Childhood + quiet Liaohe - Chapter 01
When, when, when
The clock on the wall rang eight feebly to announce the beginning of another boring day.
I knead my waist and rolled my eyes.
my mother came to the bed and gently pushed my back: “son, get up quickly, the sun is shining on your little butt, get up quickly!”
With that, my mother opened my quilt and pulled me up: “quick, listen to mom’s words, get up, little lazy egg! Today is Sunday. When the store opens, my mother will go downstairs to buy meat. In the evening, my mother will make dumplings for you
my mother helped me get dressed and shoved the novel “childhood” into my hand: “son, it’s still the old rule. When you get up in the morning, read two pages first!”
I opened the thick novel with annoyance and looked absently. My mother went to her sister who was writing: “well, how did you write? What kind of crap is this? It’s crooked.” she grabbed her sister’s homework book and tore it down with a Shua Write
EH – EH – EH – Yi – my sister wiped her eyes sadly. The poor sister had been writing all morning, and my mother had been tearing it all morning.
It seems that my mother deliberately can’t get along with my sister. When my sister just wrote, my mother didn’t stretch out her hand to tear it. Whenever my sister was about to fill a page with only one or two lines left, my mother would seize her sister’s homework book with various excuses and tear the page off mercilessly.
Looking at the fruits of his hard work, again and again into pieces of paper, my sister can not help but shed tears of pain.
Mother mercilessly pinched the tender meat on the inner side of her sister’s thigh. Her other hand was raised high and kept shaking in front of her sister’s eyes: “it’s time to die. Don’t cry, turtle go back, don’t cry, turtle go back!”
This is in my childhood memory, the most profound, deep almost engraved on the bones, since then, will never forget a scene, my mother is so cold and merciless abuse of poor sister, it seems that from the sister’s painful expression, whining in the tears, mother can get a kind of special happiness and happiness.
For me, my mother is a different attitude from my sister.
“Son, mother’s baby son!”
After maltreating my poor sister, my mother turned around and came to me who was not in the mood to read a novel. She used her fat hand, which had just pinched and twisted her sister’s thigh, and gently pressed and stroked my head: “son, mother’s little baby, are there any words you don’t know?”
“Mom” I pointed to a word that I already knew and asked my mother on purpose: “this word, read what?”
“Ni ah, Nian Ni! Oh, seliosa asked his grandmother, where are you from? My grandmother replied, “nitzini, I’m from Nigeria!”
My mother sat next to me, and her big fat buttocks pressed tightly on my round little buttocks: “son, how bad is your memory? How many times has your mother told you that the word Nian, why haven’t you remembered it?”
If the elder sister asked her mother again and again, she would have slapped her face with impatience.
“Mom” I put down the novel, one head in my mother’s arms, put my little hand into my mother’s chest, and grabbed my mother’s long nipples. My mother looked at me with a smile, and deliberately raised my chest high to facilitate my grasp: “Hey, son, is mother’s Zaha good?”
then, I talked about my mother’s nipples, and my mother was more open and smiling. At the same time, my mouth murmured: “son, how old are you? You’re almost going to school. Why do you still like to eat Zaha? My mother has no milk!”
“Mom, I like my mom’s smacking. If I don’t have milk, I’m willing to suck it. It’s fun!”
when I heard what I said, my mother said happily, “well, if you want to, you can do whatever you like.”
While my mother was holding her breast, she allowed me to suck her long nipples and touch her big milk. She gently patted my back with her hand, humming freely in her mouth, and her white breast undulated evenly.
I’m not afraid to be laughed at. I was born a little lecherous. I was probably influenced by my father’s lust. I was born with my father’s lecherous genes.
I have a strong interest in women and their bodies, especially their urination, which I miss and dream about.
In early childhood, sucking on the mother’s nipples is for the sake of belly, survival and growth.
Later, as I grew older, my nature changed fundamentally.
