Huang Ying [hiatus]

Chapter 8: Sammo's Story Continued

Huang Ying
By Fox-Trot-9

Rated PG-13

Horror/Suspense/Mystery/Vampire

Chapter 8: Sammo's Story Continued

(Pieces of the Puzzle)

Chengde, China

September 19, 1977

Sammo Hung—I woke up sucking in a gulp of air, drenched in sweat and breathing hard, nearly slipping off the toilet seat.

Time passed. After the panic wore off and my breathing returned to normal, I checked my surroundings. Nothing had changed; everything remained the same down to the floor tiles, still musky with the scent of hand sanitizer and traces of ammonia. Then I checked on myself. My hands—nothing lost there; I still had every digit attached, and the ring was still on my middle finger. Then I checked on my chest, putting my hand against my ribs; nothing there felt broken, though the pulsations of my heart were still pretty strong. I did the same thing to my lower extremities and noticed nothing in particular stand out, except for the dull ache in my balls and the sweat on the soles of my feet. Probably the fear sweats.

But other than those, nothing had changed.

Then, without the slightest clue why, I put my hand to my neck, placing the fingers on the area where I had cut myself with a razor back at the Bifeng Hotel; the thin slit of last night had healed over into a scab. Then I got off the toilet and checked it in the mirror, and sure enough, there it was, a thin line of discoloration about an inch long.

I resisted the urge to pick at it though and leaned against the sink, waiting for Yeung to give me my clothes. And waited. And waited. But the urge was too strong. Without thinking about it, I gingerly placed my fingernail on it, picking at it little by little the way a kid picks at an old scab on a knee or an elbow. From my childhood days, I've always had a tendency to pick at my scabs; call it disgusting, call it hazardous to my health, but it's a habit I never quite grew out of.

So I kept picking at it, tempting fate until fate banged on the door—Fuck!—, followed by Yeung's voice: "Hung, are you in there? I got new clothes for you."

Keep this up, and I give you a new face, you bastard! I thought of saying but never did. "Jesus, Yeung, has it ever occurred to you that I might be in the middle of doing something when you just barged in like that?"

"No. What were you doing, exactly?" he said. "Hope it's nothing I wouldn't be doing."

"I was shaving, you asshole!" I lied.

"Oh, sorry about that, man. I'll just leave your stuff at the door then, okay?"

"That'll be fine, thank you." Thank you, Yeung; you're a gentleman and a scholar, I thought. And an asshole!

After he left, I checked myself in the mirror again, noting the fresh trail of blood seeping out of the cut. So I tore off another couple of sheets of toilet paper, ran it through the running faucet, and applied it to the wound until it stopped bleeding. Then I opened the door, grabbed the new clothes and got myself dressed. There was even a professor's jacket included, the buttoned kind with leather pads on the elbows of the sleeves; I guess it was meant to make myself more respectable in the public eye. As for the continence pad, I kept it, believe it or not, stuffing it into the inner pocket of the jacket. I hoped I would never have to use it, but if it ever came down to that, at least I'd be ready for it. Better safe than sorry.

When I walked out of the bathroom, it was with the limping gait of a tenderized pulsing grapefruit between my legs. Every step I took was slow and agonizing.