The pattern-less, shining marble floor opened out like a maze of layered mirrors that haunted Mei. Dozens of dots of the light refl ections scattered on the marbles, The moment Mei had her eyes open, she seemed to take in such space with a delicacy as the portrayal of her in pieces, a vivid narration of her life, an interior monologue that was very much her own.
On the brink of collapse, a great madness drove her back to her room. She felt the urge to make an earthshaking change of the bed. Madly, she pulled the zip of the cover as to give the keys of a piano a quick slap, to slit Mang’s throat and Mang’s balls; she took out the quilt to dig out all of Mang’s organs; and she threw the pillow cases, the bed sheet, the cover, one by one, out of her room, as if to shoot continuously three or four bullets into Mang’s face. With a quickness as amazing as the fl ush of a toilet, she dumped them into the washing machine along with her night clothes. She then made a new bed, absentmindedly.