Chapter 80: A Lifetime Permeated by Scent

Chapter 80: A Lifetime Permeated by Scent

This novel is translated and hosted on bcatranslation

The hand that touched Gao Ming was devoid of the warmth one would expect from a living being, feeling more like an inanimate object. It was coarse, marked with the hard, rough patches of calluses and scabs, a testament to hard labor or perhaps a life of hardship. The fingers were grimy, coated in dirt that seemed ingrained into the skin, and the fingernails were in poor condition – bitten down to jagged, uneven stubs.

In the oppressive darkness and utter silence of his surroundings, this hand became Gao Ming’s sole source of information about his environment. Deprived of his sight and hearing, he likened himself to a crazed person trapped in a dark, forgotten cellar, using touch as the only means to connect with the outside world.

Suddenly, the hand clasped his own with a startling force. Gao Ming felt a primal fear, as if ensnared by a predatory animal, being inexorably pulled deeper into the foreboding depths of the pitch-black cellar.

In a desperate effort to protect himself, particularly his head, Gao Ming lost all sense of which way was up or down, left or right. After what seemed like an eternity, he tumbled down into the cold, damp mud and became completely lost in the darkness. He tried searching for markings like walls or stones to help his senses, but as he wandered, nothing of the sort came into contact with him.

Confused and disoriented, Gao Ming found himself back where he had started. He squatted down, overwhelmed by a deep sense of panic. He was a man accustomed to relying on sight and hearing to navigate the world, but now those senses were useless to him.

He pondered the owner of the hand, realizing that this person hadn’t killed him outright. There must be a reason for this; perhaps he was needed for something.

In a bid to understand his surroundings, Gao Ming scooped up some mud, molding it in his hands and bringing it close to his nose. The fresh, moist scent of earth, reminiscent of the smell following rain, filled his nostrils. As he was engrossed in this smell, his fingers brushed against something unexpected – a blade of grass.

This discovery was perplexing. As he understood it, the cellar should be filled with nothing but damp, rotting mud – not the environment where you’d find the scent of fresh earth or living plants.

Though he couldn’t see or hear, his sense of touch and smell were intact and now his primary tools for experiencing the world. Kneeling down, he felt around, exploring the grass and leaves, the scents almost becoming tangible through his touch.

Reflecting on his situation, Gao Ming recalled the case of the ‘dog cellar’, where a deaf-mute man had been brutally killed by villagers. He now found himself in a similar predicament.

As he explored, the aroma of osmanthus flowers reached him. This scent was known for its ability to alleviate depression and had some efficacy in treating certain mood disorders.

Compelled by the fragrance, Gao Ming moved towards it. But before he could reach its source, he was suddenly and violently attacked. He felt the impact of belts, wooden chairs, and fists, an array of objects beating him mercilessly in the darkness. The pain was real and immediate, even if he couldn’t see his assailants.

Gao Ming pondered a chilling thought, “Scents represent memories, and the corresponding memory scene reappears when you smell them. Could it be that the blind madman was sold by his parents as a child? And the jacket man was the buyer?”

After enduring a third round of beatings, Gao Ming attempted to escape. However, without the ability to see or hear, his efforts to flee were fraught with difficulty and uncertainty.

The man in the jacket forcefully grabbed Gao Ming by the collar and dragged him through the darkness, the strong, penetrating scent of mothballs filling the air around them. As they moved, the unsettling smell of blood became more pronounced, mingled with the clinical odor of medicine. Amidst this sensory overload, a sudden and foul odor made its presence known, and Gao Ming felt another hand grasp his arm.

A scuffle ensued between the owner of this foul smell and the jacket man, during which Gao Ming found himself unexpectedly free. Most people in such a situation would seize the chance to escape, but Gao Ming had a different realization.

He recalled that when he first entered the black cellar, he had detected this same foul odor. Strangely, he hadn’t found it repugnant; in fact, there was something almost comforting about it. As a psychological counselor, Gao Ming was familiar with the notion that scents could hold different meanings for different people. What might be foul to one could be fragrant to another, often influenced by their emotional associations with that scent.

With this understanding, Gao Ming made a bold move. He clenched a fistful of soil and, with a surge of newfound determination fueled by the multiple beatings he had endured, he attacked the “mothball person.”

Assisted by the owner of the foul smell, they successfully repelled the “mothball person.” Gao Ming’s hand was grasped yet again, but this time the touch was different. The hand was warm, not large, its palm rough with calluses, indicative of someone accustomed to manual labor, perhaps something delicate like weaving.

Gradually, the oppressive scents of dust, sweat, car exhaust, and even the more pleasant aromas of bread and coffee began to fade away. They were replaced by a gentle breeze carrying the faint smell of wheat and the homely scent of cooking from nearby houses.

“It feels like I’ve returned from the city to my childhood home in the countryside,” Gao Ming thought to himself, a wave of nostalgia washing over him.

The comforting, familiar scents of burning firewood, roasted tofu, sweet potatoes, and stir-fried cured meat filled the air. He was soon handed a steaming bowl of rice and a pair of chopsticks. As he ate, the flavors seemed to embody the essence of childhood joy, infused with a deep longing and the taste of home. It was an indescribably delicious meal, the best he had had in a long time.

After finishing the meal, Gao Ming remained seated, and the hand then offered him a small knife. Initially startled, he was soon presented with a prepared bamboo strip, and the hand guided him in the craft of weaving a bamboo basket.

“This hand not only fed me but also wants to teach me skills for survival,” Gao Ming realized with a sense of gratitude.

His body naturally gravitated towards the warmth of this hand. In his current state, lost in the darkness and silence, Gao Ming had forgotten about the game he was supposed to be playing. All he knew was that he wanted to stay close to this hand, the only source of comfort and security in his otherwise bleak and disorienting world.