Rohypnol

Rohypnol

Wei has traded in his suit and tie for something that covers only the front of his body—a long piece of knee-length fabric the color of jade, held together by a string at the back to give him the comforting impression of decency.

His look is cookie-cutter Asian. Your average Chinese businessman. He’s looking good with a fit body, and doing well financially for someone at forty. Though, in a hospital gown, he looks less the fit man. And quite unwell.

There’s something about wearing a washed-up, green hospital gown that makes a person look weak. What was once a strong and powerful man looks frail and brittle when drowned by a mantle the color of vomit.

This is one of the most humiliating experiences Wei had to endure, notwithstanding the messy altercation that landed him at the hospital in the first place say, one, no, two, actually make that three. Three days ago.

He can still feel the rage that consumed him that night when he caught his lovely wife bent over the matrimonial bed, moaning and panting as their hunky tennis coach defiled her every orifice.

What Wei did that night was what most husbands would do—show hospitality.

And so he made the hunky tennis coach a plate of sandwiches—knuckle sandwiches.

Wei can feel his nails digging into his palms at the graphic memory—the way his wife sounded, her cries of passion, the way she gripped the sheets of the bed while trying to keep her balance, the way her mouth slobbered open with drool as another man took her from behind, her rear slamming against another man’s hips, the way their skins slapped to make that sound, their bodies quickening, and her stabbing shrill as she limped from her high. Everything. Wei remembers everything, and it will forever be stamped in his mind for as long as he shall live.

He’ll probably remember what he saw that night come the time he finds someone to replace Miu Ling, his wife. Or worse, turn into the same cheating bastard who banged Miu Ling. Maybe then he will understand what it feels like to commit something immoral. Maybe then he’ll know what motivated that bastard to barge into his life and take what was his. Maybe then he will know.

A tiny sharp ache so small, yet so powerful, punctures his side. Wei puts his hand on the part of his rib where the pain is felt, below the last strip of bone covering his stomach. A broken rib.

Wei breathes as he closes his eyes, remembering how his hospitality that night was well-received by the bastard. His generosity was returned in kind, too, with a chockfull of punches. One hit was so strong that he actually broke a rib. Hmm, guess tennis coaches can throw a punch too.

That night he remembers so well, even in his cloud of fury. But this…these red lines…these set of red lines down his back…these he does not remember.

With one hand braced against the wall he twists his body, surveying the scratches down his back in the mirror as if someone left them there for him to see.

Those can’t be lines one gets from lying in bed for hours. They appear drawn, inked to his skin, tattooed into his mortality. That can’t be right, he thinks.

A knock on the door.

“Come in,” Wei beckons.

“Mr. Hong,” the lady doctor says, “How are you feeling?”

“Strange, actually. I have this…these scratches down my back,” he quickly pulls the string tight behind his back to cover his bum as he steps out from the lavatory, “I can understand the bruises in my legs which I got from brawling with the bastard who my wife cheated on me with. But these scratches I find…surreal. Do I scratch in my sleep?”