Sick Boy[s] Paddle Club↓

Please Breakout

Bagel 贝果

Translated by: Ruby Gao

The weather is beautiful today. I must part the soil and place the golden, plump grains of rice inside—stretching them in, stuffing them in, pushing them to the very depths. Then I bury them. The deeper, the better. Then comes the water: round, full droplets falling, dissolving, granting them life.

I sow when the weather is fine, but honestly, most of my labor happens when the sky is wretched. When the dark clouds gather and choke out the sun—that is the most fitting time.

These lives I sow, these lives within my body, are called "Pain."

I sow Pain within my body; it is called "Life."

Tell me—have you ever had a breakout?

During puberty, most people find their smooth, even skin disrupted by the arrival of pimples. Most appear white, bound by a thin membrane of skin; others turn yellow or red. They are, in a sense, colorful. But if you were to ask me if they are beautiful? Perhaps. Sometimes, seeing one "in full bud," I feel a strange sense of appreciation. What? You say "in full bud" isn't the right way to describe a pimple? Then what is?

Disgusting? Ugly? Greasy?

But they grow from you. Is that really how you would describe yourself?

I once knew someone whose face was covered in acne—red ones, white ones, yellow ones. Sometimes they would burst and scab over, turning a crusty brown. She told me her face was a pointillist painting; the artist had been reckless, painting only dots, never lines, never planes. The palette was limited, too, with a stubborn preference for reds and yellows. But it was still a painting, she said, and that was how she chose to see it.

She was always so optimistic. Always.

How did I meet her? Short story, really. I was walking down the street one day when she spotted me and told me my face was "covered in pimples." But when I touched my face, it was smooth and even; I’m the type who doesn't break out no matter how late I stay up. I thought she was eccentric and tried to walk away, but then she insisted, "You really need to treat that acne." Good God—you should have seen the state of her face. How she had the nerve to comment on mine, I’ll never know.

She shoved a business card into my hand. I figured it was just some sales pitch and stuffed it into my bag without a second thought.

What a joke. As if I’d ever need acne treatment.

That night, after I returned home and lay in bed, my mother came in. She held me from behind and said, "I’m sorry." I felt a wave of awkwardness; my vocal cords seemed to plummet, sinking into my stomach with a heavy, bloated ache. Don’t feed me such burdensome emotions, I thought. They will become my silence-inducing poison.

Well, as it happened, I broke out with a single pimple that very night.

I fished out that business card and dialed the number at 1 A.M. "Hello? I have a pimple."

"That’s great," she replied. "You’ve grown a pimple."

That was our first phone call.

I found out later that she was only in high school. It made sense; there's nothing strange about a high schooler answering the phone at 1 A.M.

We became very close. I was always trying to ask her out, but for a high school senior, free time is a luxury. Still, she showed up every Sunday as promised. She told me she looked forward to seeing me; I told her I missed her.

Her face was covered in acne, but you have no idea how beautiful she was. She was always smiling—the corners of her mouth pulled upward by a soul untouched by the world, as light and airy as someone on a swing. She loved to chatter about the pink roses she saw in the morning, the maple leaves she encountered at night, and the water-colored sky at dusk. She talked and talked until I said, "Your ice cream is going to melt." She just looked at me with a grin, carelessly grabbed a napkin to wipe it, and took a huge bite, crying out from the brain freeze.

She exhaled a great cloud of cold air as the ice cream tumbled around her mouth before slipping down into her stomach. Shaking her head, she said her grades were melting away, too.

"Then what will you do?" I asked. "Ice cream isn't supposed to melt."

She said she would have a new ice cream—a beautiful, solid one that would never melt. So it didn't matter if this one melted now; she would eventually have the perfect one.

Ice cream isn't supposed to melt, I thought. And you will never have a perfect one.

She wiped the corner of her mouth.

Pop.

I heard the membrane burst. I saw a white grain—like a kernel of rice—roll from the corner of her mouth. She picked it up delicately with her finger and held it out to me.

"Look," she said. "The pimple popped."

"Does it hurt?"

"A little."

"But once it pops, it’ll be better," she continued. "You have to grow them. It’s not good that you don’t."

"But I did grow one last night. Is that... a good thing?"

She stared at me. She stared until the ice cream in her hand melted—melted and dripped onto the ground, dissolving into a puddle. I knew exactly what kind of puddle it was: sticky, filthy, the kind of mess that everyone recoils from the moment they see it.

In the end, she said nothing. She simply flicked the liquid from her hand and remarked, "The ice cream melted."

Well, what could be done? Ice cream isn't supposed to melt.

Back home that night, I leaned into the mirror and scrutinized my pimple. It was red, a tiny speck, almost unnoticeable. I dismissed it. By the next morning, it had vanished. I was thrilled. I messaged her to tell her the news; she was devastated.

After that, we lost touch for a while. I began to feel a dull, persistent ache beneath my skin, yet no pimples emerged. Instead, my entire being took on a radiant red glow. Everyone came to congratulate me. They told me I was incredible, that I was so courageous. I felt lost—was I really brave? I didn't even dare to let a pimple grow.

They told me I had a "bright future." Really? Is it a bright future to squander a mother’s exhaustion and money soaked in sweat?

They cried, "Come back, come back," and "Go far, go far," and "Congratulations, congratulations." Their voices wove into a grotesque melody that haunted my ears day and night. Sometimes I hummed along: "Come back, come back," "Escape, escape," "Thank you, thank you," "Work hard, work hard." I used the tremor of tears brushing against my eyelashes as my accompaniment. My head would buzz—a wonderful, resonant ringing.

A bright future. Perhaps it was this bright future that made my face radiate that red glow. Red—such a fervent color. But what exactly was so fervent? Was I burning up, or was I melting down? I knew the answer, yet I didn't. I thought of her. She was fervent, too—a red fervor, like the sun, radiating a fiery heat that never scorched.

Still, I grew no pimples.

Eventually, I moved abroad. My pimples finally began to emerge—it was annoying, one after another. She told me excitedly that this was the season of harvest. She said that pimples were art, and that I, too, was becoming colorful.

I looked in the mirror at my sallow face. What surfaced were only solitary, white pustules. I told her no—there was no color here.

Later, the breakouts stopped again. Only tiny red dots remained. If I touched them, the pain was excruciating. The agony stayed trapped in my head, yet I couldn't stop poking at them. I wanted to shove the pain back into the depths—push it where it couldn't be seen, where it couldn't be remembered.

When I returned to my home country, I went to find her. I saw her talking to someone, and as I drew closer, I heard her melodic voice.

"My face is covered in abscesses," she said, "but they represent my pain and anxiety flowing outward. Look—" She pointed toward someone else. "That person has great skin. Only a few small red spots on their forehead."

She continued, "My pus won't leak into my bloodstream. But her? Her blood is nothing but pus. Once I’ve drained all mine, I just have to open myself up and let the sun dry me out. But she can't do that. She will keep those things stifled inside her until they become part of her blood. And then, one day, they will erupt.

"So, she will die. And I will remain."

Her finger pointed at that person. I followed the line of her hand and found myself at the very tip of her finger.

I will die, and she will survive.

It makes sense. I don't know how to cultivate pain and anxiety; I only scattered their seeds. I did nothing, so they will rot on the earth.

That plot of land is already finished.

Bagel

Bagel is currently studying Media in Amsterdam, with a passion for literature and cinema. Bagel aims to traverse the world’s most vibrant film festivals, aspiring to a life where she needn't be burdened by too much responsibility.