Disabilities

I was dragged into a horror game instance and forced to listen to a Siren sing.

I took off my hearing aids and stared blankly at the Siren baring its fangs.

“Sorry, sorry. I may not be able to hear, but I can definitely sleep!”

After a peaceful night’s rest, I safely survived the first day.

In the middle of the second night, someone quietly put my hearing aids back on me.

But then…

“Huh? I forgot to charge my hearing aids. Good thing I brought spare batteries.”

The Siren stared at me in silence, its expression dark and sinister.

Later, a group of Sirens gathered around the side of the ship, planning to pick someone to attack.

I performed CPR while playing “Most Dazzling Ethnic Style.”

The terrifying cruise ship turned into a blistering-hot party.

That day, every Siren sang off-key…

I ended up sleeping with the deaf-mute college boy my husband and I had been sponsoring.

While my husband brought his secretary home and took her to bed, I was in the next room, tangled up endlessly with the boy he had sponsored.

He bit his lip, trying to hold back, his face flushed, his eyes hazy.

He typed on his phone and played it aloud through text-to-speech: “Stop! Please don’t touch me there!”

Neither of us expected the volume to be so loud that my husband in the next room heard it.

The man I was to marry was a young general who had lost the use of his legs.

Rumor had it that he suffered from an unspeakable ailment and didn’t have long to live.

Later, behind the bed curtains, I discovered just how vigorous he truly was. Face burning, I shouted, “Stop bullying me!”

The man laughed hoarsely and caught my hand. “Then how about Qingqing bullies me this time?”

When I was five, my father brought home a handsome deaf boy and made him my child husband.

I prided myself on being a progressive woman; since childhood, I always told people he was my brother. I never expected that, more than ten years later, one drunken night,

I slept with him – and forgot about it.

My fiancé had been secretly sponsoring a young girl behind my back.

As my car passed by her school, I saw the girl clutching the faded sleeve of a teenage boy, timidly calling him Brother Xu.

The boy had delicate, handsome features and stood tall and elegant, like a white birch tree.

“Bring him over,” I said. “Miss?” I lifted my chin, my tone indifferent. “It’s nothing. I just want to do some sponsoring of my own.”

While sorting through my mother’s belongings, I found a crumpled notebook tucked under her pillow.

Four words were scrawled unevenly across the title page: “The Kill List.”

The first name on the list was the obstetrician who had delivered me.

The date noted beside it was the day I was born.

The second name was my father’s.

The date was the day he died in a mining accident.

The third name belonged to a stranger.

The date noted was yesterday.

The police told me that this person really did die yesterday, but my mother was buried over a month ago.