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Several more days passed. The handcuffs were now beginning to affect my mind, probably through their effect on my nervous system. I got muddled periodically and forgot where I was. I no longer remembered how many days ago I was first manacled. Life was just an unending road of acute pain and suffering on which I must trudge along as best I could. During moments of lucidity, I tried to discipline my mind by doing simple arithmetic. I would repeat to myself, ''Two and two makes four, four and four equals eight, eight and eight equals 16 . . . '' But after only a little while, my ability to concentrate would evaporate, and I would get confused again. After several more days, I no longer had the strength to stagger to the small window for rice or water. I drifted in and out of consciousness for some time, then passed out altogether. When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on the dusty floor. ''Get up! Get up!'' a man's voice was shouting. ''You are feigning death! You won't be allowed to get away with it.'' My arms were still bent to my back, but they were no longer handcuffed. The militant female guard was holding the heavy brass cuffs, all covered with congealed blood and pus. The guard probably considered them repulsive, as she was holding them gingerly by the chain with just two fingers. ''Don't think we are finished with you!'' the man said. ''There are other ways to bring you to your senses.'' The female guard gave my prostrate body a hard kick as they left the cell and locked the door behind them. Slowly I brought my left arm forward and looked at my hand. It was horrible to contemplate. Both hands were swollen to enormous size. The swelling extended to my elbows. Around my wrists where the handcuffs had cut into my flesh, blood and pus continue to ooze out of the wounds. My nails were purple and felt as if they were going to fall off. I touched the back of each hand, only to find the skin and flesh numb. I tried to curl up my fingers but could not because they were the size of carrots. I prayed to God to help me recover the use of my hands. After a while, I tried to get up. But I had to stifle a cry of pain, for my feet could not support my body. I managed to haul myself up to the bed. My woolen socks were stuck to my feet with dried pus. When I succeeded in peeling the socks off with my numb and swollen fingers, I saw that my feet were also swollen to enormous size. Under each toe was a large blister. I could not take the socks completely off because some of the blisters had broken and the pus had dried, gluing the socks to my feet. I managed to stagger to the door and called the guard. ''May I see the doctor, please.'' ''What for?'' ''My wrists and feet are injured. I need some medicine and bandages.'' ''The doctor does not give treatment when a prisoner has been punished.'' ''In that case, perhaps you could just give me some disinfectant ointment or Mercurochrome for the wounds?'' ''No, not allowed.'' ''May I have some bandages?'' ''No.'' Even with no help, I washed my hands and took care of my injuries, and eventually they began to heal. It took me many months of intense effort to be able to raise my arms above my head; it was a full year before I could stretch them straight above me. The deeper wounds where the metal of the handcuffs cut through my flesh almost to the bone left scars that remain with me to this day.
WHAT'S HAPPENED TO MEIPING?