"Let me out!"
I wailed, pounding on the door with my small fists.
I cried until my voice gave out and my body couldn't hold me up anymore.
Exhaustion pulled me down, and I slumped against the door, falling into a deep, heavy sleep...
I jolted awake again, heart racing from the same dream that had been haunting me lately.
It happened years ago, but for some reason, it kept coming back.
When I was little, I was incredibly mischievous, my parents called it "hyperactive."
I got into fights with my classmates all the time.
And when I threw a punch, I never held back.
I'd even throw stones straight at their heads without a second thought.
Luckily, no one ever got seriously hurt, even though it happened a lot.
But my parents paid the price.
Apologies and compensation became part of our routine.
Over the years, the medical bills alone stacked up into a small fortune.
Childhood mischief is normal, but mine had gone way beyond what my parents could handle.
With no other options, they turned to strict discipline.
When they were home, I wasn't allowed to go out.
If both of them had to leave at the same time, the simplest solution was to lock me inside the house.
At first, I went wild indoors, smashing furniture and breaking appliances.
When they came back, besides spanking me, my father would tease me almost like a bully: "Well done, smash more... Better than your parents groveling for forgiveness. Besides, broken things cost less than medical bills."
This confinement went on for years, from second to third grade all the way to junior high.
My personality changed completely, like I'd become someone else.
Trapped inside with nothing to do, bored out of my mind, I found my only escape in books.
At first, they were children's stories my parents bought on purpose, fairy tales, story collections, that sort of thing.
But as I got older and my studies progressed, the books I read grew in number, variety, and strangeness...
By fourth grade, I was deep into fantasy, martial type novels.
By fifth grade, I started tackling books far beyond my age.
I read whatever I got…
When I didn't understand something, I'd ask my parents.
My mother would just say she didn't know either and tell me to ask my father.
His answer was always blunt: "I don't know either."
That puzzled me. "If we can't understand them, why did we buy these books in the first place?"
"Does not understanding them mean we can't buy them? We buy them to put on the bookshelf. When guests come, they can serve as decorations..."
What kind of answer was that?
By then, I wasn't the naive kid I used to be. As my knowledge grew, I'd developed some patience.
I didn't like my father's response, but I didn't dwell on it. I just went back to my books.
I loved reading, but I didn't need to grasp every detail, a general sense was enough for me...
After starting middle school, I'd transformed from the troublemaker of elementary school into what my parents and teachers saw as a diligent student.
The punishment of locking me in had stopped long ago... but lately, it kept resurfacing in my dreams.
That puzzled me.
As I grew older, I came to understand why my parents had done it.
What I couldn't figure out was why these memories, once so painful, now haunted my sleep.
Maybe it was because I'd grown so used to spending years reading at home, rarely going out.
Compared to my classmates, my body was weaker, frailer.
Even in class, I often felt dizzy and faint.
My homeroom teacher had noticed and even talked to my parents about it out of concern.
But by now, I was completely used to being a homebody.
My parents couldn't drag me out the door even if they tried.
My father just gave up and went along with it: "it's still better than a troublemaker."
After school that day, I walked home with my backpack as usual, my mind drifting back to the dream from the night before...
Suddenly, mid-step, something exploded inside my head.
My mind swelled, my body went limp, and I collapsed straight to the ground...
As I collapsed, I vaguely felt strong arms catch me before the world went completely black.
In that hazy, half-conscious state, a vision appeared before me: a pale and delicate hand hovering close.
Its index finger gently but firmly tapped against my forehead in a steady rhythm.
With every tap, powerful waves of strange energy surged through my body.
It felt overwhelming, almost suffocating, yet at the same time it carried an unexpected, deep pleasure.
Under that intense and conflicting pressure, I felt every pore in my skin open wide, as if my whole body was suddenly breathing in something new.
Sharp pain shot through my muscles immediately after, like they were being stretched and torn.
But once the pain faded, an even stronger wave of pure, intense pleasure rushed over me, warming and electrifying every part of me.
Then, just as quickly as it came, the sensation vanished, and everything slipped away into darkness.
When I opened my eyes, I was lying on the ground, staring up at a strangely dressed figure.
It wasn't truly bizarre, just extremely rare in modern times.
He had a bun on his head and wore a black cap...
"Are you a Priest?" I couldn't help asking.
"Looks like you're all right..."
His face lit up with relief.
"Young man, you gave this humble Taoist Priest quite a scare just now. You were walking along and suddenly stumbled. Luckily, I was nearby and caught you..."
Then concern creased his brow.
"By the way, young man, what's your name?"
I paused for a second, then answered, "My name is Lian."
The Taoist priest relaxed visibly and smiled. "Good, good."
I'd read enough news stories over the years to know exactly why he'd asked for my name so quickly.
In cases like this, when someone suddenly collapses and a stranger helps, people often worry the fallen person might later claim they were hurt on purpose and demand money.
It's a common scam, usually pulled off by older folks pretending to fall.
Since I was just a kid, I clearly wasn't one of those scammers, but the priest had still been cautious.
Realizing that, I couldn't help but grin and say it for him, to put his mind at ease: "Rest assured, I'm no old man trying to scam you."
The Taoist burst into hearty laughter, completely relaxed now.
"You're a quick-witted lad! My Taoist name is Pingshan, and I live at Xiang Temple just on the next street over. A meeting like this feels like fate. If you're ever curious, feel free to come visit me there."
Hearing him speak like that, I found him quite interesting, nothing like the typical monk.
I couldn't resist responding in kind: "Master, you've shown me kindness. Since you've invited me, I'll gladly accept."
Pingshan looked surprised at my words; they sounded odd coming from a twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy.
He gave me a few more curious glances, then smiled, helped me to my feet, patted my shoulder, and left with a warm smile.
I watched him go, absentmindedly scratching my head.
I murmured to myself, "Taoism... going with the flow. Maybe it really suits me. Or perhaps, just as this Taoist said, I truly have a connection with it."
When I got home, my mother noticed how pale I was and asked with worry.
I didn't hide anything and told her everything that had happened on the way back.
She immediately wanted to take me to the hospital for a checkup, but my father brushed it off as unnecessary.
They argued briefly, but my firm refusal finally ended it.
Still, one thing my father said during the argument struck me as especially harsh, even though it wasn't aimed at me, but at my mother.
"Just looking for an excuse to visit your old classmates again, aren't you?"