Chapter 1
I was an exceptionally precocious child. From the moment I can remember, I understood that men and women must pass through the vagina to have babies.
I never once entertained doubts like whether kissing could cause pregnancy.
Whenever I watched TV and saw kids solemnly declaring that hugging could make you pregnant, I couldn’t help but think: How can anyone be this clueless? Shouldn’t they get their heads checked?
The first time I saw my father’s genitals was when I was six or seven.
That morning, Grandma had prepared breakfast and sent me to wake up Mom and Dad.
The door wasn’t locked. I turned the knob and pushed it open.
That’s when I learned to knock.
My parents were still snoring away. I glanced over—before I could even make out their positions—a towering, erect rod of flesh standing stiffly amidst dark hair shattered my innocence.
It was terrifying.
I froze in horror at the doorway.
Not a flicker of movement.
I stared at that thing with equal parts fear and disgust.
Even He-Man hadn’t scared me this badly.
I took a step back, careful not to make a sound. I closed the door quietly and knocked firmly.
“Time to get up!” I called.
“I know...” my dad croaked, his voice thick with irritation.
Back in the living room, my appetite vanished. My face was as dark as that thing, yet Grandma kept piling meat from the preserved vegetables onto my plate.
Staring at the meat floating in the white porridge, I nearly threw up.
A while later, my parents emerged from the bedroom, washed their faces together, and sat across from me.
My appetite vanished completely.
How I escaped that meal, I couldn’t recall. All I remembered was heading to the bathroom.
I pulled down my pants and stared at my little penis, lost in thought.
From that day on, I constantly worried my little penis would grow ugly too. I’d inspect it carefully every so often, only pulling my pants back up once I confirmed no hair had grown.
At the same time, I started avoiding my dad, resisting any physical contact with him.
He felt kind of disgusting to me.
But I never felt disgusted by my mom. I still hugged and kissed her like before.
Of course, my dad noticed. He was puzzled and asked me straight out if I didn’t like Daddy anymore.
I said no.
My mom smiled triumphantly: “Kids naturally cling to their moms when they get older. Mu Yang, come give Mommy a hug.”
I went over and snuggled up to her while watching TV.
Actually, it wasn’t just Dad. When I was little, I resisted physical contact with all adult men because looking at them reminded me of that thing.
That day wasn’t an accident—it was inevitable.
In my memories before age twelve, my parents were a couple perpetually in heat.
They made love everywhere—in the bedroom, bathroom, whenever I was home. When I wasn’t... well...
I once spotted a thong stained with semen on the balcony.
Holy shit.
I fucking knew what semen was by age ten.
As part of this household, I was deeply resentful, but I had neither the right nor the courage to resist.
I pretended not to see it, leaving the panties crumpled on the railing as I returned to the sofa to watch TV.
Back in the early 2000s, human traffickers ran rampant in Shenzhen. I lived near Longhua Station, one of the worst areas for public safety. Almost every utility pole was plastered with missing person posters.
My grandmother had returned to her hometown in Wenzhou. Grandpa had trouble walking, and she needed to farm the land, leaving no one to look after me.
My parents constantly warned me not to wander off, even pointing out disabled beggars on the street as cautionary examples.
I was precocious and sensible. After eating at a fast-food joint after school, I’d go upstairs, stay home alone, watch One Piece on Star Sky Channel, play DVDs, and sleep when I got tired.
My parents were too busy to look after me. They’d wake up at six to commute to work in the city center, finish at ten at night, and only get home around eleven or twelve.
Once home, they’d divide household chores. I never knew what time they finally slept—I was already out by then.
But this hectic life never shattered my parents’ love.
One night, I woke up halfway through sleep to pee. As I opened the door, I heard soft moans and breathy whispers drifting from the living room.
I was dying inside.
I gritted my teeth and closed the door.
I often wonder how they could have made me. I’m nothing like them—shameless and uninhibited. I blush. I get embarrassed.
When I stumble upon scenes like that?
I get so embarrassed!
It wasn’t until middle school that I realized, oh, genetic mutation.
Another mutated gene was academic brilliance.
My grades were exceptional. I didn’t study hard—after school, I just watched TV, never did homework, only paid attention in class.
Maybe it was precociousness, maybe it was intelligence, but I consistently ranked in the top ten of my grade.
My focus was intense. I never zoned out during class. For forty minutes, I stared straight at the teacher, never looking away, memorizing every word.
This was one reason my parents rarely intervened—to them, good grades equaled being sensible and well-behaved.
But they didn’t know I’d started sneaking into shady internet cafes in fifth grade. You get tired of watching Ultraman after a while.
Going online cost money, so I started asking my mom for cash frequently—and only my mom, because she was gentler.
I also lied to get money: I said I needed notebooks, books, or that the school was organizing a donation drive—I asked for a hundred yuan but never donated.
My mom firmly believed I was a good kid and always gave it to me readily.
By then, she’d quit her job in the city center and switched to a company in Longhua, but she still worked late every day. This gave me space to run wild.
From fifth grade to seventh grade, those three years, I ruled the schoolyard. A pack of Yuxi cigarettes in one hand, a pack of Renault in the other, I was the coolest kid in class. They all called me Brother Yang.
Those good days ended in seventh grade.
My parents divorced.
I think it was inevitable.
After all, they couldn’t control their desires.
