Chapter 356: A Stutterer

2022-05-20

What you think you’ve forgotten actually never truly goes away.

Liang Zhengyu’s homeroom teacher had kept this secret buried in her heart for a long time, never finding the right moment to speak. As time passed it settled even deeper inside her, hidden away. She thought she could hold onto it all her life—until Liang Zhengyu died.

Liang Zhengyu’s death struck her harder than anything before. Suddenly she couldn’t keep that secret locked away any longer. She’d been torn for ages, not knowing if she should let it out, but when we called her, she finally decided to confess the secret she’d carried for over half a year.

But what was it that Liang Zhengyu’s homeroom teacher had seen that made her turn away?

Back then, she had seen a circle of her students gathered on the field. At the center was none other than Liang Zhengyu.

She watched as several students pinned a boy to the ground. Overpowered by the group, he didn’t stand a chance. Meanwhile, Liang Zhengyu held a cigarette, its tip ablaze, raised high for everyone to see.

A few of the students yanked up the pinned boy’s shirt, baring the skin on his waist.

The kids crouched nearby weren’t doing anything, but their eyes sparkled with wild excitement and anticipation. Some of them shouted, “Burn him—burn him!”

What shocked the homeroom teacher the most was how even the class’s star pupils—the ones she thought would never associate with the troublemakers—were right in the thick of it. Their faces brimmed with the same frenzy and eagerness, which made the scene all the more terrifying.

In the midst of the commotion, Liang Zhengyu grinned, pinched the burning cigarette between his fingers, and stubbed it out on the boy’s exposed waist. The victim screamed in pain, but the others quickly clasped their hands over his mouth, desperate to muffle the cries so no teachers would hear.

These were only elementary school kids, none of them over five feet tall, but the cruelty they showed put some adults to shame. Each of them had a role to play.

The homeroom teacher stood at a distance, tall enough to look over the crowd and see what was happening. None of the children noticed her. They were too lost in their own twisted celebration. If it was just one bad kid, maybe it could be chalked up to individual misbehavior—but when half the class, even the supposed model students, turned brutal, what could she do?

She couldn’t accept it. But if she confronted them openly, how could she ever face these students again in class? How could she keep teaching them with a clear heart? The best she could do was pretend nothing had happened. Good kids would stay good, the bad ones would still be bad.

At that moment, Liang Zhengyu’s homeroom teacher made the hardest choice of her life—she decided it was better to sacrifice one child to keep things quiet.

It was as if nothing had happened. Everything returned to normal, or so it seemed. She half-hoped the victim would come and confide in her, yet she also feared he really would. If he did, how could she explain herself? Claim ignorance? Blame him, saying ‘it takes two to tango’?

Honestly, if not for that incident, the homeroom teacher wouldn’t have even noticed that boy much. She only knew he had hearing problems and a stutter. She hadn’t realized it at first, not until she called on him a few times in class and heard it for herself.

She’d wanted to get him to answer questions more, thinking maybe it would help him overcome his stutter. But every time he stammered, the whole class would roar with laughter, and her own frustration would boil over. She’d let him sit down, disappointed he couldn’t improve. In the end, his stutter only got worse.

By the start of fourth grade, he had stopped speaking altogether. When asked to answer a question, he’d stand up and say nothing, sometimes for minutes at a time. The homeroom teacher was furious. Here was an opportunity to help himself, to work on his speech, but why wouldn’t he even try? Couldn’t he understand how much she wanted to help?

Once, she snapped at him: “Sit down. You’ll be a stutterer for life.”

The classroom burst into laughter.

Half a year passed. The homeroom teacher had nearly forgotten about him entirely. But now, this stutterer had reentered her sight. He had never come to her for help, and she tried to convince herself none of it mattered. Some people bring misfortune on themselves, she told herself.

Yes—if you clap with one hand, there’s no sound. Why did Liang Zhengyu pick on him, and why did even the good kids join in? Surely there was something wrong with the stutterer—maybe he’d done something to provoke it, so the others turned on him.

Why else would they bully you instead of someone else?

There must be something wrong with that boy.

She tried to convince herself, but deep down, the last shreds of her conscience nagged her—maybe she should have really looked into it.

She’d tried, hinting around, trying to get the stutterer to open up, even wanted to check for injuries, but he wouldn’t say a word. He wouldn’t let her look, refused to say what happened. After a few guilt-ridden attempts, she grew irritated—pitied his misfortune, blamed his weakness. In the end, her anger stifled every other feeling.

The homeroom teacher knew the stutterer kept getting bullied, but she stopped caring. So be it. Let things stay as they were.

Life resumed its rhythm. Her heart grew numb; in her mind, everyone’s fate was their own to control. The world seemed cut-and-dried—some are born to bully, others to be bullied. Especially a classmate who couldn’t speak up or complain.

And now, after endless torment, Liang Zhengyu’s homeroom teacher finally spoke up. Through the phone, we heard her crying. We didn’t know exactly what those tears meant, what she was crying for.

Was it the guilt she felt facing the stutterer all those years—or was it fear that after Liang Zhengyu was murdered, she might be next to bear the consequences?

Or maybe it was that awful realization: she knew how cruel the world was, but had never tried to change it. Instead, she just let it carry her along, powerless and ashamed.

Are people born good at heart, or evil by nature?

Kindness is hard to share, but evil spreads like wildfire. Once it gets loose, it’s impossible to contain.

If Liang Zhengyu hadn’t been killed, maybe we’d have never known about any of this. By the time sixth grade ended, everyone would have just forgotten. Even when those kids grew up, they might never remember the stutterer or what they did to him.

Liang Zhengyu’s homeroom teacher told us, through her tears, that confessing all this meant her teaching career was over. But having finally spoken out, her heart felt lighter, the agony a little less.

This little town is close to Dongxing City and yet, feels worlds apart. Everyone dreams of getting into Dongxing City’s elementary schools—the environment there is better, and it’s easy to believe you’ll be more motivated. Spend your whole life in a place like this, though, and it feels like your best days are already over.

So the teachers grew numb, forgetting those old vows to shape young lives.

Gu Chen spoke softly: “You’re in your fifties now—you’ll have grandkids soon enough. If your own grandchild was bullied at school, or looked down on by teachers, coming home hurt and afraid to speak up—wouldn’t your heart break too?”

Silence filled the room.

We never saw the events firsthand, but hearing the homeroom teacher’s account was enough to know how cruel it was. If that boy’s parents ever heard about it, how devastated would they be? How utterly hopeless?

To adults, children seem so innocent—how could they ever do something truly evil? Maybe they just fool around a little too much. And even if they’re caught, what’s the big deal with a ten-year-old anyway?

“What about the boy with the stutter—is he still in class?” I asked.

“He is…” the homeroom teacher replied.