~10 years later~
A woman taps the toe of her worn chestnut heel, the leather slowly peeling. Shifting in the stiff seat, she clutches her purse on her lap, the logo hand-stitched into the side faded by the simple fact it's accessory frequently reached for throughout the years. Her gradually greying hair, pearly ombre in the bright light is pulled back into a french twist, any stray hairs having been sprayed down before departing this morning. Her knee length tweed coat is Chanel, a lucky find at the local consignment shop one Sunday afternoon; none the wiser on this side of town able to tell it was steal of a discount.
The girl manning the front desk flips through a magazine, the two buns atop her head like ears moving from side to side as she tilts her head this way and that. The pink bubble blooming between her pouty lips, popped in the next second as she continues to chew loudly. The waiting room area is a few chairs around a low table, taken up by wrinkled magazines that have been picked up by one too many hands.
Finally, the double doors leading to the back open with a grating squeal and the lady in the waiting room perks up, delighted by the sight of the young man who pulls down his surgical mask, revealing his handsome face. "Madam Feng, you can come on back now."
At the invitation, the woman jumps to her feet, anxiously smoothing down her coat. She then steps through the entry while he politely holds the door open for her, the two of them proceeding down the hallway, walking side by side, her heels clicking against the tiled floor.
"How did the surgery go, doctor? Did you she do alright?" the mature woman inquires, hoping there wasn't too much trouble.
"It went just fine, mam. Within a few days, she should be back on her feet, running around," the doctor informs, the prognosis easing the rigidness from her petite frame.
They reach another door that he pushes open, allowing her to scurry inside the small operating room first. She makes a soft, wounded noise, hurrying to the patient's side and gently touching their leg. "My brave baby, you did so well. Mommy is here, did you miss me?" She does not even appear put out when she doesn't receive a response.
Behind her, the man represses an involuntary snort, and instead proceeds to bend down at the head of the bed, right at the patient's eye level. Said patient leans her head back and proceeds to lick his face, drawing a chuckle from the usually grumpy man.
He reaches up and scratches between her floppy ears. "Yes, you're good girl, aren't you?"
Madam Feng watches the scene adoringly, hand on her fluttering heart and wishing she was twenty years younger. "Oh Dr. Cheng you have such a way with animals. Most people seemed to be scared of Daisy because of her size, when she's only ever been the sweetest darling, I assure you."
Dr. Cheng rises to his feet, sighing regretfully. "Unfortunately, there's great deal of misconceptions about pit bulls out there." He offers the dog a chin scratch that has her rumbling contently, wagging her stubby tail. "And we both know, a mean dog more often than not means a cruel owner."
She humphs with a pinched frown, dripping her head in stern agreement. Both parties are of the mutual opinion that if someone isn't ready to provide adequate for an animal, including the virtues of patience and unconditional love, then they shouldn't be entertaining the idea of owning one. The numerous barks and meows from cages just down the hall, bragging a full occupancy shows just how many in the city are ill prepared to take responsibility for their whims.
"Will she be needing any medication? Vaccinations?" she probes, trying to restrict any wariness from leaking into her voice. Things these days just start adding up so fast.
Dr. Cheng drifts from the bedside to grab a few items lying on a separate counter, carrying them back to her, handling a plastic collar and a prescription bottle. "Daisy needs to wear the cone for two weeks at minimum, just to ensure she doesn't try to bite at the stitching. The carprofen is for any pain she has, once a day at the most. To clean the wound use warm salt water each night. Careful, the spot will be very tender for the first few days," he instructs.
She clears her throat. "And how much will this all be?"
Dr.Cheng extends a considerate expression. "Not to worry Madam. The cost of most surgeries here are subsided through a city grant. The medication is not too expensive, though you can speak with the front desk about the payment plans they offer."
At this news, Madam Feng inwardly exhales, beaming openly at the young man. She reaches out to lightly pat her beloved pit bull on her head, yet cannot take her eyes away from Dr. Cheng. "Thank you so much Doctor. Mister Wu was certainly not lying when he said you were the best in all of Shanghai."
Throughly bemused, Dr. Cheng accepts the complement graciously. "Kind words Madam."
-/-
Replacing his last scrubbed down instrument back in the drawer, he shuts it closed and locks it with the only key. He pulls the handle just to test it, and like always, it doesn't budge an inch. With everything secured for the night, he grabs his messenger bag and leaves the examination room, shutting off the light on his way out.
Heading to the back where the kennels are, he meanders deeper into the shelter, reaching back to pull his elastic free, letting his long hair down. He makes dizzying turns down familiar hallways, the shelter is a maze one can get easily lost if not for beacon of light to lead the way: just follow the sounds of barking.
Rounding a corner, he strolls past the empty display wall where they usually store the smaller animals in during the day to draw attention. At the end of the hallway are the steel double doors with the fading sign of 'employees only' slapped across it, one propped open at this time of night. It's why you can hear all the commotion of the animals winding down for the day.
He leans in the doorway to find Luo Qingyang kneeling down before a cage, teasing Buns, the resident chubby cat with a reputation for hogging all the treats and his rap sheet of escape attempts; like how the holy hell does this little shit get out?
Narrowing his eyes as the assistant coos at him, he can guess Buns must have gotten himself an accomplice. The fat fucker continues to rub itself against cage, as if to tempt the young woman with his soft fur to set him free. On the white board hanging on the wall, the scrawl of 'Days without Buns Escaping' and underneath is a pitiful 10. If Jiang Cheng wasn't here right now, he may return Monday to the inventory down one chunky feline and the tally count back down to zero.
