Mouth full of bitterness

"If you look here on your MRI, you see this cephalopod-like object that's spreading down your spinal column. That is a massive schwannoma neurofibrosarcoma."

Adam was earnestly listening, though he had a momentary lapse. Overall, he was genuinely trying to concentrate, but these medical terms were incredibly unfriendly. Right now, his face was a giant question mark, an expression of utter confusion.

"Okay…?" Realizing the doctor had finished speaking, Adam reflexively responded, nodding, yet his eyes held complete bewilderment. His voice even slightly rose at the end, showing his puzzlement and uncertainty.

He became somewhat tongue-tied, his pupils restless, his mind unable to offer a coherent response. He paused, put on a polite smile, and tentatively asked, "So sorry. Was it English just now..."

The doctor seemed accustomed to such reactions. He interrupted Adam and directly said, "It's a malignant tumor."

"A tumor?" Adam's mind was now filled with question marks, and the corners of his mouth ever so slightly lifted in a smile, an absurd sense of humor rising between his brows.

"Yes," the doctor averted Adam's gaze.

"Me?" Adam's eyebrows raised, as if he had heard a joke, a smile emerging from the depths of his eyes.

"Yes," the doctor still avoided eye contact, his head facing Adam but his eyes drifting elsewhere. He had never looked directly at Adam since entering the room.

"Haha." Adam finally couldn't hold back, laughing out loud. He shrugged his shoulders, incredulously rolled his eyes, "That doesn't make any sense though." His eyes widened, hands spread, adopting an expression of presenting facts and reasoning. The humor and mockery in his eyes were striking. "I mean, I don't smoke. I don't drink. I... You know. I recycle." Finishing, he even rolled his eyes, as if mocking himself.

Recycling here referred to environmental awareness, originally meaning reusing household waste. However, it had gradually developed into a lifestyle attitude, specifically referring to adhering to a green and healthy way of living.

However, recycling was also considered a label for self-proclaimed values of the white middle class, and had become an object of ridicule for many. This was what Adam meant by rolling his eyes.

The doctor, though, didn't catch Adam's humor. He lifted his eyes, quickly glanced at Adam, but then lowered them again, concealing his true feelings, "Actually, your case is really quite fascinating because your cancer is the result of an incredibly rare gene mutation in chromosome 17, the P53 gene that causes the growth of malignant cells..."

However, this seemingly simple gesture, to Adam's eyes, widened the gap between them further—icy, distant, indifferent, hopeless. White surged from all sides, stripping away all colors.

The smile at the corner of Adam's mouth and in his eyes gradually stiffened. It felt like his soul was leaving his body, leaving behind an empty shell. The doctor's words began to lose structure, a jumble of indistinct syllables pounding against his eardrums, like an echo in a valley, constantly reverberating but devoid of specific vocabulary.

What gene? What chromosome? What mutation? And what malignancy?

These terms seemed so familiar, yet so foreign; they appeared close, yet were distant. He tried to tilt his head to listen more intently, to understand every word from the doctor, but he gradually lost the ability to catch the syllables. In that stream of words, he hadn't understood a single one. He only grasped the doctor's tone—

Calm and steady, which also meant icy detachment, no room for turning back; professional and objective, creating distance between the doctor and the patient. He couldn't even bring himself to meet his own eyes.

Patient, thus, he was a patient.

But what did this mean? What illness had the doctor just talked about? Why couldn't he remember anything, why had his brain gone blank? Had his thoughts completely sunk into a quagmire?

What was going on? Who could offer him an explanation?

He struggled to see the doctor's eyes, to find a trace of emotional warmth within them, but he failed. The evaded gaze only left behind a profile of indifference, as if he were a distant, composed God calmly and objectively stating facts. But this fact, cruel and ferocious, had shattered his life.

At this very moment, his life received its judgment: a verdict he couldn't resist or alter.

His deep brown eyes began to hollow out, like a quicksand black hole. Faintly, one could perceive the continuous sinking of the quicksand, but its limit remained invisible, a ceaseless cycle of descent, a black hole that had started as small as a needle's point, gradually expanding, consuming the entire color of the pupil.

