Short story: The Rainy Threshold

With two more attempts, Mai finally managed to pull the thin blanket up to her waist. The night grew colder, and the room seemed to expand. She huddled, feeling the night creeping out like a cheap, worn-out cloth garment. A few scattered rustling sounds, it seemed like mice were scurrying around in the attic. The sluggish, whirring of the old fan made Mai feel a pang of sadness; she fumbled and turned it to the zero setting. The night whispered through the palm branches against the side of the house—a strange sound. A stray breeze, then a few more. And rain. Oh, rain!
Mai lay still, listening. It had been so long since she'd heard the rain pounding on the tin roof with such a rhythmic, rushing sound. Unconsciously, Mai reached out and felt all over her body, searching for old wounds. A long stretch on the top of her head, nearly a dozen stitches, her hair parted, leaving a gaping white strip like a stream in the dry season. On her elbow, a raised scar the size of her thumb. On the corner of her forehead, many wounds had healed, leaving only small marks as reminders. Those days were etched into Mai's heart, haunting her with a sense of shock.
The rattling grew louder, the corrugated iron roof like a lively symphony, but the conductor, for some unknown reason, was engrossed in playing only one instrument. The wind swept through the night, its chill sharp as the indifferent gaze of her husband as he looked at the overlapping wounds on Mai's skin. Had alcohol stripped him of his humanity? Or had his impotence in the bedroom turned him cold-blooded? Mai had once loved him deeply, felt sorry for his humiliation and his desperate eyes, his trembling hand touching her chest before resolutely turning away.
Mai snuggled under the blanket, seeking her own warmth. The blanket faintly smelled of soap. She longed for something other than this scent, but had to give up. When lonely, longing is a painful yet gentle kind of pain.
I wonder what it's like back home right now. I wonder how my husband is doing. Why am I suddenly thinking about him? Mai shivered a few times, as if trying to shake off all the old memories. The stray cat, the accident, the long, tumultuous decline of her husband's character.
The city was also full of stray cats, but only their sounds were heard occasionally. Mai was afraid of encountering the cold, piercing gazes in the night, the mournful cries, and the fantastical yet haunting stories of revenge.
Mai was petite, like a little candy, with silky black hair reaching past her waist, bright eyes and a beautiful smile, plus her charmingly talkative and cheerful personality. It's incomprehensible how she could be so unfortunate. "This is a tear mole," one of the nurses at the clinic said, staring intently at Mai after stitching up a wound. Another nurse added, "Get rid of that mole, and while you're at it, disappear from your husband's sight. Let's see what he can do then. Half human, half beast, it's impossible to feel sorry for her."
The small room felt suffocating and oppressive; it wasn't a good idea to encourage someone to leave their husband, especially one who was half-crippled. But you have to save yourself, Mai! She bit her lip, tears streaming down her pale face. After all, it was a marital bond; leaving like this would be immoral. Mai didn't want to cause her parents worry and sorrow; they didn't have many days left to live. She decided to try to keep the marriage to herself and please both sides.