"Ready to lock up?" he interrupts the scheming duo. His voice perks some furry ears in the kennels, and in response he gets some barks, meows, and even honking from the rabbits.
MianMian nods, rising to her feet while Buns looks at him accusingly, giving a melodramatic meow. Hah! I foiled your plot, didn't I?! Well you loaf of bread, you've met your match!
"All the water dishes and food bowls have been filled sir," the younger woman informs him.
"Any adoptions or fosters?" He glances at the board where below Buns' track record is a layout of the numerous stalls they have, labeled with each animals name. Most if not all are occupied for the night.
MianMian shakes her head regretfully. "There's some perspective adoptees, but they're still on the fence."
Jiang Cheng sucks his teeth, but otherwise doesn't comment. Sometimes that's the way things go in this line of work. But it doesn't stop that traitorously little smudge of hope inside him that all these animals, whether young or old, will eventually find a home; even the baguette with an illustrious career as an escape artist.
MianMian takes the time to say goodbye to every animal, while Jiang Cheng offers nothing more than a cursory glance at each of them, to at least ensure none are in distress. It's a weak attempt at distancing himself from getting to attached to them, knowing that any could be adopted by tomorrows end. But the not so sneaky hand of his reaches out towards one particular stall, fingers reaching through the chain link fence to scratch at soft grey fur of a husky, negates his indifferent act.
Not to mention, when he arrives at work in the mornings, usually the only one there to open up shop, he tends to spend his free hour petting, belly scratching, and holding the more affectionate animals. He might have even at one point, hypothetically speaking, laid flat in the bunny pen and let the fluffy balls of fur hop all over him. But like hell if he's gonna admit that to a soul! He'll be taking that secret to the grave!
Luo Qingyang finishes her lengthy farewells, her lips quirking when she catches him petting one of their furry guests. He rolls his eyes and strolls to the door, and she skips after him, politely refraining from mentioning the lapse in his resolve.
After making sure the front entrance is bolted up for the night, reassured by the barred windows, they both head out the backdoor that leads into a side alleyway. He holds open the door while MianMian rolls out her pink cruiser bicycle from the storage closet, the pastel paint just beginning to chip away. To be fair, the state of the bike ain't half bad given it had once belonged to her grandmother. He lets the door slam closed, locks the single door and pockets the key, heading towards the main street, while MianMian pushes her bike alongside.
"Nǎinai wonders when you'll come visit for dinner again. She misses you."
He snorts. "Your Grandmother just wants to kick my ass again at Go. Last time I fell into her trap, I lost 50 Yuan."
"She says she'll go easier on you this time." Mianmian chirps cheerfully, an affinity she has for overlooking her grandmother's sly ways, writing them off as 'just old people things!'
"I'll spare my wallet from the agony." His assistant straddles her bike, setting her pink backpack into the wicker basket hooked at the very front. "Get home safe," he says in parting, and the young woman gives him a wave before she's peddling down the sidewalk, weaving through pedestrians. Off to grandmother's house she goes.
He glances in the opposite direction, the bus stop at least a few blocks away and sighs aloud at the thought of the sizable commute ahead. Reaching down to his hip, he lifts up the flap of his bag, sticking his hand inside to scrounge for his mask. He finds it after a few failed pats, the rough three-ply material brushing against his fingers. He pulls it out and places it over his mouth, hooking the elastic bands over his ears and pinching the bridge of the nose to fit properly. Then he begins walking, adjusting the bag on his sore shoulder.
People bustle past him as he treks along the uneven paved sidewalk, bodies grazing against his shoulders. It's the time of day when many get off work, and the nightlife takes over. Familiar shop owners wave at him as he passes, understanding by his pace, the vet is not inclined to stop to browse for any purchases today.
The soles of feet are crying out for relief by the time he reaches the bus stop, a line of people already awaiting for the usual blue and eggshell #20 to arrive.
A few of the patrons are older, one in particular sitting on the bench beneath the canopy. His crossed hands rest poised atop his wooden cane as he squints behind large thick glasses at the faded times splotched upon the dirty, finger-print smudged glass. A couple of school girls in uniforms whisper and giggle about something, swinging their school bags back and forth by their side, the swaying motion causing their knee-length, black pleated skirts to flutter as well. One woman, wearing a pencil skirt and jacket, a matching set in the same faded khaki fabric, wraps her hand around the pole of the bus stop for balance in order to slip her right foot out of one of her worn plum pumps, rolling her ankle and stretching her toes in her pantyhose. She must have had a long day on her feet as well, and he sympathizes at the haggard look on her face and slumped shoulders, a few stray hairs escaped from her simple updo.
The sound of the noisy engine snaps him out of his people watching, and faithful #20 bus swerves into the designated curb. It breaks abruptly, the landing needing a bit of work as the folding doors open, bashing against the frame. A couple of stragglers get off, before those waiting begin filing in, steadily boarding the bus. When it's his turn, he climbs up the short set of steps and treks to the back, most seats taken up by now. He catches a lucky break however when a corner seat at the very back row is open, and he slides into it gratefully beside the other four passengers seated on the longer bench, kicking his shoes out under the seat in front of him. His feet breath a sigh of relief.
Once all passengers are loaded on, a couple of unfortunate souls standing in the aisle and gripping onto the handrails above them, the bus pulls away from the curb and back into the busy road.
