin, flexible bamboo switch. It was meant for rapping my knuckles and palms, but when his temper flared, it became an indiscriminate weapon. His reasons were "justified": "You're a calligrapher's daughter! Your writing looks like chicken scratch? You're an embarrassment!" He would pinch my wrist, thin from malnutrition, and bring the switch down with a whoosh. A red welt would instantly rise on my knuckles, burning with pain. Does a five-year-old understand calligraphy? Or chicken scratch? I only knew pain. I only knew fear. When he beat me, he usually drank a little to "heighten the mood." The smell of cheap white liquor mixed with his foul breath was the most familiar and terrifying scent of my childhood. Alcohol was the catalyst for his violence, making the bamboo switch fall faster and harder. My life consisted of two things: practicing calligraphy and cooking. Calligraphy was the excuse for beatings; cooking was the reason for beatings. At five, I couldn't reach the stove, so I had to stand on a small stool. At five, I could expertly make vinegar-soaked peanuts—vinegar covering the peanuts, a sprinkle of sugar, a few drops of sesame oil, soaked overnight for flavor. I could fry small fish—oil piping hot, fish coated in thin batter, sizzling until golden and crispy. I could stir-fry peanuts—the heat was hardest to control; too much and they burned, too little and the skin stayed raw. You had to stir constantly and remove them from heat the moment you heard the crackling sound. These were his favorite snacks to go with liquor. But he was never satisfied. "Too salty!" "Too bland!" "Overcooked!" "Peanut skins not rubbed clean!" "Tastes like raw oil! Are you feeding pigs?" Nitpicking, harsh criticism, accompanied by the clang of chopsticks hitting the bowl, or simply... the crash of dishes smashing on the floor. We really had no money back then. The money my mom took was our last resort. But he would never shortchange himself. Liquor had to be drunk. Snacks had to be served. No money? Then save it from my mouth. He could always find reasons to make me skip meals. "Writing like that and you have the face to eat?" "Cooking fit for dogs, go hungry and reflect!" "Talking back? Don't even think about dinner!" ... Hunger became my most loyal companion. The burning emptiness in my stomach was more persistent and tormenting than the sting of the bamboo switch. I often felt dizzy from hunger, staring at the leftover peanuts and fish on the table, mouth watering like crazy, yet I didn't dare reach for even the crumbs that fell into the cracks of the table. I was so thin as a child, truly looking like a malnourished turnip. A thin neck supporting a big head, arms and legs like sticks. Ribs protruding clearly, skin pale with a sickly tint from lack of sunlight. Walking outside, a strong wind could literally blow me away. 2 Of course, my dad didn't pop out of a stone. He had roots. I had a grandpa and a grandma. My grandpa was also a "calligrapher," the self-proclaimed kind who spent his life circling the county cultural center. He and my dad were natural enemies. Every time they met, sparks flew. My dad called grandpa's writing stiff and lifeless, like "tracing a mold"; grandpa mocked my dad's cursive as "ghost scribbles," saying he "didn't even have a proper job, just acting crazy." At the dinner table, they could argue red-faced over the stroke order of a single character, chopsticks clanging against bowls. Their pitiful "father-son bond" dissolved entirely in the flying spittle of their rivalry. My grandma was completely different from grandpa. She was a genuine rural woman, illiterate, with big hands and feet, her mind entirely focused on "carrying on the family line." Her biggest regret in life was probably that my mom didn't birth a boy. I pieced this together later, like assembling broken porcelain, from her fragmented mutterings and the way she looked at me—"A girl is okay too, a girl is okay too," said with the reluctance of swallowing bitter medicine. But as a child, how could I understand these complexities? Back then, besides Uncle Lin's visits (more on that later), I looked forward to grandpa and grandma visiting. Because whenever they came, the house seemed under a spell. The demon dad who whipped me, hurled insults, and starved me instantly vanished. Replaced by a gentle, refined, even somewhat "filial" man. He would put on an apron (impossible usually), squeeze into the kitchen where I served him in fear daily, and whip up a few decent dishes. At the table, he would smile and serve food to grandpa and grandma, and even—this terrified me most—put some in my bowl, saying, "Yingying, eat more, you're growing." Whenever this happened, I would tremble uncontrollably. Not from emotion, but