Siheyuan: Starting from the driver

Chapter 751 Daily Life in the Juvenile Detention Center

"Beep——"

The next morning, the death knell sounded again, accompanied by the stern shouts of the correctional officers piercing through the iron gate:

"get up!!!"

A flurry of activity erupted in the cell, and everyone sprang to their feet.

Bang Geng was fast asleep when he was suddenly kicked hard by the person next to him, falling off the bed to the floor.

The dramatic drop instantly jolted Bang Geng awake, making him forget where he was.

"Everyone, count off!" the voice outside the iron gate commanded emotionlessly.

But no one was waiting for him.

All the children immediately stood in line, and the counting began quickly:
“1！2！3！.13！14！15报数完！”

The skinny boy behind Banggeng didn't wait for Banggeng to call out his number; he eagerly called out his own number first, as if something bad would happen if he was a second slower.

Banggeng's mind was still a mess; his mouth was open, but the sound was stuck in his throat.

A gust of cold wind instantly rushed into the cell.

The door was violently pushed open with a loud bang.

A towering figure appeared in the cell, carrying a strong odor.

The correctional officer's expressionless yet stern face, his piercing gaze like a searchlight, was fixed precisely on Bang Geng's face.

"147! Are you got your ears stuffed with donkey hair?! Count off!!!"

The roar exploded in the confined space, making Bang Geng's eardrums buzz.

Bang Geng felt a chill run from the soles of his feet straight to the top of his head, and he almost knelt down.

"Here!!" Banggeng was so frightened that his soul almost left his body, and he screamed in a shrill voice.

"If you drag us down again, the whole cell will get an extra hour of military posture training!!" The warden coldly swept his gaze around.

Suddenly, the cell fell into a deathly silence; you could almost hear each other's heartbeats.

The gazes of everyone looking at Bang Geng instantly filled with naked hatred and resentment.

"Fold the blankets! Clean up! Morning exercises in fifteen minutes!!"

The guards issued another irrefutable order, and the iron gate slammed shut.

Boom!
The room instantly erupted in chaos.

"Fuck you! 147, you jinx! You want to kill me?! You can't even give a number! Are you a pig-brain?!"

The bamboo pole charged forward menacingly and slapped the back of the stick's head hard.

"Ah!" Bang Geng was slapped and fell to the ground.

He lost his balance and fell heavily to the ground, his cheek stinging as it scraped against the cold, rough cement.

Before he could recover from his dizziness, his other follower, Dunzi, had no intention of letting Banggeng off the hook. He grabbed Banggeng by the back of his collar like a chick and roared in his ear.

"What the hell are you standing there for! Screw your dawdling and go clean the toilet!!"

"If you don't clean this up, I'll make sure you're dead, you bastard! You hear me?!"

The cell was a scene of "busy activity," with everyone moving quickly to do their own thing: shaking out blankets, getting dressed, and washing their faces and rinsing their mouths with cold water from the bottom of basins.
Everyone wanted to stay as far away from the stick as possible, for fear of getting tainted by the bad luck it brought.

More accurately, no one was paying attention to him; everyone was busy with their own things.

Ignoring the pain, Banggeng scrambled into the toilet, grabbed the heavy mop, and began mopping the greasy, perpetually unclean cement floor.

Next came the emptying of the heavy wooden chamber pot; the pungent smell of ammonia made his vision blur and his stomach churn.

At this moment, no one was staring at the stick; everyone was busy with their own things, such as making their beds and washing up.
Fifteen minutes passed quickly, and the correctional officer entered the cell again.

Seeing that there was only one quilt that wasn't folded properly, he instantly roared, "Who! Whose quilt isn't folded!"

A dozen pairs of eyes, without any verbal prompting, all turned to look at the stick.

Banggeng stood at the very back of the crowd, wishing he could shrink into the wall, his head buried deep inside, his shoulders trembling slightly with fear.

The guards understood what was going on.

A new "wild child" had never been taught the strict housekeeping standards of a juvenile detention center, so blaming him seemed unreasonable. But rules are rules.

"Number 1!"

"Here!" Scarface stood nimbly in front of the people.

The hideous scar on his face and his sinister and ruthless eyes had transformed into an innocent and weak little lamb.

"Today, church number 147 will make their blankets." The discipliner's order was simple and direct.

"Yes!" Scarface replied loudly. There was no need to guess what would happen if the teacher couldn't teach him; he would be the one to suffer then.

"Everyone, get to morning exercises!" the warden ordered again.