Jiang Cheng rolls his neck to ease the soreness a hard day of work will do to ya when the recognizable noise of rattling coins reaches his hearing. The bus conductor walks along the bus with her metal tube of change, collecting the cheap fare from every rider and ripping off small tickets for everyone. This conductor is an older woman, small face collecting wrinkles of all varieties, and lips curled back like she's missing a few teeth. She reaches them with practiced ease, even in shabby flip flops, leaning against the seats and rattling her change at them.
He coughs up the 1 yuan, handing it over as she dumps it into the tube and rips off a paper thin stamped ticket, handing it to him before trekking back towards the front to collect from any new riders that came on board the most recent stop. He stuffs the ticket in his pocket, making a note to self to take it out when he gets home. Trust him, he's accidentally done laundry with a few of these in his pockets and soggy paper can be a bitch to pick out.
Unlike the fancy buses downtown, a draw back is that buses like #20 are older and not air-conditioned. And so in order to not overheat passengers now packed to the brim, the windows are pulled down to let in a cool breeze; appreciated by the heavy-set man sitting a few rows up, who fans himself with a folded newspaper, but not by someone carrying around a pair of piss poor lungs.
Even with the mask situated just right, it doesn't necessarily stop the smoke that proliferates in the air. The pollution from the numerous factories and crowded streets, vehicles bumper to bumper like a couple of chain smokers meeting up for a cuddle, wafts through the opens windows. It leaves a gritty, dry sensation at the back of your throat, aggravating the tickle to a point it scratches.
But Jiang Cheng manages, like he always does. However, he does spare a quick apology to his flowers no doubt wilting at the poor filtration.
The ride takes about 40 minutes, with the routine stops along the way, until the familiar glowing sign of family owned restaurant can be seen out the window; some of the lights flicker and one of the bulbs is completely out so instead of "peking duck' it reads 'peking uck'. And God help him, for some dumb ass reason it never fails to make him grin behind his mask; a token levity that greets him on the route home after a long fucking day.
Jiang Cheng stands up from his seat, holstering his satchel, leaning over to pull on cord above the window that runs the length of the bus. A grinding buzzer sound rings over head, and he pushes his way past people, another body immediately snatching up his unoccupied seat. He gets off and veers to the left, strolling past a few street vendors and a busy make-shift restaurant beneath a tent tarp, packed with customers sitting on cheap plastic chairs, eating and drinking at small folding tables. The smell of delicious hot food prepared by cooks who scrap their spatulas along the side of the wok, tossing the mixture in the air to the flashing of flames has his mouth salivating, only stayed by the pitiful lightness of his wallet.
He passes by the late night temptations and heads down a quarter of the block, sidestepping a drunkard's feet sticking out from where he sits against a wall, before entering into an aged apartment building. The rickety elevator is broken down for the third time this month, so Jiang Cheng has to hike up five flights of stairs, pausing ever 15 steps to just....breathe. By the time he makes it to his floor, he eagerly rips off his mask and finds his unhindered breathing makes him sound like he might as well have ran up those five flights.
Meandering down the hallway, he can hear the lives of each tenant behind the different numbered doors: the staticky echoes of an antique television Mister Chu plays while he naps, the couple arguing loudly that'll end with them fucking against their dining room table by the end of the night, a pluck of odd strings on a ghuzeng just slightly off key as the middle schooler Zhou Betty tries to tune it.
Jiang Cheng stops in front of door #16, the bolted metal numbers brassy where he suspects they were once gold at some point. He extracts his keys from his bag and slides the specific one into the deadbolt, bracing his shoulder against the door as he twists the key with a precise bang of his arm against the door, the lock giving way. The consistent protest of his throbbing shoulder is easy to forget once he retreats inside and shuts out the world.
The veterinarian removes his satchel and drops it on the floor, allowing himself to finally relax. He shucks out of his shoes, using the toe of one to push down the heel of another, kicking them to the side once they're off. He then flips his head upside down, gathering his long hair and piling it a messy bun, securing it with an elastic band, stretched to the point it'll snap within a few good tugs.
Standing up straight, he rubs at his unobstructed sore neck, socked feet roaming further into the apartment. Man, he'd kill for a massage.
In the bedroom, after shedding his shirt and tossing it into the broken plastic hamper, Jiang Cheng veers into the bathroom and flicks on the harsh fluorescent light. Bracing his hand on the white faux porcelain sink, he stares into his fatigued violet eyes, searching for...for...welp, he really doesn't know. Maybe the will to live?
Snorting at the thought, he turns on the faucet and ducks down to splash water on his face.
After throughly reawakened, Jiang Cheng removes the last of his work clothes, pulling on a pair of ratty old sweatpants and a loose shirt. He then ventures back into the living room, diverting course into the kitchen. The kitchen is small, the span of his arms spread out nearly touching both walls. He opens a cabinet and pulls an an instant ramen package, tearing the plastic with his teeth and pealing back the lid part way, filling it with water from the sink to the fill line. He then pops the package in the microwave and hits 5 minutes.
With dinner heating up, Jiang Cheng opens another cabinet, this one decorated with a crescendo of pill bottles, all arranged by doses. He pulls the first out, twisting the cap and dumping one in his palm, replacing the cap and setting the bottle back into the cabinet. He repeats this process 8 more times. God if only he was just kidding.
He sets the pills aside for the moment, sliding towards the industrial sink, and grabbing a plastic glass from the dish rack. He runs the faucet and fills the glass to the near brim, and by then his microwave is beeping and a steaming hot cup of noddles is calling his name.
