Back to 17, My Brother is the Cult Leader

Fang Yuan opened his eyes.

The fluorescent light on the ceiling was emitting a stark white light that hurt the eyes.

He blinked twice, then twice more, his mind a jumbled mess, like it was filled with glue, and he couldn't get anything out of his head.

Where is this?

There was a smell of disinfectant in the air. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't unpleasant either. After smelling it for a while, it even made me feel a little reassured.

He later realized that it smelled like a hospital.

"He's awake! He's awake!" A loud voice boomed from the side, carrying a thick, familiar accent.

"You silly child, you scared your Aunt Zhang half to death!"

Fang Yuan turned his head and saw a round face, about forty years old, wearing a nurse's uniform from a railway hospital, holding an enamel mug.

He recognized the woman; she was Aunt Zhang, his mother's former colleague and a nurse at the railway hospital.

However, Aunt Zhang is a bit too young!

Fang Yuan tried to open his mouth to call out, but his throat felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper, and he could only manage a muffled sound.

Aunt Zhang quickly put down the jar, took a small spoon, scooped some water, and brought it to his lips: "Don't talk yet, drink some water."

The warm water felt much better as it flowed down my throat.

As Fang Yuan drank, he wondered, "What's wrong with him?"

My mind is a jumbled mess, and I can't make sense of it.

"How did you two manage to get scratched by a car while riding your bicycles out for fun?"

Aunt Zhang muttered to herself as she fed the baby.

"The same goes for the jeep. The rearview mirror grazed you, and you fell so hard that the back of your head hit the curb, and you didn't know anything at all."

"I've worked at the hospital for twenty years. When I saw you wheeled in with your face covered in blood, my legs went weak."

As Fang Yuan listened, the fragments slowly came together.

correct.

On the weekend, he and Huang Xiaoming went out for a bike ride.

As he crossed an intersection, a jeep sped up behind him, its rearview mirror grazing him.

He and his bike were thrown off, the back of his head hitting the curb, and then he knew nothing more.

Where is Huang Xiaoming?

"Xiao Ming twisted his ankle and fractured it when he jumped off the train, but it's nothing serious."

Aunt Zhang seemed to have figured out what he was thinking.

"His dad took him on the train early this morning. It's the third round of the art exam. His dad said he couldn't delay it, so he carried him onto the train."

As Fang Yuan lay in bed listening to these words, the tangled mess in his mind slowly untangled.

Not only did these fragments come loose, but something else also came loose.

It's like a door that's been closed for a long time, suddenly blown open a crack by the wind, letting in light that's dazzling yet makes you want to look.

He remembered something.

Like watching a movie, it played through my mind frame by frame.

He remembered that he hadn't gotten into university in his previous life.

Thinking back to how I wandered around Qingdao for many years, doing manual labor and sales, I didn't stick with any of them for long.

You might say it's tragic, but it's not the worst. At least you have a childhood friend, Huang Xiaoming, who works as a screenwriter at a film and television company to take care of you.

But to say he's not miserable is an exaggeration. He's been married and divorced, and his wife left with their daughter. His daughter won't even answer his calls anymore.

I sold the house and went to Beijing. I revised manuscripts every day, worked overtime every day, and drank instant coffee every day.

On my forty-seventh birthday, I collapsed in front of the computer.

And then that was it.

Fang Yuan stared at the fluorescent light on the ceiling, feeling a mix of emotions.

I had a tough life in my past life and didn't amount to much.

To put it bluntly, it's just drifting through life, until in the end, there's not even anything left to drift through.

He pinched his thigh.

pain.

It hurts.

It's not a dream.

"Aunt Zhang," Fang Yuan spoke, his voice still hoarse, "what year is it?"

Aunt Zhang paused for a moment, then reached out and touched his forehead: "Are you confused from the fall? 1996, February 1996."

1996.

Fang Yuan silently recited the year in his mind.

In 1996, he was seventeen years old, a second-year high school student, in the second semester.

His mother has been gone for almost a year.

His father is a train conductor who runs the Qingdao-BJ line year-round and can't stay at home for more than a few days.

He is now lying in a hospital bed at the railway hospital, with several stitches in his head, suffering from a mild concussion, and feeling dizzy.

Fang Yuan closed his eyes.

The jumbled images in my mind were still flashing through my mind, but they were moving at a slower pace.

He stopped thinking about it; thinking too much would give him a headache. He had already bumped his head, and thinking about those old, trivial things would only make his mind more confused.

The only thing he's certain of now is that he's been given a second chance at life.

As for what he will do after he survives, he hasn't thought about it yet.

Not urgent.

Anyway, life is still long.

"Why can't you be more careful, kid?"

Aunt Zhang was still muttering to herself, but then her voice suddenly lowered.

"If your mother were still alive, see how heartbroken you would be..."

She stopped halfway through her sentence.

Fang Yuan opened his eyes and glanced at her.

Aunt Zhang was a little embarrassed. She turned her face away, wiped her eyes, and muttered:

"I'll go get you some hot water. Just lie still and don't move around."