Gradually, slowly, the soul hidden deep within the pupils dissipated like a wisp of smoke.

That waveless blankness held no focus or focal length. Vacant and barren, like the Arctic Circle in bitter winter, boundless white swallowed the entire world, lacking points of reference or the sight of the horizon. Everything disappeared into that pure and profound white.

Nothingness, emptiness. Yet, the corners of his mouth maintained the curvature of that stiff smile, but any warmth of amusement had vanished, leaving an eerie feeling.

White—white that he detested, endless white. Everywhere he looked was white, cold and pristine, devoid of any change, just like his life.

Every day lying on the bed, waiting for the doctor's routine rounds, then examination, and finally hearing the unchanged diagnosis, this was like a white world with no end or boundaries. No matter how he ran, changed direction, or altered speed, the surroundings would not change. The first day and the last day seemed to be the same.

Monotonous, dull, uniform. He was trapped in place like this, unable to find an exit, unable to come to a halt.

Memories from a past life rushed forth like a burst dam, gushing uncontrollably. In an unguarded moment, they swallowed him. That feeling of being trapped in a confined space, the frustration, anger, and despair surged once again. He barely had time to catch his breath before his sanity was incinerated in an instant.

He struggled, desperately trying to break free, but it was in vain; his body couldn't heed any call. So, he began to roar, roaring with anger: Deceiver! The doctor in front of him was a deceiver!

His life ended in that moment, unable to see the future, nor glimpse tomorrow.

He would be trapped on this sickbed for ten years, a full ten years, an endless ten years with no end in sight. He even pondered if instant death might be a better option. Like a walking corpse, he was imprisoned in this realm of white, stripped even of the right to struggle or resist.

Yet, the doctor dared not meet his eyes.

Roaring, yet no sound could be heard, his inner self was roaring madly, yet his body had frozen, unable to produce a sound. He could see the vibrant colors of the world, hear the doctor's incessant chatter, and even see his own hands and feet. However, his soul was gradually receding into the chaotic darkness, losing all control over his body.

Exerting every ounce of strength, still, there was no response.

The air carried scents, a blend of the sting of hydrogen peroxide and the dryness of medicine. It filled his chest, churning nauseatingly. Was he Chu Jiashu? Or was he Adam? The boundary between reality and illusion suddenly blurred, and a sharp, profound pain pierced his heart, like a weight sinking into soft flesh.

Tumor. Cancer.

Suddenly, these two not unfamiliar terms barged into his mind in an unreasonably intrusive manner, causing irritation and panic. Unreasonably. He didn't understand. What connection did these two terms have with him?

He'd come in for a check-up because of back pain that affected his sleep quality. Wasn't that the case? So why was he here? Why was he having this conversation with the doctor? Why did he feel an uncontrollable agitation and anger? Why was there an emotion surging in his chest, seeking release?

Adam tried to snap himself back to reality, raising his hands, wanting to do something, yet not knowing what he should do. His hands paused in midair, then fell back down. He gripped the edge of the chair, as if clutching at a lifeline. His muscles tensed, and all his strength gathered into his hands, propelling him to stand.

But soon, he fell back down. The strength that had gathered in an instant dissipated just as quickly. He sat there as if his spine had been yanked away, weak and helpless. His gaze moved restlessly and fearfully, pupils trembling aimlessly, reflecting the tremors of his heart, like autumn leaves shivering in a cold storm.

The panic dragged his body, bit by bit, into a sunless darkness. He struggled, he shouted, he cried out for help, but no one could hear. Everything in his sight turned into blurry, colorful halos, even contours eluded him. Gasping for breath, his lungs felt no trace of oxygen. Rising heat began to burn, within panic and confusion, yet no focal point could be found.

He raised his eyes, frantically trying to capture something. Then, the figures within his sight regained clarity, and the doctor's voice became clear again.

He didn't understand, he still didn't understand. He seemed to grasp, yet also to comprehend nothing at all. A ringing persisted, the sole focus within his sight, his sole object of seeking help.

Unconsciously, his body leaned slightly forward, brimming with desire, a desperate longing for survival.