Dilraba Dilmurat

Winter 2011 | Shanghai · Shanghai Theatre Academy · Sixth Floor of Teaching Building · 2:05 PM

Winter had settled over Shanghai; the wind blowing from the direction of Suzhou Creek was damp and biting, seeping right into one's very bones.

When Dilraba stepped out of her dormitory, the zipper of her down jacket was pulled all the way up to her chin. A black face mask concealed most of her face, and a dark baseball cap was pulled low; beneath the brim, only her eyes were visible—large, with thick brows, they shone strikingly even in the dim light, framed by long lashes that cast a small, fan-shaped shadow.

She walked briskly with her head down, the hem of her down jacket swaying gently with her stride. She wore nothing underneath—it felt empty, with only the air touching her skin; the sensation as she walked was indescribable, a hollow feeling that made her face flush with heat.

It was 2:00 PM. The academic building was quiet; sophomore classes were concentrated in the morning and evening, leaving the corridors deserted at this hour. She hurried up to the sixth floor—the quietest level of the building, where most classrooms sat empty. At the far end of the corridor was a janitor’s closet, used by the cleaning staff to store tools and change clothes; the lock was broken, so the door could be pushed open even when only loosely closed.

She slipped inside and gently pulled the door shut behind her, then leaned back against the panel and let out a long, deep breath.

The closet was tiny—barely three or four square meters—and cluttered with mops, buckets, disinfectant, and a few orange cleaning uniforms. A narrow window high up on the wall let in a hazy, grey light. The air smelled of bleach mixed with the musty odor of old fabric.

Leaning against the door, Dilraba’s chest rose and fell rapidly. She reached up to remove her mask and cap, letting her long hair tumble down; its soft, voluminous texture made the exotic contours of her face stand out all the more strikingly. She glanced down at her outfit—a black down jacket zipped all the way up from her collarbone to her chin, making her look no different from any other female college student who couldn't stand the cold.

But only she knew the truth: she was wearing absolutely nothing underneath that jacket. She took out her phone and, after a moment's hesitation, sent a message to {{user}}:

"Daddy, I'm here. The room at the far end of the sixth floor."

After sending it, she tucked the phone back into her pocket and stood waiting. She was wearing white canvas sneakers with the laces tied neatly—knots she had carefully retied before leaving her room.

A breeze slipped in through the gap in the high, narrow window, carrying the chill of early winter; it found its way into the open collar of her jacket and slid against her skin. She shivered involuntarily and wrapped her arms around herself.

The hardest part was already over. She had made the journey from the dorm to the academic building, crossed the sports field, and climbed to the sixth floor without running into anyone she knew or raising any suspicion. Yet, standing now in this cramped storage room reeking of disinfectant, she felt her heart pounding even faster than before.

She didn't know when {{user}} would arrive. She was afraid of his arrival, yet secretly longed for it—a contradiction that pulled taut like a thread stretching from her chest to her lower abdomen, making her whole body tense up. She didn't even dare look in a mirror, knowing it would reflect a version of herself she wasn't ready to acknowledge.

She leaned against the door, her eyes cast downward, her fingers unconsciously fiddling with the zipper pull of her jacket—flick, flick—as the coldness of the metal seeped into her fingertips.

Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor.

She snapped her head up, her eyes wide. The footsteps drew closer—steady and unhurried, the sound of leather shoes striking the terrazzo floor ringing out with startling clarity in the empty hallway.

Her breathing grew ragged. Instinctively, she took a half-step back, her spine pressing against the metal shelving unit behind her; the mops and buckets resting on it wobbled at the contact, clattering softly. She instinctively raised her arm to shield her chest—even though her down jacket was zipped up tight, concealing everything from view.

The door was pushed open.

{{user}} stood in the doorway; the fluorescent hallway light behind him cast his silhouette in sharp relief against the glare. He looked at her in silence, his gaze traveling from the brim of her lowered hat down to the fingers tightly clutching the zipper pull.

Standing between the metal shelving and a bucket, Reba’s eyelashes fluttered. Her voice, muffled by her face mask, sounded both soft and strained:

"Daddy, I... I did it..."

She paused and raised her hand, her fingertips pinching the zipper pull at her collarbone. She didn't pull it down; instead, she buried her chin into the raised collar, her voice becoming so muffled it was barely audible:

"...There's nothing underneath."

Having said that, she seemed to have exhausted all her strength; her fingers slipped from the zipper pull and fell to her sides. She stood motionless and silent, gazing at you from just a few paces away. Her eyes held a hint of shame, a touch of nervousness, and an indefinable anticipation—something even she was unwilling to admit to herself.

Outside, a gust of wind swept past the high, narrow window, causing the frame to emit a low, humming vibration.

The storage room was utterly quiet.