Placing the glass carefully next to the open microwave, Jiang Cheng snatches a pair of chopsticks off the rack and sticks them between his teeth, swiveling to face his back to the counter, bracing his hands behind him on the flat surface to hop on top, sitting comfortably on the counter, crossing his legs. He leans over and reaches in the microwave to grab the rim of the hot cup, pulling it out and setting it atop of the microwave beside him, smacking the door shut with his foot. He removes the chopsticks from his teeth, sticking the ends in the broth and stirring the noodles around.
Besides the bed, coffee table, and the couch, he's got no dining room furniture and like hell would he risk to spill food on the little that he has. Plus the counter top ain't half bad of a seat.
Holding the cup near his mouth, Jiang Cheng plucks a few noodles and blows on them, until certain they aren't gonna burn his mouth. He slurps them in, inhaling his meal like a man starving, the taste enough to satisfy the cravings for the night. By the end he's downing the rest of the broth, wiping his mouth against the back of his hand when done before tossing the empty container in the trashcan.
He then gathers his nine pills, ranging in sizes and colors, popping one at a time in his mouth, consuming them with gulps of water. One in particular leaves a chalky taste in his mouth, and he has to consume the rest of his glass just to wash it away.
Despite the horrendous amount of pills he has to take day and night, he likes to consider them feed for his garden, the mixture of chemicals necessary to bolster the flowers and keep them growing. For that, he'll endure the godawful taste.
He tosses the empty glass into the sink, leaving it unwashed for the night before sliding off the countertop, that stiff, lumpy mattress calling his name.
-/-
Jiang Cheng's apartment is what he would call aesthetically minimal; others would interject it's sparsely decorated, if at all. There's a couch, a coffee table, a lamp, and bookshelf in the living room, with a bed and end table in his bedroom. He's got the bare minimum of furniture required to be considered an adult, okay?! There's no artwork hanging on the wall, no collage of pictures, or posters. If someone where to break in, they'd probably be disappointed, thinking the tenant had just moved out.
But see his life accrues in the cracks, like a rare flower sprouting between the crack of a sidewalk. You throw open his drawers, and that's where you'll find a lot more about who Jiang Cheng is. He has old study materials, paperback books, animal medical journals, a beloved Japanese magna, and flyers from the shelter crammed into his wobbly bookshelf. One specific drawer in the kitchen is designated for medical use, filled to the brim with multiple prescription bottles, some old, expired, half filled, or empty all together; there's also inhalers, nutritional supplements, liquid cold medicine, immune boosters, the works. He could run his own pharmacy out of that drawer if he was desperate. Too bad he's lazy.
His bedroom with an ensuite bathroom is small, and his bed even smaller. He's lucky there's a built-in closet, because no way in hell would he have been able to fit a wardrobe in there, let alone afford one. The plain bedspread, a deep purple monotone comforter has as much personality as the muted walls grey-taupe walls, but if you peal back the edge you'll find embroidered sheets underneath, every inch covered in patterns of colorful efflorescence bounties upon a white backdrop that wrap around him like he's lying in a fucking meadow. The god awful pattern is so gaudy, but damn if he doesn't love them.
The bathroom is cozy if you're not claustrophobic because it's the size of a tiny elevator lift, with no separator between the toilet and the shower, the sunken floor designed to drain water. It's not really something he can complain about, since at least this place doesn't have the stove in the bathroom, but it's frankly a bitch to wait for the floor dry on the weekends when he doesn't work.
But yeah, that's it's. That's his home, his little corner of nothing. Just he, him, and his.
He fancies it would be nice to come home to a dog or three, but sadly he doesn't have any pets. He can barely afford to take care of himself, let alone another living creature. He just has to make do with his job.
On the steel fire escape outside his window are terracotta pots shoved along the railings, ones that were supposed to house sprawling flower arrangements. Most are empty, a smattering of dry mulch leftover in a few, while a flimsy cobweb blows in the breeze between two.
Ironic as it turns out, Jiang Cheng is actual pretty shit at gardening. Now mind you, he made a valid attempt at it, but with the hours he works, the late night emergency vet calls he has to answer that send him crashing back into bed at 4:00am, and his unpredictable health, he tends to forget the things need care and water. And it goes without saying, exhausted excuses of forgetfulness and stale tears just won't do.
If he ever did have a green thumb, it be a sign of gangrene before ever considered a talent for horticulture. And let's not talk about the time he killed a cactus. A damn cactus!
His failures suggest that the only flowers he'll be able to grow are the ones taking up residence in his lungs; those lovely, dainty things possessive and threatening to consume him whole.
-/-
If you had asked a nine-year-old Jiang Cheng, lying underneath a three dog puppy pile, what he wanted to be when he grows up, he would've have answered two drastically differing responses, entirely dependent upon the company present.
In front of his parents, siblings, friends, and acquaintances: A businessman that will follow in his father's footsteps and take over Jiang Corporations.
In front of the mirror, by his lonesome self: A veterinarian.
When he was younger, the want of personal dreams conflicting with expectations of filial duties always weighed so heavily on his mind. But since a decade passed, how easy the choice became in deciding what career to pursue when he had no family, friends, or acquaintances to please.
And Jiang Cheng absolutely adores his job, so fucking much. Animals have always been something that brings him joy. They are easy to understand when humans aren't. They love so openly when humans can be so callous and cruel, stingy with their affections. Animals give their loyalty to those who show them love, who earn their trust while people need favors and promises in exchange for such devotion. Animals never go out of their way to purposely hurt you, and if they do, the blame lies in the hands of the owner.
