There is great terror between life and death
I have a pair of beautiful hands.
These are the hands that have been praised since childhood until now.
The characteristics of my hands are that they are round, not big, and the fingers are slender. When they reach the base of the fingers, they quickly become fat and have too much flesh. As a result, four nice-looking small pits appear on the backs of my finger joints.
Because I was born in 1974 when material was scarce, every person in the village, regardless of gender, old or young, would bite my hand consciously or unconsciously whenever they saw me as a baby. The light in their eyes scared me, so I
I cried loudly, but unfortunately, the harder I cried, the harder they bit.
After having my hands bitten by countless people, I am not very willing to have these hands.
As I grow older, fewer people are willing to bite my hands. Mainly because my hands are dirty most of the time. Only my mom, dad, and sisters are willing to bite my hands occasionally after they are washed.
It's so satisfying to take one bite.
Later, no one cared about these hands that many people praised as being bound to be blessed.
Until my wife appeared in my life, things changed to a certain extent. She liked to bite my hands. She would bite me when she was angry or unhappy. She also bit me when my son wet the bed...it hurt so much.
marrow.
After my son started to go to school, she even abandoned my hands. So far, these hands have no other use except coding to make money.
Today, a good-looking girl took my hand and looked at it carefully. She looked at it very seriously, looked over and over, and often touched the back of my hand with her white fingertips, her movements gentle and delicate...
…
Then, she took a needle with a long tube and pricked it into the back of my hand... If it didn't work once, she pricked it twice, three times...
Seeing the veins popping up on the beautiful little girl's forehead, I comforted her gently: "My hands are fat and my blood vessels are thin, so take your time..."
After being comforted by me, the little girl seemed to feel humiliated, so she turned around and ran out.
After a while, an older woman with a blue stripe on her hat came in. She picked up my hand as if it were a pig's trotter, like a butcher who has taken care of a thousand oxen, and slapped it on the back of my hand.
In just two strokes, one needle went in, which is the three elements of stability, precision and ruthlessness.
I looked at a trace of bright red appearing in the transparent tube, which should be my blood. The older woman moved the pulley on the tube, and my blood mixed with the transparent liquid and entered my blood vessels again, cooling it.
It's cool and a little comforting.
Because I was a drinking buddy with the director, the ward I lived in was a suite with very good conditions and was surrounded by the fragrant aroma of flowers - like a corpse waiting to be mourned.
There are many friends, and there are also many people paying condolences. Everyone has a deep concern on their faces, which is good, but the gifts they send are not friendly at all.
Maybe they thought that I was a writer who wrote books and should have a bit of style, so they decisively abandoned my favorite gifts such as canned yellow peaches, monkey head biscuits, and eight-treasure porridge, as well as ginseng, deer antlers, and maca.
No one gave me any common gifts. They replaced all the things I expected with expensive but useless flowers.
The main color of the bouquet is composed of white lilies that exude a strong fragrance.
This led to me lying alone among the flowers decorated with white and occasionally a few other colors, looking at the ceiling.
The ceiling of the hospital is like heaven, white and dazzling. The ring-shaped incandescent lamp emits soft white light, like the halo on the head of an angel, so holy that people dare not look at it.
I feel that a person like me who is almost full of all five poisons should not be qualified to go to any kind of heaven. Besides, I hate the color white.
Just when I was thinking about the difference between heaven and hell, the door of the ward was pushed open, and then, a simple and simple head unique to farmers poked in, with a strong smile on his face full of grooves. This was a man.
Peasant poet.
What I discussed the most in the past was - white radish thighs, dripping water, why can't such a good place keep you? He felt that the main theme of rural literature is simple and direct, and only in this way can farmers be
When the repressed emotions in your heart are expressed, you should write nakedly and sing nakedly.
The farmer's enthusiasm is unstoppable. Knowing that I am a diabetic patient who has been ill for five years, he brought me peaches grown on their trees. The peaches were bright red and very heart-warming at first sight. They were all grown on the treetops.
A high-end product with plenty of sunshine.
He also told me that if you take one mouthful of honey, one more bite will make you sweet.
It wasn't until he took out a large handful of shockingly red roses from the carton of peaches... or maybe a bouquet of roses, that I knew he was here to ask me about his works being selected into the collection I edited.
of.
God, for his works that dare to write female genitalia in poems without any subtlety, I have the guts to include this thing in the collection. His works can be sung during the Flower Festival antiphon.
, it is absolutely impossible to use it to publish a book.
He was very disappointed when he left. Before leaving, he took a look at the peaches he sent, maybe he felt that he was at a loss.
I also felt that he was at a great loss. That box of peaches would probably bring him more than a hundred yuan. It would be a huge loss for him to give it to me, a diabetic patient.
Fortunately, the bouquet of red roses or roses he sent brought me some comfort.
This kind of comfort didn't come until the little girl who came to remove the needle asked me why I wanted to pick flowers in the hospital. I woke up from a dream and looked out the window. The roses outside the window were blooming in full swing...
Lying in a high-end ward is like lying in a luxuriously decorated mourning hall. I feel that I am an ordinary person. Since I am an ordinary person, I should enjoy the happiness and joy of ordinary people, as well as the pain and sorrow of ordinary people. Therefore, I acted decisively
The mourning hall was abandoned and moved into a general ward with four beds.
As soon as I entered, I regretted it.
The old man in the hospital bed next door had been holding his urine in all night, but could not be released due to prostate problems. He was holding his feet with both hands and groaning in pain.
After the doctor came to see her, he decisively performed intubation and catheterization.
I don't know why those nurses pulled the curtain over to block the view of the patients next door, but the direction I was in was unobstructed, giving me the best observation position.
Then, I saw an unforgettable scene in my life. Five or six little nurse girls took off the old man's pants, grabbed the old man's male features like pulling out a carrot, and then took a transparent tube and poked it inside.
The old man was bouncing on the hospital bed like a fish that had just been thrown ashore.
Seeing this scene, I couldn't help but reach out and touch my own. Fortunately, it was still there. It was more than half smaller than usual because things hurt its kind. The other half was still there, but it had shrunk into the body.
What the old man was leaking was not urine, but blood. The nurses suddenly became nervous. The older nurse pulled out the catheter. Then, for the first time, I saw the scene of male characteristics spurting out blood. The blood was not there yet.
When he landed on the hospital bed, he was pinched by a nurse... She actually pinched him.
Later, the ward was filled with doctors and nurses. After a brief discussion, they said that the old man's prostate was bleeding, and the blood clot blocked the tube, making him unable to urinate. He needed to go to the operating room to continue intubation with the help of instruments.
son……
After they sent the old man away, my bladder felt very uncomfortable. I went to the toilet to release it, but nothing happened. At that moment, a scene suddenly appeared in front of my eyes of me lying on the hospital bed and being treated like an animal by the doctors.
Then, I returned to the ward that I called the mourning hall, lying quietly on the bed surrounded by flowers, looking forward to the next visitor, whether it was a peasant poet or a wandering urban poet, as long as they opened the door
Come in and we will be good friends who talk about everything.
This chapter has been completed!