It was my mom who cheated during the marriage.
During sixth-grade winter break, my dad returned to Wenzhou and never came back. He partnered with relatives to open a building materials factory near the train station.
My mom took me to Shenzhen. We lived apart for two years. In the second year—my first year of junior high—an uncle suddenly started appearing frequently in my life.
He often bought me clothes and shoes, took me to malls for meals, brought me to arcades, celebrated my birthday with me, and even topped up my QQ game cards.
He went out of his way to please me, never skimping on spending. For a while, I thought he was way better than my dad.
Don’t blame me—I told you I focus on what’s in front of me.
When you’re eating a sweet cake, all you see is the frosting. You forget about the dad who rushed you to the hospital in the middle of the night when you had a fever. Just like in class, you don’t think about Ultraman.
My falling out with that uncle was because of his son.
A high school boy, tall, wearing a red string bracelet, a tight-fitting school uniform top, and wine-red dyed hair.
Back then, most troublemakers in Longhua sported that look: wine-red or chestnut hair, a blue top two sizes too small, long black school pants, and AJs or Converse.
The hair was one thing, but I still can’t fathom the aesthetic appeal of the uniform—maybe because I lack that Guangdong DNA.
I saw it as flaunting wealth. Uniforms had to be bought as complete sets; counterfeit ones from outside vendors were obvious and got you mocked by classmates.
He had to shell out extra cash for two pairs of pants he’d never wear, just to pull off that look.
Same here. Even though middle school uniforms are plain white and not as flashy, I’m Yang Ge—I stay on top of trends.
I even have two pairs of AJs, though they were gifts from his dad.
But his dad celebrated his birthday at my house.
His dad’s birthday, cooking dinner at my place.
The house was bought by my dad and mom together.
“Braised fish is ready!” Mom brought out the final dish.
My attention snapped back as I sized up the high schooler across from me. He sat in my house, legs crossed, carrying himself like some big shot.
The guy was sizing me up too, his eyes dripping with undisguised mockery.
I could feel he wanted to hit me.
“Mu Yang,” Uncle sensed the tension, poured me a glass of orange juice, trying to smooth things over, “This is my son. He’s in his second year at Long High. Just call him big brother. If you ever get bullied at school, come find him.”
Find him?
Are you sure he won’t bring a bunch of people and give me a second round of trauma?
“Yes,” my mom chimed in, serving me fish. “son, call him big brother.”
Even now, I hadn’t dared to confirm the relationship between my mom and this uncle. After all, she hadn’t come clean with me, and I had my own reasons for keeping things vague.
This happy scene felt too precious to shatter. I didn’t want to pry into my dad’s affairs.
I called out, “Brother.”
The guy snorted coldly, rolled his eyes, and turned away.
Fuck off!
I was already in seventh grade. I was Brother Yang. I’d sit in shady internet cafes with a cigarette between my fingers, and even the punk kids wouldn’t dare look at me. I had a temper, okay?
I dropped my chopsticks on the spot and stormed out.
I wasn’t wearing my AJs. I wore the Converse my dad bought me. These Converse were bought last Chinese New Year and were incredibly tight.
I had other shoes. My mom would buy me shoes too. But at that moment, my mom was tugging my arm from behind. I did it on purpose. I wanted to pull out the shoes my dad bought from the bottom shelf of the shoe rack.
When Mom saw them, she stopped pulling me.
It was getting dark. Not staying home meant heading to the shady internet cafe in the station alley.
The walk made me angrier and more lost. Passing the station, I spotted a long-distance bus with “Wenzhou” plastered on its front.
Money can’t buy affection, after all. Uncle had fawned over me for so long, only to give me this little bit of grief. Suddenly, I missed my dad like crazy.
And I felt guilty.
Insanely guilty.
I held a cigarette between my teeth and played Audition with my friend for a while. For the first time, my focus wavered. My mind was filled with thoughts of my dad and that man’s mocking laughter.
The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. “My mom might be cheating.”
My friend froze, taking several seconds to turn and look at me.
“Should I tell my dad?” I asked.
“Hell yeah, you should tell him.” My friend was probably the type who had a good relationship with his dad.
So I, who felt somewhat distant from mine, went ahead and told him too.
I borrowed the phone from the internet cafe owner and called my dad.
It rang for ages before he picked up. The background noise was deafening—a rumbling roar like a helicopter hovering overhead.
“Hello? Who is this?” my dad asked.
It was the first time I’d ever heard him speak so politely to me. Maybe it had been too long since I’d heard his voice. For a moment, I couldn’t quite place the feeling.
I called out, “Dad.”
“Mu Yang?” he sounded surprised. “What’s going on?”
If it weren’t important, I wouldn’t have called. We’d never been close since I was little. After he moved back to Wenzhou, I never once called him first.
Standing at the counter, I fell silent for a long time, my heart racing.
I feared hurting him, and I began dreading the consequences of telling him.
“Speak up,” my father urged impatiently.
“Dad,” I stammered, “Dad, that, that...”
My head felt hot. I gritted my teeth: “Dad, Mom has been spending a lot of time with this man lately...”
I couldn’t bring myself to finish.
My heart pounded like a drum.
My father didn’t speak.
The noise on the other end of the line was deafening. I couldn’t hear a sound from him. All I heard was the roar, roar, roar—as loud as my own heartbeat.