However, the drawback, if there is one, is that people never really tell you to consider as a kid the little contemplated fact about your dream job.
What are the benefits and costs?
The benefit: he gets paid to work with animals and is entitled to health care.
The cost: the shitty health care can maybe cover one teeth cleaning and that's about it.
But the veterinarian can only sigh because part of that predicament is on him.
Running away with little to his name meant he had to work multiple jobs in order to go to school, to afford even basic groceries. He poured blood, sweat, and a plethora of tears into making something of himself and damn if he didn't fight tooth and nail to get by. After graduating with his doctorate in veterinarian sciences, instead of going off to a fancy clinic catering exclusively to wealthily families boasting ownership of thoroughbreds and exotic pets, or even applying to work at the upscale zoo with large animals and large crowds, he instead chose to work at the local no-kill animal shelter-pound. The home for leftovers.
And one could argue his personal career choice wouldn't have been a huge deal, even with the students loans he's still paying off, if his health wasn't so shit. Nearly two decades since he first felt that twinge, it's only gotten worse.
How unfortunate, given his lungs do make the loveliest flowers.
So that morose monologue leads him here today, on a breezy Saturday, staring up at the archway of the hospital entrance and wondering if the crumbling statues on top are gargoyles or dragons, and if it even fucking matters.
The Nightless City Medical branch is quiet imposing for it's size, but overall unassuming given it's faded, washed-out coloring. The only feature that makes it stand out is the bright red lining that outlines the structural molding, and tracing along the logo; it's subtle enough to be pleasing to the eye yet noticeable enough to draw a second look from passerby's. That and it's only hospital within the Burial Mounds, far from the central medical district stationed in the heart of downtown bougie Shanghai that most on this side of the Huangpu River would have to commute by three buses and half a day's walk to get to.
Nightless City is where the commoners go, especially given word of mouth claims their unique treatments are effective and the price of which is low. And to Jiang Cheng's ears, it's low enough his pitiful savings doesn't feel the need to cringe.
Steeling himself, and with a nudge from the Protea blooms, he enters into the hospital.
Ok, never mind about the early observation on subtly. The red lining has suddenly spilled out over the whole place, only richer and darker in color. The walls are covered head to toe in it, aged wine and burnt oak vibrancy with drapes sporting the crest hanging from the ceiling. The floors are creme but that blood red line weaves all along the floor, maybe going for some abstract artsy look but honestly to Jiang Cheng it looks like a toddler decided staying in the lines wasn't for him and scribbled everywhere. It would probably look nice if the place wasn't garish as hell.
Ignoring his initial reaction to scoff and round on his heel, he trudges forward to the front desk stationed in the middle of them room manned by a young man in scarlet scrubs. "What floor is oncology?" he asks from behind his mask.
The prim man glances up from his computer screen. "2nd floor sir. You'll locate the elevators behind me to your left."
"Thanks," he wanders around the desk and follows the directions. Pressing the up arrow button, he watches the numbers tick down, absently watching as a nurse escorts a patient across the hall towards the exit, pushing their wheelchair.
The ding of the elevator snaps him out of his staring and he lets the carriage empty of the few passengers, before entering and hitting the button for the second floor. It feels like the ride takes forever but within less than a minute he's exiting into the hallway and wandering down a corridor, following signs for the particular hospital wing he's searching for. He comes to double doors marked 'Oncology' and pushes the right open to enter.
The waiting room is just as bland as the shelter's, but thank fuck there's no excessive amounts of red like the ostentatious display down in that horror show of a lobby. Instead the only use of red sticks to the carpet and the nurses' scrubs.
He nears the reception desk where a slew of staff residing. He clears his throat. "I have an appointment at 1:30."
The head nurse, name tag reading 'Wang Lingjiao', asks, "Name?"
"Cheng Wanyin."
One of the younger nurses types it into the computer and Nurse Wang made a considering noise whilst peering over her subordinate's shoulder. She possesses a slim stature, long brows, with lips the color of jam. He wages she must be young, but the way she plastered on make-up aged and donned a severed hairstyle aged her by 20 years. She reaches behind her and grabs a clipboard that already has a blank form, handing it to him. "You'll be seen you shortly. In the meantime, new patients are required to fill out this information sheet. You can have a seat over there," she points her long manicured finger nail to the waiting area with a few people already waiting.
He grabs a pen from the penholder atop the counter and strolls over to an empty seat, the chocolate brown corduroy squishing beneath him when he takes a seat, the cushion long gone soft over the years. Every other seat is saddle tan leather and the mixtures of textures and colors makes his mouth twist in distaste beneath his mask. Seriously three questions: Who the hell decorated this place? Are they still in business today? And if so, HOW THE FUCK?!
Shaking his head, he clicks his pen and begins filling out the informational form. Down the row he can hear someone cough, and another person shift in their seats, the leather protesting at the movement. By the time he gets to the medical history portion, his hand cramps as he tries to write small enough to fit these tiny boxes, but also legible to read.
Just as he crosses his last t and dots his last i, he hears his name being called. "Cheng Wanyin?"
He glances up at a nurse holding up a door to the back, awaiting him. He rises from his seat and follows her into a back hallway, the door snapping shut behind him. Not one sight of red in this sterile white hallway thankfully. Her tennis shoes squeak against the tile floor, his eyes squinting to pick up the occasional scuff mark as they near an unoccupied examination room. She holds knocks then opens the door when she receives no response, inviting him inside.
"If you would please have a seat, I'll take your temperature and blood pressure. And I can take those forms from you."
