The Mad Girl

I curled up in the corner behind City S's most luxurious hotel, the stench of rust mingling with rotting vegetable leaves invading my nostrils. Today's sunlight was unbearably glaring, just like the sulfuric acid thrown onto my face that summer—the burning sensation crawling along my skin, burrowing into the crevices of my bones. Men in suits poured out from the revolving door. Their leather shoes clicked sharply on the polished marble, each sound like stepping on my severed fingers. I fumbled with the stack of sweat-soaked papers in my arms, the edges already frayed and curling. That was my diary—and the very evidence Eva Sue used to send me to the psychiatric hospital. The crowd suddenly stirred, someone pushing forward with a phone held high. "Look, it's Charles Pearson!" "And Eva Sue—they truly are a match made in heaven." My heart convulsed violently, as if gripped by an icy hand. Charles Pearson—that name I have screamed into countless midnights, until the metallic, bloody taste flooded my throat. I staggered forward with the crowd, my severed fingers scraping shallow marks across the rough ground. The white of the wedding dress suddenly struck my eyes like a lightning bolt cleaving through the chaos of memory. Eva Sue wore a wedding dress encrusted with shattered diamonds, linking arms with Charles Pearson, her smile more radiant than the sun. It was this very face that once swung an iron rod at my fingers, laughing as she said, "Sister, now you'll never play the piano again." A hoarse sound rasped from my throat as I longed to rush forward and tear apart her hypocritical mask. But my tongue had long been cut ragged, unable to form even a single complete curse. Charles seemed to sense something and glanced in my direction. The moment our eyes met, his pupils contracted sharply, then were engulfed by a thick wave of revulsion. Just like that year at the psychiatric hospital's visiting window, he watched me being pinned to the ground by the caregiver, frowning as he said, "Yvonne Sue, you disappoint me so deeply." I staggered forward, reaching out to touch the hem of his clothes, just as I had countless times in childhood, gently tugging his sleeve while he practiced piano, seeking his affection. He suddenly stepped back, as if recoiling from something filthy. "Security guard! Drag this mad person away!" His voice was as cold as ice. Eva Sue nestled in his arms, laughing coquettishly, "Charles, don't be angry. Maybe it was some beggar who scared you." A faint, barely perceptible gleam of pride flashed in her eyes as they swept over the scars on my face. The security guard's leather shoe slammed heavily into my waist, the searing pain curling me into a ball. The diary in my arms scattered, the wind blowing its pages into a swirling dance. I watched those pages, soaked with my blood and tears, flutter like white butterflies into the traffic, instantly crushed into pulp. In the blur of consciousness, I seemed to be back on my eighteenth birthday once more. Charles Pearson placed the cello before me, its lacquer glowing softly in the sunlight. "Yvonne, when you graduate from university, I will accompany you with this cello as you play the piano in a white dress, alright?" Warm liquid slid from the corner of my eye, burning the scars on my face. I gathered my last ounce of strength and crawled toward the river. The river water was cold, like the concrete floor of a psychiatric hospital basement. When the icy water rose above my chest, I thought I heard the sound of a cello—melodious and mournful. Charles Pearson, if there is a next life, I never want to meet you again.