21
This is my first time coming to Lincoln's home in the United States. The villa is built halfway up the hill, with a wooden structure on the outside, and the glass windows reflect the surrounding woods.
Inside, there are large white walls and geometric structures, with a piano placed in the center of the living room.
"Can you play the piano?" I run over and press a key with my weak right hand.
Lincoln doesn't respond.
Sandwich is even more curious about the house than I am. He quickly discovers that the balcony from the living room leads to the garden and lawn outside, and immediately runs out to chase butterflies in the flower beds.
Lincoln says that the therapist refuses to go to the UK due to lifestyle habits, so we can only stay here temporarily. After we settle in, Lincoln drives me to the rehabilitation center five days a week.
While I do my rehabilitation exercises, he waits outside, working on his laptop.
Then we drive home.
In the afternoon, he usually continues working, while I wander around the house or play with Sandwich.
It's said that men who work hard are the most attractive. Sometimes, when I see Lincoln sketching by the window with a marker, I can't resist the urge to kiss him.
Lincoln grabs my hand and lifts me directly onto the desk.
When my underwear is taken off and casually hung on the back of a chair by Lincoln, Sandwich happily runs around our feet, with his plush toy in his mouth.
I hate the evenings the most.
Because the therapist always leaves me with homework, and after dinner, Lincoln always forces me to do it.
Most of the time, I can persevere, and I also want my right hand to recover fully, but the process is really painful. Moreover, I don't really like that therapist, because she likes to wear red, just like Luna.
I try to open my hand and then make a fist, but just repeating it once makes me sweat.
I don't dare to look at the large scar in the palm of my hand, so I say to Lincoln, "Let's take a break today..."
It really hurts.
"No," Lincoln says, pulling me into his lap and gently holding four of my fingers. The pain makes me want to pull my hand back, but Lincoln feeds me half a painkiller, coaxing me to try again while slowly helping me repeat the motions taught by the doctor.
"It hurts..." Tears almost fall from my eyes, and I struggle to push him away with my left hand.
But Lincoln is always so strict at this time. He kisses my eyes and softly comforts me, "Be good and listen to me."
I have no choice but to think of other ways to escape.
I sit on his lap, gently moving my butt between his legs, and soon feel something awakening.
Lincoln takes a sharp breath, squeezing my butt with one hand, "Don't move."
I lean my head on his shoulder and blow into his ear, "Let's do something more interesting."
Lincoln immediately picks me up and takes me to the bed, where our bodies entwine under the covers.
But when we're done and I'm drifting off to sleep, Lincoln continues holding my right hand and making me do the exercises.
I open my eyes in pain and glare at him.
He looks at me coldly, with no trace of sympathy, "You think you're clever, huh?"
But after the exercises are over, he'll hold me and say, "We'll go to the wildlife sanctuary tomorrow, okay? You can take pictures with the lions, tigers, and giraffes there, and I'll be your photographer and carry your bag."
"We'll also see volcanoes and glaciers. I'll take you wherever you want to go."
Occasionally, Lincoln has to return to the UK for work.
"Don't worry. I can drive myself to the therapist. Sandwich and I will stay at home and wait for you."
While Lincoln packs his luggages, I wrap my arms around his neck and give him a kiss.
Sandwich seems to understand as well and barks in agreement.
"Don't slack off. I'll video call you every day to make sure you're doing your homework," Lincoln says, looking at me.
"Yes, sir," I smile.
On the third day after he leaves, I call the therapist to ask for a day off, saying that the pipes at home have burst and I need to hire a professional to fix them, so I'll have to pause my rehabilitation for a day.
I arrive at the garage and drive to a well-known university 50 kilometers away.
It's morning, and students with backpacks are coming and going on campus.
I drive past the university, turn into an alley, and park in front of an upscale apartment building.
A few black birds are circling in the sky as I get out of the car and ask the doorman about a student named Cary Morris who lives here.
The doorman shakes his head. "I'm sorry, he moved out a long time ago."
"Do you know where he moved to?"
The doorman shakes his head again. "You'd better to call him or just check at the university. You might run into him there."
I return to the university entrance and start asking passing students if they know a student named Cary Morris. Sixteen times, I receive a negative answer.
On the seventeenth try, a guy hesitates. "I'm his classmate, but he hasn't been to class in a long time."
"Where did you last see him?"
The guy hesitates but eventually gives me an address.
Following the address, I arrive at an ordinary bar. I walk in and discover a long, dark spiral staircase leading underground. The light only brightens up after I pass through several security doors.
I take a light sniff; the air smells of marijuana.
The place is buzzing with people. Strippers are dancing on stage while people watch, occasionally erupting in waves of cheers.