After saying that, he picked up the enamel mug and went out.

The ward fell silent.

Fang Yuan closed his eyes again.

He thought about his mother, her face, and her voice for a while.

But I didn't think about it for too long; thinking about it too much would make me feel uncomfortable.

He's still physically weak and mentally foggy; he has trouble thinking about anything.

I'd rather go to sleep.

Fang Yuan turned over, found a comfortable position, and fell asleep.

When I woke up again, it was almost dark.

The lights were on in the ward. Aunt Zhang wasn't there. There was a thermos on the bedside table, and next to it was a note that read:

"The porridge is in the bucket, remember to drink it. Aunt Zhang."

Fang Yuan sat up. This time his head wasn't so dizzy, but it still felt a little throbbing.

I opened the thermos; it contained millet porridge, still warm, with a few red dates inside.

He drank slowly with a spoon, sip by sip, very slowly.

Halfway through the drink, the ward door opened.

The man who entered was a middle-aged man, wearing a railway uniform, carrying a bag, and looking tired from a long journey.

Fang Jianguo.

Fang Yuan's father.

"Awake?" Fang Jianguo put his bag on the chair, walked to the bedside and looked at him.

"Um."

"The doctor said it's a mild concussion and I need to observe it for a few days."

"Um."

"Xiao Ming's dad took him to Beijing for his third audition; it can't be delayed."

"Aunt Zhang told me."

Fang Jianguo nodded, sat down in the chair, and remained silent.

The father and son just stayed there, one drinking porridge and the other sitting, neither of them saying a word.

Fang Yuan and Fang Jianguo were the same in their past life; they didn't talk much.

It's not that I don't want to talk, it's that I don't know what to say.

Two generations, separated by a layer, neither can reach the other.

But today, looking at Fang Jianguo's tired face, a thought suddenly popped into Fang Yuan's mind—

Has his dad aged a bit too quickly? He's only 42, how come half of his hair is already white?

"Dad," Fang Yuan called out.

Fang Jianguo raised his head.

"I'm fine, you don't need to ask for leave."

Fang Jianguo paused for a moment, his lips moved, and finally he said, "I've asked for a day."

"Then go back tomorrow, don't let it interfere with your work."

Fang Jianguo glanced at him, his eyes filled with a complex emotion.

Fang Yuan wouldn't have said such things before.

In the past, Fang Yuan would just keep his head down and not say anything, or impatiently tell him to leave.

"Okay." Fang Jianguo nodded.

The ward fell silent again.

After finishing his porridge, Fang Yuan closed the thermos and leaned back on the bed.

Fang Jianguo was still sitting in his chair, seemingly lost in thought.

After a long while, Fang Jianguo suddenly spoke up: "Fang Yuan, what do you want to do in the future?"

Fang Yuan turned to look at him.

His father had never asked such a question.

"I haven't decided yet," Fang Yuan said.

This is the truth.

He had just gone from being forty-seven years old back to seventeen, and his mind was still reeling; he had no time to think about the future.

Fang Jianguo was silent for a while, then said, "Think it over carefully. We can't live our whole lives in a daze."

Fang Yuan didn't respond.

Fang Jianguo left early the next morning.

Before leaving, he left two hundred yuan and a note on the bedside table that read: "Listen to Aunt Zhang and take good care of yourself."

His handwriting was crooked and messy, just like him—clumsy, but genuine.

Fang Yuan carefully put away the money and the note.

For the next few days, Fang Yuan stayed in the hospital to recuperate.

Aunt Zhang visits him every day, bringing him meals, helping him change his dressings, and saying a few words to him.

He was all alone in the ward; it was almost too quiet.

With nothing to do, Fang Yuan started thinking.

Thinking about things from my past life, and how I should live this life.

What was his biggest problem in his past life?

It's not about having money, opportunities, or direction.

He didn't know what he wanted to do or what he was capable of, so he just drifted through life day after day until he didn't even have the energy to continue.

What about this lifetime?

Fang Yuan thought about it for a long time, but couldn't come up with a clear answer.

But he realized one thing—no matter what he did, he couldn't live like he did in his previous life, in a muddle-headed way.

He had to find himself a path, a different path.

As for what this road is, there's no rush.

He's only seventeen; he has plenty of time to think.

Fang Yuan stayed in the hospital for five days. The doctor said he was recovering well and could be discharged.

Aunt Zhang helped him with the formalities, gave him a bag of fruit, and told him to eat well when he got home, not to stay up late, and not to get his wound wet.

Fang Yuan responded to each of them, picked up his things, and walked out of the hospital gate.

In February, the wind in Qingdao is still a bit chilly.

Fang Yuan stood at the hospital entrance and took a deep breath.

The smell of the sea mixed with the smell of car exhaust was unpleasant, but it was real.

He is alive.

He was given a second chance at life.

Fang Yuan switched the fruit bag to his other hand and started walking home.

After taking two steps, he stopped and looked up at the sky.

The sky was overcast and there wasn't much to see.

But he watched it for quite a while.

Then he laughed.

Let bygones be bygones.

He has to make something of himself in this life.