MOON AND DUST

BAD DOG

Chapter 1

Scientific research shows that people's memory storage time for things is limited. When I try to recall my youth in full, all that remains in my mind are a worn, loose leather jacket, unripe green dates, and a blue basin filled with red-tailed fish.

And all this has to do with my brother.

When I was fifteen, I was admitted to a key high school in the county. My brother took us out of the village in the mountains and opened a printing shop in the town with the only savings left by our adoptive mother to support my studies.

The newly rented yard is not big, with two rooms. One is used for cooking and eating, and my brother built a wall inside the remaining room to divide it into two, one for each of us.

The sunlight was blinding, and I looked at the ivy covering the brick wall before I realized that my brother and I had emerged from that dilapidated ravine.

Over the past decade or so, I have always felt like a rat in a gutter, racking my brains every day to avoid being beaten by my adoptive father after he got drunk. When I opened my eyes, I was worried about whether I would have enough food and clothing. After returning to the cave, I would hug another rat and confide in each other. The other rat was my brother.

I thought my brother and I would never see the light of day again.

But a rain in early autumn changed the fate of both of us.

Early in the morning, my brother and I went to the mountains to pick mushrooms and passed by my adoptive father, who was carrying a bottle of wine on his way home. He came back to ask my adoptive mother for money, but she didn't give him any. So he took out her only savings. According to her, that should be the money prepared for my brother to get married. Although she had a mental problem, she knew how to protect the money.The two had an argument, and the adoptive mother accidentally pushed him onto the stove and then swallowed the pesticide herself.

When my brother and I returned home, we were both dead.

The only raincoat in the family was given to me. He was wearing a tattered jacket of his adoptive father. When he covered my eyes with his hands, I could smell the scent of wet mud on his hands. I saw his tears through his fingers and suddenly realized that my brother was the only adult in this family.

So he began to take care of me just as my adoptive mother had taken care of him, trying to find ways to make money for my schooling and to provide me with food and drink.

But I will never forget the look of tears streaming down his face as he cooked that day.

The firelight licked the winding tear marks on his face. From a distance, it looked like a magnificent harbour under the dim sunset. In the next second, a ship would set sail, but he was as quiet as a grave mound in the mountains.

The four words "never see the sun" came back to my mind again.

I walked over and hugged his head. Rain was hitting outside, and damp air seeped in through the crack in the door. He nestled in my arms and began to cry, clinging to my arm with great strength, as if he had grabbed the chance of dying given by God between life and death. I was also thinking at that time, if I wasn't there, would my brother die too?

I patted his back gently. His crying was like a whirlpool that was about to swallow me up. I caught his tears drop by drop, counting them like the back of my hand.

After that year, I became like a collector, diligently recording the number of times my brother cried. My brother is not a strong man, but he always cries. His life is so hard. If he doesn't shed tears, he will probably die.