A muscular young man approaches me, his short-sleeved t-shirt barely containing his bulging muscles. His arms are covered in tattoos, and a silver cross hangs around his neck.
"Who are you looking for?" he asks. He's the bartender here, and after giving me a once-over, he can tell I don't belong here.
"I'm looking for a guy named Cary Morris."
"And you are...?"
"His cousin."
The bartender nods. "Follow me."
We move through the smoke-filled, alcohol-scented air, past people drunkenly staggering around, to an even deeper part of the basement. The air here is even more suffocating, with the scent of marijuana much stronger.
The bartender opens a wooden door.
It's a small compartment, with a ceiling fan slowly rotating above, casting a dim light.
On the floor lies a man, so thin that he looks more like a Halloween skeleton than a person.
"He says he's a student, but I've never seen him attend a class," the bartender says, smiling as he nudges the man on the ground with his foot. "Hey, wake up, your cousin is here to see you."
He slowly opens his eyes, squinting as if the light is too bright, and then shields his eyes with one arm. I notice his arm is covered in countless needle marks.
"Cary," I gently call his name.
Hearing my voice, his body instantly goes rigid.
"It's you?!"
The next second, he jumps up and rushes at me. "How dare you come to see me?! How do you have the nerve to show up here!!"
I quickly step back, hiding behind the bartender.
Cary's sharp yelling attracts some people from outside who were watching the strippers. Hearing the commotion, they start walking over.
The bartender easily grabs Cary by the collar with one hand, lifting him off the ground, then slams him back down hard. "No one can cause trouble on my turf."
I think I hear a bone crack, and I see blood trickling from Cary's nose as he glares at me, crying out, "It's all your fault! You did all this to me!"
How laughable.
A junkie blaming someone else for pushing him into the abyss.
I leave the bar and drive home.
It's now noon, and the coastline is bathed in gold. Groups of bikini-clad girls are playing on the beach. I hum a tune, glancing at myself in the rearview mirror, feeling utterly calm.
It's as if the sword of Damocles that's hung over my head for years has finally fallen, and I've finally crawled out of the swamp of despair and endless nightmares.
The sunlight begins to shine on me, and the hatred is slowly leaving my body.
After arriving home, I take a shower, walk into the bedroom, and cuddle with Sandwich on the bed for an afternoon nap.
I'm woken up by the ringing of my phone. I see a message from the bartender, "Don't worry, I'll take good care of him."
I close my phone and go back to sleep.
A few days later, Lincoln flies back from London, and I resume my routine of morning rehab and evening rehab sessions.
I'm in so much pain that I run around the house, finally hiding under the piano, trembling. He pulls me out and holds me in his arms, bending my fingers and making me clench my fist.
"You're too rough!" I scold him.
"You better behave, or I can be even rougher," he warns.
I hide my hands behind my back and point at the grand piano. "Play me a song, and I'll do the exercises properly."
Lincoln coughs, trying to mask his discomfort.
"You don't know how to play?" I ask, my eyes wide with surprise. "Is it just for show?"
Lincoln coughs again. "If you do your exercises well for a week, I'll play for you."
I nod and grit my teeth, forcing myself to clench my fist.
So, over the next week, while I suffer through the painful exercises, Lincoln suffers in his own way too.
A new music room is set up in the house, where Lincoln stiffly tries to match notes on the sheet music with the keys on the piano. His tutor sits nearby, pointing out the notes with a teaching baton.
The tune Lincoln plays is awkward and clumsy, but eventually, I recognize it—it's "Loving Strangers," the song that played on the car radio the night we made love for the first time.
Lincoln's fingers are long and elegant, so even though his technique is stiff, there's an unparalleled beauty in the way his hands move across the keys. The light glints off the wedding ring on his fourth finger.
As he plays, he softly sings the lyrics, his voice filled with emotion.
I sit on the shaggy carpet, hugging a pillow, staring at the scar on my right hand.
I think to myself, if I could go back in time, I would still reach out to protect him, even if it means that my dream of becoming a fashion designer slips further out of reach.
The song ends.
"I've played it for you now, so you have to keep your promise and do your exercise properly," Lincoln says, raising an eyebrow.
I sigh softly.
Alright, alright.
Maybe I should try harder starting tomorrow. Who knows, maybe a miracle will happen?
A few days later, I receive another text from the bartender.
He says that Cary has run out of money to buy drugs. He has sold all his watches and shoes and still owes the bar a lot of money.
I frown, thinking for a moment, then call the bartender. "I'm sorry that something like this happens in our family, but it's too late now. I'll pay off his debt."
"I've seen a lot of drug addicts, and from the looks of it, he probably doesn't have much time left," the bartender says. "He's completely numb now; only a large dose can satisfy him."
Is that so?
When I last saw him, I thought the same—that he doesn't have much time left.