***

After complaining several times about the cat stealing food from the kitchen, the trap was finally placed in the corner of the house. One morning, Mai woke up groggily to find the cat nestled in its iron cage, and she jumped in fright. From its glossy black fur to its small, contorted face, Mai couldn't tell if it was resentment or fear. Its cold, arrogant glare filled Mai with dread. Clearly, death awaited it, and she was responsible for it. Mai tried every way to free it, but lacked the arguments to justify her actions, especially since, as her husband said, catching a black cat, the legendary cure, was not easy.
Mai quickly forgot about the cat amidst the uneven terraced fields, the knee-high grass, the handful of snails she had just gathered from the stream, and a stranded snakehead fish. She happily imagined a refreshing bowl of snail and wild greens soup, a plate of snakehead fish stewed with turmeric, and some boiled wild greens. Suddenly, the sun disappeared, and a looming dark cloud obscured the sun. Looking up at the gray clouds, a feeling of unease welled up inside her, and Mai hurried onward.
The house was like a party, full of her husband's drinking buddies; the neighbor's shrill, banana-like voice, the effeminate, eunuch-like tone of the man from next door, and the crude, boisterous laughter of her husband's cousin created a cacophony of sounds. Mai silently went to the well to empty the bucket, a profound sadness overwhelming her for some reason. Passing by the open fire, a pot steamed, its lid ajar. Mai glanced at it, nearly falling. A jumble of meat and bones boiled and bubbled, revealing a head shaved white, its jaws clenched, sharp teeth, and eyes filled with hatred staring intently at Mai.
"It's just a cat, just a cat, and the life and death of all living beings are predetermined by nature," Mai reassured herself. But Mai no longer had the presence of mind to prepare the lunch she had planned, a simple, peaceful meal. And even later, that meal would occasionally cross her mind.
The lively gathering was interrupted by the dwindling alcohol and tobacco. Mai's husband, whenever he sat down for a drink, would call out to her. He treated his friends with such respect, considering them special guests, even if the conversation was purely superficial. His calls were met only with the boisterous chatter and laughter of others; Mai was still in the backyard weeding her tender vegetables. Occasionally, Mai would get distracted, like now, her mind filled with the haunting image of the cat and its cold, desolate eyes. She sat there, lost in thought, the vegetables swaying gently in her cool hands. A breeze rustled through the air, carrying the sound of a bird's chirp, a stray bark, and a butterfly fluttering over a withered branch before taking flight. Suddenly, a loud "bang" and a bloodcurdling scream startled her. She stood there bewildered for a long time, the sound of someone shouting jolting her awake. Dropping the vegetables, she scrambled across the potato patch and over the moss-covered porch. A figure lay face down, the motorbike still roaring, and the electric pole in front of the house was covered in blood. Mai screamed in terror, realizing that the person lying there was none other than her husband. Her drinking buddies gathered around, some turning him over, others searching for the keys to turn off the car. Mai collapsed, frozen in shock.
The accident left my husband with half his body split in two. Half of his skull, one eye, one arm, and one leg are rendered useless. That means he'll be disabled for life.
After months when it seemed he wouldn't survive, her husband miraculously recovered. But strangely, when half of his essential functions were gone, it was as if an extra mouth grew. Once he could eat, he started rambling incoherently, as if afraid he wouldn't be able to speak again. At first, Mai was happy to see her husband recover so quickly, but eventually, she became worried.
The anxiety reached its peak when her husband started drinking again. At first, it was just a couple of drinks to unwind alone at home, then a few friends joined in, and then more people joined in. With the main breadwinner gone, and the family struggling financially, Mai, following some advice, started buying eggs from a slaughterhouse to boil and sell, which provided some income. Initially, she wandered around the neighborhoods, but eventually, she settled down in front of her house, setting up a few small chairs, a small table, and some liquor—a small drinking spot for construction workers and laborers returning home every evening. With a knack for business and a bit of cleverness, Mai's little stall was always crowded. One day, a slightly drunk man slapped her buttock, startling Mai. The man laughed loudly, praising her "delicious," and Mai trembled with anger.
As if blessed by her ancestors, the small shop kept getting busier. Her pretty smile and sweet voice kept customers coming back, and her occasional teasing, which sometimes made Mai blush, only added to their interest. Whatever the case, Mai was a married woman. Her husband, as he once said, slapped her in the face and yelled, "This guy isn't deaf or blind!"
During the meal, he threw the plate of braised fish to the dog, his face contorted in anger. Mai froze, her mouth agape as she watched the dog gobble up the scraps of fish. "What are you doing? Are you crazy? You offer the pork belly to everyone, and you're making this dog eat fish scraps?!" Mai was stunned, her throat constricting as if she'd swallowed a jackfruit thorn. Her husband's other foot poked into the plate of food; Mai quickly pulled it away, poured some soup over it, and shoveled it down her throat. Just as she turned her back, a slipper whizzed past her ear. Mai instinctively dodged, turning back to stare at her husband. He raised his finger, his flat chest tensing, his remaining eyeball a blank white. "I'm warning you!"
Mai packed her things and quietly left. Where to? She had asked herself countless times. The streets weren't lacking in decent people; rest assured, she could survive in any situation—many people said so. She wandered through many streets, worked odd jobs in many restaurants, and was horrified by the dirty, crude hands and unjust acts of jealousy. How could she cleanse her heart? Anywhere, any job would do, just to live! The firm words and the grip of the motorbike taxi driver brought Mai back to reality. The bridge was swept by the wind, and passing cars glanced back. Clutching her bag to her chest, she watched the indifferent water, her whole body trembling, her jaw stiff, almost to the point of death beneath the cold current.
The lodging house was full of factory workers; they left at dawn and returned at dusk, showering and sleeping immediately. No one had time to greet each other, and she felt out of place. "Tomorrow I'll take you to apply for a job. Good heavens, I'm not going to bother your family!" The voice of a stranger echoed in her mind. The image of his square face, his rugged beard, but his kind eyes, was etched in her mind. Pulling the blanket over herself, Mai curled up, trying to fall asleep. Outside, the rain continued to pour down on the corrugated iron roof in thick streams.