Her fingers are like compasses that knew, without even looking, where to trace displeasing marks left four years ago. One by one, slowly, they touched the fragile dotted flesh on her elbow, down to her left foot, the three coin-like keloids at her back torso and that one patch of still aching flesh on her back head. As fingers trace them, her mind races back to that very day: a Chinese man holding a rose close up to his nose, a book she just bought and the white truck. Her reconciliation knew perfectly that it was a white truck, but everyone proves her otherwise. Those things flashed frantically in her mind, making collisions of unwanted images as her body flew and concur barbarically against the hard, heated asphalt like a pile of papers scatters everywhere by the howling November wind. Before she figured it all out; before she felt pain staggering her every inch and the thick liquid spilled on the ground, consciousness was taken away from her. But she didn’t fall out of it, surely, someone must have done it for her.
Her head pounds as she slowly flutter open her eyes, adjusting to the bright flash of sun. Throngs gather around her, looking down, acting pity. She knew exactly what had occurred, yet feels neither anxiety nor scare. She’s numb, except the evident hammering in her brain. Unbelievable, everything seems a lie, as if pieces of pictures were randomly pinned down on a wall making no sense at all. But there’s one thing she firmly believes: the truck was white, not red.