Handing over the clipboard, Jiang plops onto the examination table, clenching his teeth at the way the paper crinkles beneath his weight. She does her tasks in diligent quietness, jotting down a few things on his forms before she makes to leave. "Dr. Wen will be right with you." She departs, shutting the door softly behind her, the thunking plop signaling she has dropped his file into the tray attached to the door.
Finally alone, Jiang Cheng removes his mask and prepares himself for a wait.
It's not more than two minutes before there's a knock and the door opens to reveal a tall, serious faced man. "Dr. Cheng. I'm Dr. Wen." The man closes the door behind him, holding a red folder, damn that color, in the crook of his arm. Dr. Wen bows to him, Jiang Cheng returning the gesture, taking a moment to examine the physician.
Going by his posture and face, Jiang Cheng would wager this man at least 10 years his junior, though age has only been kind to him. His hair is pulled back into a low bun, bangs trailing down to his brows, the two features as straight as bold lines drawn in sharpie. The man's mouth is straight too, but the corners of his lips seem to pull downwards when resting in a neutral expression.
"I thank you for coming in today and hope it wasn't too much trouble to find the location," Dr. Wen comments politely.
Jiang Cheng shakes his head. "I'm familiar with the area, so it wasn't really a hassle for me."
The doctor dips his head. "Good." He then grabs the rolling chair and wheels it closer, taking a seat. "If you don't mind Dr. Cheng, I'd first like to review your history with you."
"Oh." Jiang Cheng shifts, that annoying tissue paper crinkling beneath him. "But I already wrote it down."
"Yes, but as you're well aware these provided spaces are too small, and I find patients have to skimp on the details. And between you and me, this is more of an undisclosed cognitive test to examine if a patient has trouble with spacial awareness," he waves the clipboard in his hand, picking one of his pens from his breast pocket with the other, clicking it ready. "So if you wouldn't mind Doctor, in your own words please."
Jiang Cheng swallows to ease his dry through, tucking in for the lengthy tail. "Well an x-ray done when I was 17 years old showed pulmonary cysts in my lungs. At 18, I had a cystectomy to try to remove them. But within a year the cysts reappeared so I was put on an armful of multiple medications, attempting to avoid major surgery. However, a biopsy at 20 showed a few of the cysts were malignant. That same year I did my first round of chemo and radiation for four months and came away with a relatively clean bill of health."
Dr. Wen is skimming through what he's written, writing notes in the margins of things that didn't make the cut. "How was your overall health? Poor or just ok?"
Shitty was more like it. "Decent, I guess. Of and on I would get sick, and even once got pneumonia but that was kind of expected given my shoddy immune system. I was and am still using inhalers due to asthma from my childhood.""
The doctor nods like it's to be expected. "Anything else?"
"At 23, I was experiencing shortness of breath doing minor activities, even while sitting or standing. Uh there's word for it...it's um..."
"Orthopnea," the doctor helpfully provides.
Jiang Cheng points, nodding. "Yeah that's one. Took a trip to the hospital and during the visit they found fluid build-up between my lungs and the chest wall. The physician diagnosed me with pleural infusion. They were concerned if we didn't opt for surgery, no medication would stop the fluid from spreading to my limbs. So I had to go back under the knife."
The doctor nods, his pen scratching against the paper while he makes notes in the margins of his clipboard. "Was the surgery VATS or Thoracotomy?"
"Thoracotomy," he answers, hand absently rubbing against his chest, the space right between his pecs where an 8 inch scar is hidden beneath his shirt. "Stayed in the hospital for a week and a half before being discharged."
"No complications?" At the shake of his head, the doctor scans through the rest of the paperwork, pursuing his mouth. "It also says a few years later-"
Jiang Cheng sighs regretfully. "At 24, the cancer came back and I underwent my second round of treatment, much more aggressive this time, around 6-7 months. It was rough." That's putting 'losing weight and all of his hair while prone to being violently sick' lightly.
The physician finally looks up from his clipboard. "And what brings you here today, Dr. Cheng?"
Jiang Cheng thinks of bright red petals littering his sink. Thinks about staring into the bathroom mirror and seeing his reflection of stained teeth and lips painted a candy apple red. Thinks of the dew drops collecting on his brow, the chill breeze that rustles his limbs.
Such thoughts have him offering Dr. Wen a bitter smile. "And 28, I suspect that contrary to the popular opinion, third time is not the charm." His attempt at humor falls flat, but then again Jiang Cheng has never been known for his comedic talents, if you don't count the blunders he's made through the years. A damn cactus!
The doctor, bearing a propensity for stoicism, softens a touch. "Well this time, it might just be." He sets down his clipboard on his desk, rising to wash his hands. "If you will Dr. Cheng, can you please remove your shirt? I'd like to examine your heart and lungs." Dr. Wen instructs over his shoulder as he faces the sink, allowing his patient a moment of privacy.
Jiang Cheng begins undoing the buttons on his shirt, letting it slip from his shoulders and suppressing a shiver as the cool air brushes against the freshly exposed skin. Dr. Wen finishes thoroughly scrubbing, stealing a paper towel with a clean rip from the roll, and dries his hands before discarding it in the trash.
The physician is once again facing him, and Jiang Cheng tries not to be self-conscious now that his scar is on full display, opting to stare at the slew of posters pinned to the wall instead. Why yes, yearly gynecological examinations are important!
Dr. Wen politely refrains from staring too long at his scar as he approaches his side, removing his stethoscope from where it hangs around his neck. He situates the earbuds in his ears and considerately rubs the diaphragm of the tool on the palm of his hand to warm it up.
