Recalling the Past

Shen Yali sat on the sofa, the phone slipping slowly from her hand. In that moment, she felt utterly powerless, gradually sinking into her memories.

Her academic performance began to decline after the midterm exam in the first semester of eighth grade. Shen Yali remembered it vividly; it was the first time she had been beaten like that since entering secondary school. That time, her math score was only eighty-nine. Furious, she was scolded harshly. She explained that her test paper had been confiscated by the teacher for passing answers, and she had only been able to work for half an hour.

Passing answers—unable to contain the anger, she was beaten. Hearing her say she was passing her own answers to someone else, it was taken as an excuse, and the beating grew harsher.

She remembered, on that occasion, the girl stared at her with a blank expression, silent, not shedding a single tear. She simply turned and walked away.

Gradually, after that, she stopped speaking at home. She no longer mentioned her classmates or teachers at school. Each time she was scolded, she would listen quietly; sometimes she would sit in the house lost in thought. When asked to do homework, she would scribble aimlessly, staring stubbornly, unmoving.

She lost interest in studying. Each day, she followed a silent routine from home to school and back, never going out on weekends. She would cling to the television, watching from morning until night. Time and again, she endured scolding and beatings, never crying aloud, only biting her lip as tears streamed down her face, standing in silence, waiting to be struck. Afterwards, she would return to her own corner.

Her scarred lips always made eating painful, and she would eat slowly, frowning.

It was hard to imagine that a twelve-year-old girl could be so strong, not uttering a sound when beaten, only shedding a few tears. She was known at school as someone who could "fly to the heavens," often fighting with the boys and changing deskmates several times. Even if she suffered, she would still fight back; after all, boys rarely hit girls. Each time, she wore a victorious smile, no matter how much pain she felt.

Because of her fighting, the homeroom teacher summoned her parents many times. She always found excuses, and at home, she would occasionally mention it, testing the waters to see if she dared tell the whole story; if things seemed off, she would fall silent immediately.

Clever, quick-witted, she learned to read people's moods.

Her grades kept slipping in eighth grade. Every time she was beaten, she wore an expression that said, "Scold if you want, hit if you must," which only made people angrier. Afterward, she would leave as if nothing had happened, sitting in her room, busy with who-knew-what.

She remembered once, she skipped class to go online, only to be caught by the homeroom teacher, who threatened to call her parents. Teacher Cheng began listing her offenses: always turning in homework last, always late, now even skipping class. If this continued, she wouldn't get into high school.

She stood there, rolling her eyes. Back home, she stood with a look of heroic sacrifice, leaving everyone at a loss.

Should she cry? Or laugh? Her lips pressed tightly, fists clenched at her sides, as if daring anyone to strike her, ready to fight back.

She did not get the expected beating, but went straight into her room, sat at her desk, and began scribbling with a pencil. The endless lecturing continued, whether she listened or not. When lunch was ready, she was called to eat, but no one came out.

Someone went in to call her. They saw her hurriedly remove something from her ears—she had blocked them!

Well, wasn’t that clever!

From then on, beatings and scoldings were commonplace, even Mu Fengyang would often join in, getting caught up and beaten as well. Mu Fengyang, however, would run and dodge, always escaping the blows with a mischievous grin, leaving everyone helpless.

And every time after the beating, regret and sorrow would flood the heart—not hers, but their own. The one who cried was never her, but themselves.