ACOUSTIC METADATA

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• TIMESTAMP: Autumn, 1969

• LOCATION: Compound No. 7 / Abandoned Building, Beijing

• BIOMETRICS: Paternal Heart Rate: 136 bpm

• AUDIO DATA: Rusted iron wire voice, Matchstick ignition (Scritch—hiss)

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My father’s voice was low, as if he wanted to grind every word between his teeth. Those eyes, which had scrutinized countless men, were now fixed on the white glare behind my sunglasses, trying to discern the shape of the monster inside me. I said nothing. I didn't even rub the burning side of my face.

 

“Get up!”

 

He gripped me like a bird. His heart rate surged to 136 bpm. He dragged me behind the abandoned building, his voice becoming a length of rusted iron wire, repeatedly demanding that I act deaf and mute—otherwise, he’d “pierce my ears shut.” He was lying.

 

His heartbeat was chaotic as he rambled about the "fear of exposing our Mongolian blood." I froze. In Compound No. 7, revolutionaries were still hunting those with steppe heritage. My voice, whether it originated from the wild grasslands or the crows, was the scent of raw meat to their hounds.

 

My mother died on the delivery table; I never knew the instinct of maternal love. For ten years, my father raised me alone. He loved me, but he also hated me, calling me an "evil spirit" who killed his greatest love. He loved his career far more than his son. Even while stir-frying or washing his feet, his mouth was full of “Work."

 

I secretly nicknamed him "Work"—I never wanted to call him “Dad."

 

I crouched into a ball. He leaned against the wall, striking match after match. Scritch—hiss.