"Just breathe normally," he instructs, before setting it right against his heart.
As it touches his skin, Jiang Cheng breathes, silent and awaiting, letting his garden speak for itself. His eyes drift along the room, his hands curled around the edge of the examination table anxiously. After a few minutes enduring a serious of light touches, Dr. Wen requests, "Now can you please take deep breaths? And if at any point you feel lightheaded, let me know."
The next time diaphragm touches his chest, Jiang Cheng takes a deep breath and then releases it. By the fifth time, a touch of lightheadedness occurs but he doesn't mention it; he can handle it amongst all the rest of his problems.
"Dr. Cheng, you've stated in the preliminary intake your chest hurts on a constant basis, is that correct?," Dr. Wen breaks the hushed silence.
Jiang Cheng nods, taking another deep breath when the doctor sets the bell against on a new expanse of skin, this time near his ribs.
"How bad?" he inquires.
For some reasons the question, so genuine in nature, waivers his steadiness. His breathing momentarily stutters and his throat swallows around a nonexistent lump. Dr. Wen glances up briefly at the reaction, before Jiang Cheng schools himself, clearing his throat. "Um, not bad as it once was. I've gotten used to dealing with the pain."
The man hums, focusing his stare back on his chest. "On scale of 1 to 10?"
"6?" Jiang Cheng wages.
There's a hum before the touch from his chest disappears. "I am going to take a listen from the back now." Dr. Wen moves around him, except there's a pause. "If you could.."
It takes a second before it clicks. "Oh right, sorry," Jiang Cheng pulls his long pony tail over his shoulder, now unobstructing the view of his back.
"No apologies necessary doctor." The bell presses against his back, staying for a moment before it moves to a new place. Jiang Cheng continues deeply breath before Dr. Wen must notice the slight wobble in his frame and stops his examination. Coming back around, standing in front of him, Dr. Wen. rewinds his stethoscope around the nape of his neck. "Your heart sounds good, but I can hear some blockage within each thoracic chamber. If I may, I would like to examine your limb nodes."
Jiang Cheng nods and the doctor hands gently starts with the base of his neck, fingers palpating different areas. The straight brows of his pull down when he palpates around the chest area.
"There's at least one lymph node that feels swollen. I think it's be best to proceed with doing some x-rays and a few other tests before you leave, so way we can get a clear picture of what we are dealing with."
Agreeing, Jiang Cheng slips his shirt back on whislt Dr. Wen pages a nurse. He suspects this picture will be some of his best work yet.
-/-
By the time he leaves the hospital, the sun is low in the sky. The 20 minute bus ride home means he arrives when the sun has all but vanished and the nightlife is out in full.
After that long ass day dealing with being x-rayed, poked, and prodded, Jiang Cheng decides to splurge and stop at the 7-11 on the corner to get a stemmed bun. Cheap and fast, he empties his pockets for the correct change and feels his stomach grumbling hungrily as the clerk grabs the tongs to select one from the steamer. He takes his single purchase with a brisk thanks and heads back out into the night.
Savoring the hot pork bun, he chews languidly and leans against the telephone pole, watching as cars, scooters, and trucks drive by. Across the street is a fruit cart that a young boy is running, beside him his mother managing the meat stall, the smoke enough to tempt a few patrons. There's a 7-11 on the other side of the street, a young woman just getting off her shift, shedding her uniform and hoping on her beat-up scooter to head to her second job. A man plays his guitar by the bus stop, open case lying beside his feet with a few coins tossed in.
See this is what poverty looks like. It's not always the person on a corner with a cardboard sign asking for help. It's the people that have to work day in and day out, living pay check to pay check, grinding without a stop. Some have to chose whether to eat or to pay the electric bill. Some have to chose whether to sleep or make a few extra bucks. They can't spare a moment to complain life isn't fair; they stretch the rations, push the pennies, and ignore the aches of their worn bodies to survive to the next day.
On this side of the river, Jiang Cheng considers the people here are some of the most beautiful flowers, resilient to grow even when the sun refuses to shine.
-/-
On a Wednesday afternoon, the resident vet is sitting at his desk, working on paperwork when there's a knock against the doorframe. Jiang Cheng glances over his shoulder, greeted by the sight of a perk A-Qing leaning in the door way. "Supply shipment arrived just now. MianMian is unloading it.
"Thanks."
A-Qing then glances down at the floor beside him where Fairy lies, gnawing on a piece of rawhide. She then narrows his eyes at him, lifting a brow.
"Not a word," he warns which only earns him a smirk.
Any smart aleck remark is interrupted when his phone rings on his desk, the default jingle has a furry companion lifting their head. Jiang Cheng reaches over and picks it up, hitting the green talk symbol on his prepaid phone, lifting it up to his ear. "Hello?"
"Dr. Cheng, this is Dr. Wen from Nightless City Hospital. I was wondering if you had a moment to speak."
His stomach drops, and he instantly rises from his seat. "Sure just one moment, please." He grabs the spare leash lying on his desk and jingles it, perking up Fairy who eagerly scrambles to their feet. He holds the phone away from his mouth, "I'm gonna go take them for a walk."
"And you said you don't play favorites," A-Qing stage-whispers before disappearing.
He rolls his eyes and hooks the leash to Fairy's collar. He makes his way through the halls towards the front door, the husky's little paws scratching on the floor. When he gets outside, he has to squint for a moment, the sun bright at this time of day. Fairy immediately pulls to the right and he's helpless but to follow, wandering past the storefronts.
