Chapter 8

Chapter 8

On the way, a kind-hearted neighbor saw me covered in mud.

He urged me to go home quickly, but I wouldn’t listen, so he forced me onto his back and started running toward the mine.

I wept and beat against his back.

“I’m not going home! I’m going to the mine! I want to find my dad!”

“Stop being ridiculous! Go home and stay with your mother. She’ll be worried sick with you running off like this!”

“My mom is at the mine too!”

“Nonsense. Women aren’t allowed inside the coal mine.”

“My mom went to bring my dad his lunch!”

He stopped, hesitated for a moment, and then ran even faster toward the mine with me on his back.

When we reached the entrance, it was already crowded with people.

Countless voices wailed in my ears, calling for sons, husbands, and fathers.

My weak cries were drowned out by the heavy cacophony.

Not a single person heard me.

Mingshan Mining had deployed numerous security guards to maintain order, but it was useless; everyone was desperately trying to squeeze through the gates.

The guards couldn’t hold them back at all.

Later, over a dozen buses arrived from somewhere.

The men who stepped off were fierce and menacing, armed with iron bars and pickaxe handles. They struck anyone who tried to push forward.

I heard that dozens of people were injured that night.

Only under the deterrent of violence did the crowd slowly calm down.

The rain grew heavier, making it impossible to keep one’s eyes open. The crowd waited in the downpour like a flock of ducks listening for thunder.

But what we eventually waited for were charred corpses, one after another.

One of those corpses was my father.

An explosion had occurred in the deepest part of the coal mine.

Many people were blown beyond recognition, their faces impossible to identify.

For those in better condition, one could roughly tell who they were.

Family members would surround them, breaking into fits of agonizing wails.

For the more tragic cases, where half a head might be missing, one group would gather to cry first.

Before long, another group would discover a more distinct characteristic and join in the weeping.

Amidst the clamor of mourning, the ownership of the corpse would be decided.

Those who had cried over the wrong person would wipe their tears, compose themselves, and wait for the next body to be pulled out.

Then they would go up and cry again.

After several rounds, I saw some people who had already mourned four or five times.

Those who were the last to cry would start cursing once they realized they had the wrong body.

They cursed the coal mine, they cursed the deceased, they cursed heaven and earth-but they didn’t dare curse Fu Mingshan.

“Uncle, why do I feel like they aren’t actually that sad?”

My neighbor explained to me in a low voice, “That man has five sons in total. The one working at the mine today was the eldest. He wasn’t quite right in the head. If he’s been killed, the mine will have to pay out a lot of compensation.”

The eldest son was likely in his forties.

With a poor mind and a body probably drained dry by labor, he likely had a host of underlying health issues.

If he was dead, the whole family might actually be secretly rejoicing.

The entrance to the coal mine was dark and hollow, like a Pandora’s box with its lid pried open.

For some, it spat out the cold corpses of beloved kin.

For others, it spat out a sudden windfall of wealth and prosperity.

In that torrential downpour, the true faces of all living beings were washed strikingly clear.

My father’s body was the last to be brought out. By then, most of the people crowded at the coal mine entrance had already dispersed.

Two men carried a small stretcher through the heavy rain. My mother walked beside it, her eyes fixed on my father.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream.

She just watched in silence.

I didn’t think much of it then, but thinking back now-how did she get inside?

Wasn’t the mine off-limits to women?

All the other families had to wait until the bodies were brought out before they could identify them. How was she able to identify him beforehand?

My father’s body was both easy and difficult to recognize.

It was difficult because his face had been mangled by the blast, making it impossible to tell who he was.

If my mother hadn’t been following alongside, many people would have inevitably rushed forward to wail over him.

It was easy because my father was a supervisor. He had a work ID, and that battered ID was hanging around his neck.

In those days, DNA technology wasn’t advanced. Identifying a body relied mostly on appearance, clothing, height, weight, birthmarks, or scars.

They said the man had my father’s work ID around his neck and my father’s national ID card in his pocket.

He was wearing the unique uniform my father wore as a supervisor.

Therefore, that man was my father.