I suck my mother’s nipples, on the one hand, for the sake of belly, for survival and for growth; on the other hand, I really feel that sucking my mother’s nipples can bring me a wonderful pleasure and produce a feeling of floating.
At the same time, I also like to smell my mother’s body odor and play with my mother’s armpit hair. Whenever I hear my mother’s unforgettable hum, I become more and more excited. Although the chicken in the crotch is still very small, it has been able to slightly tremble, and then, sprout a kind of soft shelled turtle swelling feeling to urinate.
After weaning, in order to continue to get this wonderful pleasure, I am still infatuated with my mother’s breasts and fat body.
My mother also likes me to suck her nipples, touch her skin and scratch her armpit hair for a long time and indulgently.
My mother hugged me happily, her eyes closed slightly, humming triumphantly.
This kind of sound, only when the mother is pressed heavily under the body by the father, and the big shining buttocks keep hitting her crotch, will it burst out unconsciously.
I vaguely remember that once, my father who came back from a business trip had just entered the room, regardless of his mother’s strong opposition, he put his mother under his body and hit him hard.
When I heard my mother’s hum and hum, I was playing. I grabbed the big Tuobu in the corner of the wall and walked to the bedside angrily. My two small hands were raised high and I was struggling to hold the Tuobu handle. I hit my dad’s big butt hard: “Dad, don’t bully mom, don’t bully mom!”
the mother frowned and said to his father, “look, what are you doing? Let the children see it. How difficult it is to be a person!”
“It’s all right.”
but my father doesn’t think so: “he’s still young. He can’t remember it. He’ll forget it in a few days.”
Bullshit, Dad. You look down on me.
This scene is also deeply engraved on my bones, and will never disappear from my body, and the impression is especially profound as I grow older.
Dad roared, finally rolled down from the mother’s body, carrying the pants in a mess, panting, ran into the toilet, mother sat up, in a hurry to tidy up the clothes.
I am sad to climb to bed, found that my mother should only belong to my nipple, but with dad’s disgusting mouth fluid, I gently touched a, put under the nostrils smell: good smell!
I frowned and stuck out my tongue.
Sweating mother gently hugged me, grabbed her nipple, and tried to put it into my mouth: “Oh, son, you’re hungry. It’s time to eat!”
I tried my best to break free, saying nothing would not nag my mother’s long nipple which was bitten by my father mercilessly. My mother seemed to understand that she pulled the white towel on the head of the bed and wiped the nipple. I reluctantly contained my mother’s nipple. My mother patted my forehead lovingly: “this child, there are still many things to do. I don’t like this or that!”
From then on, I began to hate my father. I always tried my best to prevent my father from pressing my mother. Sometimes, I suddenly woke up from my dream, and in the dark, I saw my father pressing my mother under me.
I immediately angry will not hit a place and came, grabbed the neck under the big pillow, maliciously threw to Dad.
Bumping into the happy father, by this sudden blow, a face displeased to push aside the pillow, Zheng Zheng ground scolded: “Damn, you want to do!”
my mother pushed Dad down, turned around and put her arms around me: “the child is not small, it has been recorded, in the future, don’t fool around in front of the children!”
“Well,” sighed the unperturbed father, grabbing the quilt and covering his naked body: “Damn it, little asshole!”
“All right, all right!”
Mom hem enough, gently pushed me away: “OK, OK, son, don’t worry, you should study!”
I opened the novel impatiently and looked at it in a daze. Our neighbors in the building did not know what they thought. When the children were very young and very young, they crammed their heads into our young minds with boring cultural knowledge. At the same time, they showed off each other like competitions: “Hey, my son can write his own name Here it is
“Oh, my son can read people’s daily!”
the mother said in a defiant voice, “my son, can read Gorky’s novels!”
Mother said with pride, while proud to draw: “so thick, there are ten pages, all read!”
In order to show off in front of the neighbors and colleagues, my mother, who is very vain, forced me to gobble up the thick and heavy novels, which was even more painful than injection and medicine.