He situates his phone at his ear. "Dr. Wen? Sorry about that. I had to step out."
The man hums, the sound deep even through his shitty quality phone. "It's quite alright. I just wanted to call you as soon as we received the lab results of the tests. I'm afraid unfortunately your assumption was correct. It's lung cancer," he cuts right to the chase.
Jiang Cheng would find himself appreciating such bluntness if it weren't for the tickle in the back of his throat spasming, celebratory lilies frolicking in their resurrection. "What stage?" his voice soft.
"Just on the cusp of stage 2, but we caught it early enough."
Jiang Cheng nods and realizes the man can't see him. "So how do we proceed?"
"I suggest we start as soon as we can, though I must apologize I already have patients booked until Sunday afternoon. Would that time be alright for you?"
"Sure, sure."
Dr. Wen confirms the date and says his goodbyes, but Jiang Cheng's mind is already far away.
He hangs up, eyes fixated on the bustling street, the world continuing on turning. A nudge against his leg has Jiang Cheng kneeling down, petting Fairy as he rests his head against the husky's, the fretful whine loud in his ears. He remains there for a few empty moments, trying to catch his breath and not burst at the seams.
He'll be fine, like always, once he resigns himself to the fact his overgrown garden is slipping out of his control.
-/-
God he hates these functions.
Donned in the best clothes he owns, surrounded by Shanghai's elite of the elite is not how Jiang Cheng wants to spend his Saturday night. He politely excuses himself from a boring as fuck conversation to return to his booth, refraining from grimacing as his shoes pinch his toes. 'Annoying bastards', he grips, though not sure who the comment is more directed at.
Sighing inwardly, Jiang Cheng savors a free moment to take in the place. YP museum is lavish, as expected for the anticipated grand opening. The ceiling covered fragments of mirrors, enhanced by massive light fixtures hanging in an unsymmetrical style, each bulb stationed at different highlights that when examined from far away take on the shape of waves transversing across the entire ceiling. While most of the framed artwork is set up deeper along the corridors of the museum, there's sculptures installed intermittently throughout the gallery floor. Some sculptures are those of forms posing, art imitating life, covered in different mediums. They earn the perfunctory glance, the tilt of the head, the enlightened hum.
But others are frankly...shit. There he said it! Like what the fuck does a 7 foot tall, lopsided banana need ooo'ing and aaa'ing for?
Regardless of all the "art", the main attractions are the two bracketing walls that tower near 60 feet high by 40 feet long, depicting two historically prolific locations. One painted with an ancient sect surrounded by gorgeous lakes containing boats and people bustling about as if to portray a town floating atop a river, across from another wall showcasing a grand staircase lending to a palace in the clouds, and one can barely discern the faint outline of mountains in the background. The middle wall is all windows, giving the party a view of downtown nightlife with the alighted city scape as living artwork.
It's all so breathtaking, and that is not necessarily meant as a compliment. His chest twinges uncomfortable in the crowded room full of people drinking and laughing in black tie attire, the rubbing of shoulders with the filthy rich grating on his nerves. One diamond stud in a high pitched cackling lady's ear probably costs as much as someone back home on the other side of the river could feed a family of five for a year. Just the thought makes him sick.
But he reminds himself he's here to draw sympathy and monetary support for the shelter, and so he reigns in his anger, squashing down orange lilies and plasters on as much of a pleasant expression he can manage. It's easy to endure this vulgar fest when he sneaks a glance towards the two volunteers manning their station, having to suppress the smile as A-Qing plays up her blind act, her grey eyes and sob story eaten up like a seven course meal by the sympathetic crowd listening attentively, positively touched by such a brave individual caring for such lowly creatures.
Or maybe the animals mean zilch to the trust fund ears, and they're the lowly creatures, having to come here and beg for people to care, perform this little song and dance like a fucking monkey. It's beyond humiliating and infuriating; these wealthy people, who's pocket change could transform the city and address so much need, requiring to hear a fake sob story to open their wallets has him about this close to ripping out his petunias as they vibrate in anger.
It's a perverse kink of these crowds: the rich need to be needed by the needy.
A-Qing pats the table, as if searching for the clipboard with a donating sheet, glazed expression staring out. One of the patrons frantically reaches out to help, already clicking the pen to sign on the doted line. Luo Qingyang rests a hand on A-Qing's shoulder, adding the fake sniffle here and there while oh so graciously thanking the man; a line of patrons is already beginning to form, each clamoring to sign.
A sucker is born every minute.
Jiang Cheng purses his lips in effort to not smirk, lest he give away the girls' act. He may not rely on their hander-handed methods to get by, but he can appreciate a damn good ploy. And besides, these investors came here to give up money, or at least to be photographed as evidence of having attended. Might as well make themselves of use.
Jiang Cheng is so focused surveying A-Qing and Mianmian's act, politely thanking each donor and tactfully ignoring the lingering look he earns from a few housewives and even the occasional middle-aged man waiting in line, when he hears a voice that sends him a decade into the past he had run so hard from.
"J-Jiang...Cheng?"
Did he mention he hates these functions?
------------------------------------------------------------------
Author's note:
just to reiterate as the medical jargon gets more....robust, please don't come after me for inaccuracies. They won't be accurate and they certainly won't be realistic, just consider 'an attempt was made' thank you!
10 year reunion, yeehaw 🤠
I took some liberties when the descriptions of more lower income, common neighborhoods combined with past travel/working abroad in a similar country.