The people in the cells formed a slightly scattered but extremely fast queue and poured out of the room like a flowing stream.

After passing through the dimly lit corridor and descending the cold stairs, we arrived at the huge, empty playground in the center of the juvenile detention center.

The morning wind brushed against my face, carrying the smell of rust and dust, and also a chilling clarity.

"Attention!" The command echoed across the open playground, sounding even more authoritative.

Next comes the daily morning exercises at the juvenile detention center: running, marching in formation, and simple military posture training.

The commands were short and forceful, and the chaotic footsteps of hundreds of teenagers tried to be orderly under the disciplined commands.

Banggeng tried hard to imitate the previous movements, but he was always a beat behind, which drew a warning look from Scarface, who was in charge of the exercise.

Finally, the torment was over.

Everyone was driven to the huge dining hall.

In a spacious, high-ceilinged room, any sound would be amplified infinitely.

The cornmeal porridge was so thin you could see the rice grains at the bottom of the bowl; two dark, hard cornbreads that could break your teeth; and a few bits of salty, bitter pickled vegetables.

Banggeng was already starving, and holding his share, he immediately wanted to take a bite of the steamed bun.

But as soon as my fingers touched the cold surface of the cornbread, I suddenly felt a cold gaze directed at me.

Bang Geng stiffly turned his head with a 'cluck', only to see Scarface giving him a cold glance from not far away, a look that was more intimidating than any words.

Startled, Banggeng quickly stuffed a steamed bun into his pocket.

Sure enough, Zhugan strolled over while they were getting their food.

Without a word, a hand expertly slipped into his pocket, precisely grabbed the cornbread, and turned away with the contempt of a victor.

The whole process took less than two seconds.

Banggeng clutched the remaining cornbread and the bowl of cold, watery porridge, his throat feeling as if something was tightly blocking it, and finally, scalding tears welled up.

He had experienced this at home, where he was always waited on hand and foot, but here he was being abused.

He hated everyone here, including Xu Damao, Warden Wang, Yi Zhonghai, and the incompetent Qin Huairu, who had sent him in.

If it weren't for them, I wouldn't be suffering here. After breakfast, I used the short break to clean the cell.

Banggeng dragged his leaden legs back to his cell, and before he could even stand up, shadows had already enveloped him.

Scarface walked up to Banggeng's bed and looked down at him, shouting:
"Kid, listen up! I'll teach you three times. If you still can't learn, you'd better consider my methods! Got it?!"

"I know," Banggeng's voice was barely audible, and he nodded in fright like a chick catching rice.

"Watch closely, you idiot!" Scarface impatiently grabbed the thin, paper-thin, stiff, and rough blanket from the stick-stemmed quilt, his movements swift and efficient.

First demonstration: "Look! Like this, spread it out! Align it! Press it down firmly!"

The second time, I went into a little more detail: "Press the middle down firmly, and chamfer the corners on both sides! See that? That's what you call corners!"

The third remark was laced with a scolding: "Are you out of your mind? You can't even remember something this simple? Are your eyes on your ass?!"

Three times is nothing more than a minute or two for Scarface.

But in Bang Geng's mind, that was something he simply couldn't understand.

Forget about making tofu blocks, they can't even make the most basic square shape.

"Damn it, you idiot!" Scarface slapped Bang Geng on the head in anger.

"Are you an idiot?! Even a dog will wag its tail after being taught three times! You're not even as good as a dog! You can't even learn something this simple? Were you raised on shit? You piece of trash!"

Accompanying the insults was a merciless punishment:

He kicked Banggeng in the shin, making him wince in pain.

He was struck in the back with an elbow, nearly causing him to fall.

They even poked his forehead hard with their rough fingers.

Under the combined approach of verbal humiliation, physical punishment, and death threats, Bang Geng was terrified to the extreme.

His survival instincts forced him to memorize the general steps amidst the chaos: unfold, fold, and press the seams.
"Refold it!" Scarface commanded viciously. "It's only considered acceptable when it's folded to look just like ours! I'm warning you, 147!"

Scarface drew closer, almost touching the tip of Banggeng's nose. "If tomorrow's inspection causes the whole cell to get punished because of this piece of trash, I'll shove you in the urinal and wash you clean! Got it?!"

Before he could finish speaking, another kick, neither too hard nor too soft, landed precisely on the stick-shaped buttocks that were sticking up.

Banggeng's eyes were blurred with tears. He pressed his dry, bleeding lips tightly together, and his lower lip was bitten white by his teeth.