bone-deep fear. I knew that behind the eyes filled with "love" for his parents, his peripheral vision was locking onto me like a cold probe. He was silently warning: Play your part, you little bastard. Dare to eat an extra bite, dare to say a wrong word, and the consequences... Eating felt like torture. The aroma of food was like poison gas, tempting my empty stomach, but I could only take small bites like the most reserved lady, picking at the few grains of rice in my bowl. I didn't dare look at the glistening braised pork, nor touch the vegetables dad served. Because I knew if I dared to "eat too full," the moment the door closed behind grandpa and grandma, he would beat me until I threw up everything I just ate, along with yellow-green bile. The two or three years after mom left were when I was most fragile and delusional. Seeing grandma occasionally spoil my uncle's little son, a faint, begging hope rose in my heart. Once, when grandpa and grandma were alone in the living room, I crept over like a little mouse, tugging at grandma's rough shirt, voice barely audible: "Grandma... can I... can I live with you and grandpa?" Grandma froze, looking at me with wrinkled, cloudy eyes. There was no warmth I expected, only a mix of awkwardness and... impatience. Her rough hand patted my head, not gently, more like dusting off dirt: "Silly Yingying, what nonsense. Grandma is tired enough with your little brother, how can I handle another one? Stay with your dad, he's a big calligrapher, has a future. Serve him well, be obedient." Serve. Obedient. These two words were like cold iron nails, instantly sealing my pitiful hope in a coffin. What froze my blood even more was that she turned around and told dad about my "senseless" request like it was gossip. The result? No suspense. As soon as grandpa and grandma left, the familiar bamboo switch came whistling down. Heavier and fiercer than usual. Dad roared through gritted teeth while beating me: "Wings hardened? Want to run? Just like your bitch mother? Dream on!" Exhausted from beating, panting heavily, he looked at my curled-up body like trash. Suddenly, a grotesque smile appeared, mixing cruelty and "warmth." He said: "Yingying, don't rush. When you grow a bit bigger, daddy will break your legs for you. Then, daddy will make you the prettiest little crutches, gold-rimmed, so you can never, ever run away." "Gold-rimmed crutches." This sentence became my deepest childhood nightmare. It was scarier than hunger, more painful than the bamboo switch. It hung over my head like a curse, making every thought of growing up accompanied by bone-chilling terror. I would wake up screaming in the night, touching my shins, imagining the sound of them snapping. 3 In this boundless fear and despair, Uncle Lin appeared. He was dad's high school classmate, supposedly doing some small business, but loved pretending to be cultured, especially hanging around the "calligrapher" circle. He also loved to drink, and could drink a lot. So he became an infrequent but regular visitor. Uncle Lin's arrival was like a drowning person grabbing a... straw? No, back then I thought it was a life-saving log. Because when Uncle Lin was there, dad absolutely wouldn't beat me. He would put on that gentle mask like he did with grandpa and grandma. He would smile and greet Uncle Lin, discussing calligraphy, current events, toasting each other. He would even extraordinarily allow me to sit quietly on a small stool, no writing, no rushing to the kitchen—as long as I stayed absolutely silent, like background decoration. That temporary, fake "safety" was heaven to me. I could briefly escape the threat of the switch, escape my father's sinister gaze, and even secretly, greedily breathe air free of cheap liquor and violence. So, I started having new "hopes." Not the illusory protection of grandparents, but the figure of Uncle Lin, smelling of tobacco and cheap cologne, appearing at my door. It meant that at least until he left, I could breathe, my bones would be intact, my stomach wouldn't cramp from fear. But back then, a child starved like a turnip, covered in wounds, craving a tiny bit of safety, how could I understand that in the shadow of some "protection" lay things filthier and deadlier than the switch and hunger... The candy Uncle Lin smilingly handed over... His hand seemingly casually landing on my shoulder, my back... That temperature was no warmer than dad's switch. It was just the prelude to another form of torture. Looking back now, labeling Uncle Lin an "absolute villain" seems a bit simplistic. Human nature, especially the rotten kind, is often coated in sticky sugar. He did "teach" me some things. Things that at the time even seemed "life-saving." He was like a mentor dispensing "survival skills" at the edge of the abyss. He said my look was too "raw," like an untamed wolf cub, full of wild vigilance and hatred. This wouldn't do; it was too conspicuous. "Yingying, you have to learn to hide," he lit a cigarette, his eyes looking particularly "deep" in the smoke. "Like calligraphy, too much exposed tip makes it floaty. Hide those things, under your gaze, behind your smile." He called this "concealing the tip." He also said my speech was too "blunt," like a hard stone, never saying anything soft, let alone praising others. "Sweet words don't cost anything," he guided patiently. "People like your dad especially eat this up. Praise his writing, praise his drinking capacity, praise whatever." Honestly, my mind was blank back then. "Praise"? This word was too foreign to me. In my world, there was only nitpicking, blame, and the whistle of bamboo. I never knew the word "good" could be followed by other words. Uncle Lin even taught me to read. Not the boring square characters from school, but "Three Hundred Tang Poems" smelling of alcohol and tobacco. He sat me on his lap, tapping the page word by word with rough fingers, drawling: "Moonlight—before—the bed—" I was forced to follow along. The strange rhythm and words fell like bizarre seeds into my barren brain. Before even stepping into preschool, I recognized many characters and could recite fifty complete poems clearly. This "knowledge," like stolen candy, was bitter yet畸形ly sweet. It did give me a pathological "superiority" over my peers. 4 I carefully tried Uncle Lin's "survival rules." Once, dad was splashing ink in the study again. Before, I had to wait for him to call "Grind ink!" like calling a dog before daring to approach. That day, I took a deep breath, walked over voluntarily, picked up the cold ink stick, and ground it finely, circle by circle. The ink dissolved, black and thick, like the fear in my heart. When he finished, I stared at the cursive that still looked like clawing demons to me, squeezed out a tiny voice with all my strength, and said dryly: "Dad... writes really well." The air froze for a second. I could almost hear my blood flowing backward, waiting for the familiar switch or slap. But, nothing. My dad turned around. That face flushed with alcohol showed me a "smile" for the first time. Though it was mostly smugness and condescending charity. "Heh," he snorted, smelling of booze, "At least you little thing know what's good!" That night, maybe he wasn't that drunk, or maybe that dry "good" really pleased him. Miraculously, he didn't beat me. He even fished a coin out of his pocket and threw it at my feet like tossing to a beggar after finishing his last drink. "Take it, buy candy." It was fifty cents. The coin lay cold on the floor. I squatted to pick it up. Touching the metal, I felt not joy, but a huge sense of absurdity and cold confirmation— So, what Uncle Lin taught really "worked." So, wearing a hypocritical mask and saying insincere words could buy peace, even... fifty cents. I clutched the dusty coin, palms sweating cold. An indescribable nausea and sorrow overwhelmed the tiny relief of survival. However, the devil's gifts are never stable. Soon after, dad participated in a supposedly important city calligraphy competition. He came back like an enraged brown bear reeking of alcohol. He smashed glasses, kicked over stools, cursed the judges for being blind, claimed the competition was rigged, and said everyone who didn't appreciate his "genius" was worse than pigs and dogs. The study was filled with the silence before a storm. I shrank in the corner, looking at his face distorted by rage and alcohol, remembering Uncle Lin's words. Watching him finish venting on a stack of paper, survival instinct drove me to open my mouth again, voice shaking like a leaf in autumn wind: "Dad... don't be mad... you, you write... really well..." "Good?! Good my ass!" Before I finished, a foot in a hard-soled shoe, wrapped in thunderous rage and alcohol fumes, kicked me hard in the stomach! Agony! Like being pierced by a red-hot iron rod! Before I could even scream, I flew like a broken sack, back slamming into the door frame, then sliding to the cold floor. Internal organs shifted, vision went black, only the churning cramps and suffocation remained in my stomach. He didn't even look at me, cursing as he slammed the door to the inner room. I curled up by the door like a dying shrimp, cold sweat instantly soaking my thin clothes. After a long time, when the sharp pain turned into a dull, pervasive torture, I dared to lift my shirt slowly. On my stomach, a terrifying bruise was appearing at a visible speed, edges dotted with purple-red broken blood vessels.
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