That page of dense text, see me upset, that smell of ink, choked me immediately to vomit, in order to avoid reading novels, I quietly climbed onto the balcony.
“Son, if you don’t read well, you can’t go to the balcony to find the soul.”
“Mom, I’m reading on the balcony!”
I didn’t have the mood to read a novel I didn’t understand at all. I left it on the windowsill, holding on to the railing and staring at the gloomy and depressing landscape.
The lazy sun blinked its dismal eyes and gawked at the road arched with hard stones of the same shape and size. Wisps of lifeless light scattered through the tender green leaves scattered on the densely arranged and seriously twisted semicircles.
Then, the sun slowly moved into a rigid, monotonous long diagonal line, to see people upset, not sad.
On the south side of the road, there are two rusty rails, reflecting the dirty light in the cold sunlight.
Every once in a while, there will be an old, humming broken tram, and then, with a bang, like a broken breath, lying on the side of the stone road. When the door creaks open, groups of people with cold faces and in a hurry rush rush out.
Whew — the whistle whistled, and the broken tramcar finally came to life. Again, he was dejected and barked all the way to the distance where he could never see the end.
On both sides of the stone road are thick but extremely fragile poplar trees, which look like groups of infants who have just learned to walk, shaking in the Middle East in the not very strong breeze and moaning timidly.
From afar, one after another looks the same and lifeless residential buildings, just like a coffin waiting to be buried.
Before the appearance of these monstrous coffins, it was a fertile field with lush corn. It was a masterpiece that the hungry and cold refugees ordered at will, but it was unexpected.
There is an empty circle around the street like a big street with pigeons.
The side of the pigeon cage facing the street is smeared with beige and disgusting sand ash. The residents nearby and the residents in the building call it “Dahuang tower”. I am like a poor little pigeon and I live a life of no intention.
My home is located on the top floor of the west side of the Dahuang building. The cold sunlight sneaks in from the window fan like a thief, and reflects on the pale canopy like a shroud. Then, it magically twists along the corner of the room into a ridiculous long diagonal line, which is extremely frightening to sprinkle on the cold concrete floor.
In the house, which was more silent than death, there was no longer anything worth playing and relaxing except the tables and chairs for eating and the wooden bed for sleeping.
The desks, chairs and wooden beds painted with pig’s blood were distributed free of charge by my father’s work unit. They were nailed with small signs about an inch long, with the name of the unit and the date of manufacture.
When I was really lonely, these poor tables, chairs and wooden beds became the targets of vent and attack of me, an almost schizophrenic. I wiggled and shook them like crazy, and hit them mercilessly with the Toby handle.
However, these tables and chairs and wooden beds were so strong that they quietly endured my torture and expressed their protest in silence.
They survived very tenaciously and amazingly. To this day, I still sleep on the single plank bed that I tortured. When I touch the scars on the head of the bed with remorse, I feel a sense of guilt: forgive me, innocent wooden bed!
Only one piece of furniture is my father’s private property. Of course, it also contains all the property of our family: a big dark red wooden cabinet, which is more than two meters long and more than one meter high.
This big wooden cabinet not only contains the clothes of our whole family, but also is a good toy for my sister and I. whenever I play hide and seek with my sister, I lift the heavy lid of the cabinet and sneak into it. I lie upright like a dead man in the big wooden cabinet and look at the black walls. I suddenly feel like being put into a coffin: “Oh, this one What a coffin
PA — when I lifted the lid of the cupboard, my mother came into the room and heard me saying this, and gave me a very loud slap in the face: “Lu Lu, what are you talking about?”
When my father got married, he was always in financial difficulties. My grandmother couldn’t give him any decent gift. When he was in a hurry, he simply put it on the train and gave it to his newly married father.
Gala — Gala — Gala — Gala
I was leaning on the balcony in a daze, suddenly, the heating pipe under the windowsill in the room rattled and rattled