He made no further sound, but mechanically, over and over again, stubbornly pulled the blanket apart, repeating the action of folding the blanket.

The short rest period passed quickly.

The sharp whistle tore through the air once more.

Being in a juvenile detention center isn't a vacation; you have to work here too. Although it's not as harsh as adult prisons, it's still a heavy burden.

Banggeng was assigned to a spacious room filled with the smell of cheap glue and paper.

The task was to paste paper boxes, which was similar to pasting matchboxes.

In front of me were piles of Korean cardboard, paste bowls, and molds, stacked like small mountains.

He needs to mechanically fold the cardboard into shape, apply glue, glue it, and let it dry.
Having experience pasting matchboxes, Banggeng was quite fast at pasting paper boxes.

The supervising officers couldn't help but look at Bang Geng in surprise. He was already just as good as these old kids, and he was a promising talent.

I was originally planning to show a little favoritism, but now I don't need to.

"These are all the things you need to do this morning!" The correctional officer brought over another large lump of raw materials.

The children standing nearby looked at Banggeng with immense pity. Why was he doing it so fast? Was he an idiot?

In less than two hours, Banggeng felt soreness in his lower back, his fingers were chafed painfully by the rough edges of the cardboard, and the brush handle used to apply paste felt like it weighed a ton.

At home, he would play mahjong with Jia Zhangshi for half an hour and then take a long break. Unlike here, he could play mahjong for two hours straight.

Finally, the morning's work came to an end.

Everyone was taken to the cafeteria for lunch again. The lunch was not much better than the breakfast, and everyone still had to take away a cornbread.

The afternoon ideological study sessions turned into another form of torture.

The group was led to a cold, damp classroom. The bone-chilling cold from the cement floor seeped through their thin shoes and shot straight up their spines.

Everyone was required to sit upright on the cold bench with their chests out and backs straight.

Another correctional officer stood behind the podium at the front, his voice loud but devoid of warmth, reciting slogans like a broken record:

"You must deeply reflect on your crimes! Theft and laziness are the first steps toward the abyss!"

"Stealing chickens and dogs is nothing! Bullying the weak is an even greater crime! Think about why you're here? It's because of the filthy thoughts in your minds."

"You are young now, and you're in a juvenile detention center! Do you understand?! This is the country and the people giving you a chance to reform!"

"If you still don't repent, this won't be your future! It will be prison! It will be a detention center! It will be an execution ground! Then you won't even have a chance to cry!"

A grand, cold, and overly political slogan, like a drop of water falling into the ocean, had no effect whatsoever on the still-immature Bang Geng.

Because he—he doesn't hear! He doesn't understand!

Banggeng sat stiffly, as if nailed to a bench, but his mind had already wandered numbly.

He secretly glanced around out of the corner of his eye.

Most of the teenagers had blank stares, their eyes wandering, staring blankly at a point in the void, their gazes not focused on the podium at all.

Some people, like him, had shifty eyes, secretly observing the guards and their companions.

Several people in the front row, like Scarface, had their heads down, their eyes revealing undisguised arrogance.

His eyes clearly said: Let whoever wants to listen listen!
Clearly, he ignored every word of discipline.

However, there were one or two of the youngest and most timid children in the corner of the queue, their faces filled with fear, seemingly struggling to listen and understand.

Bang Geng's little heart was full of questions. What was this guard on the stage saying? Right now, all he could think about was how to fill his stomach, because he was hungry again.

Finally, the thought-provoking class, which felt like it had lasted a century, came to an end.

With a shout of "Stand up! Take them back!", the team moved back again.

"147! My shoes are dirty, come and lick them clean!" Bamboo pole deliberately stretched the muddy shoes under the nose of stick stem.

"147! Where have you been? Bring Scarface a basin of hot water to wash his feet! And make sure it's warm! Hurry up!"

"147! What are you looking at like that? One of my socks is missing, did you steal it?! Find it for me!"

Banggeng, like a broken wooden puppet, frantically shuttled back and forth in this cramped cell.

He was patting the mud off the shoes with a bamboo pole, carrying a cup of icy water, when Scarface kicked him over and ordered him to fetch it again.

They crawled around under the stinking bed and in the corners of the walls, searching for the "socks" that had vanished without a trace.
With each call, the stalk inevitably gets injured.

He bumped his forehead on the foot of the bed, and a big bump swelled up.

My knee is scraped and bleeding.

This experience will continue for more than just one day; there are still eight more days to go.

(End of this chapter)