Just after the pandemic ended, I decided I couldn’t keep sitting at home and made up my mind to find work. A senior from my old department put me forward for a teaching assistant position. The school still required masks, so I was reminded to wear one.
When I arrived at the school office — during the gap between morning break and lunch — I was about to explain why I was there when I noticed that my mouth, under the mask, felt sealed shut. It wouldn’t open. To cover the awkwardness, I pretended to clear my throat and made a muffled sound. The receptionist asked if I was there for the interview; I nodded quickly. She picked up the intercom to call the department head. I panicked, gestured that I needed the bathroom, and fled the office.
The bathroom was empty, smelling of antiseptic. I took off my mask and looked in the mirror. The lower half of my face, where my mouth should have been, was smooth. Because I had no mouth, I couldn’t scream — my jaw just dropped slightly. I pressed my fingers around the empty space and found that the jawbone and teeth were still there, just sealed under the skin. I explored with my tongue; the inside of my mouth felt normal and I could see the tip of my tongue moving under the surface. The bell rang and I startled, quickly put my mask back on, and fled the school.
Out on the street I tried to stay calm and not attract attention. But actually, everyone was still wearing masks — nobody could see anything unusual underneath. I even started to wonder whether some of these people might be just like me. I had no way to check, but the thought was oddly comforting.
At a nearby mask shop I chose the thickest style available. The cashier muttered to herself: the pandemic’s been over for ages but more people are buying masks lately — strange. She gave me a suspicious look, and whatever reflex I had left in my lip tightened for a moment. Though I didn’t have a lip anymore — just the skin, tensing out of old habit.
I went to the basement bathroom in a shopping mall to change into the new mask, and found a woman standing at the sink. She wore a white tank top, loose army-green trousers, and had long silver-green hair. In the mirror I could see her cartoon-character mask and heavily made-up eyes above it. Our eyes met. She touched the area of her mask where a mouth would be and gave me a knowing look. I nodded. I could tell she knew what she was doing.
I followed her to a small boutique in the mall. The lights were off inside; a heavyset man in all black with a black mask opened the door. They led me behind a curtain and naturally removed their masks. As I’d expected, neither of them had a mouth either. The man still had two sparse rows of stubble above where his mouth used to be. I was scared, but it would have been rude not to follow their lead. The woman began speaking in a throat-voice — something like ventriloquism — which sounded a bit odd but was more understandable than I’d expected; maybe because Cantonese has nine tones and the sounds are easier to distinguish.
She said her name was Fung, and asked when I’d become Bai. (Both words were hard to produce without lips, so we switched to typing on phones and kept doing so throughout.) I said: “Just now.” She said: “Lucky you ran into me! We call this phenomenon Bai — it’s not an official name, just what we say among ourselves. This has never gone public, and probably never will, so outside of those of us who have it, no one knows about Bai or talks about it. That’s actually a good thing, because there’s nothing glorious about becoming Bai, and we don’t want the attention. So Bai has formed a little community — a few hundred people, though we think there are many more out there who are completely isolated: Bai within Bai, totally closed off and alone. They probably won’t last long. Why? How do you eat without a mouth? You can’t survive without eating. But don’t worry! We’ve been through it. Our experience can help you — though some suffering is unavoidable.”
Fung went on: “Don’t ask me what causes Bai. Some say it’s a kind of unconscious impulse, but people who become Bai aren’t necessarily introverted to begin with — take me and him, we were both blabbermouths. It’s not necessarily caused by external suppression either. The cause is unknown. One thing is certain: everyone became Bai after putting on a mask. Though saying that prolonged mask-wearing caused it — that’s probably too simple.”
At this point Fung let out a stifled laugh that sounded like a cough. Then the man said: “Hungry? That’s an even bigger problem than not being able to talk. Some people have tried nasal feeding tubes or nutrient injections, but the most direct method is to cut open the skin where your mouth used to be with a knife — eat while the blood pours, wolf it down as fast as possible. The wound heals over and seals up again, so next time you need to eat, you cut again. You have to eat as much as you can each time to reduce how often you need to do it. Most people can’t do it to themselves and need help. That’s how we survive. If you ever need us, we’re here.” The man reached into his pocket as if to produce something. I let out what should have been a scream but came out as a grunt, and bolted.
I went home, locked myself in my room, and texted my dad that my throat was sore and I didn’t want to talk or eat. But after a whole day without food I started feeling dizzy and weak. I thought: at this rate I’m going to die.
By the next morning I knew I couldn’t just wait it out, so I put my mask on and went back to the shop. There had to be another way besides a knife. Only Fung was there. When she saw me, she lit up, and said in her throat-voice: “Perfect timing! I just found out about a new method from the Bai group chat. It’s called the mouthless kiss. Come on, let’s try it — nothing to lose!”
I had no idea what she meant, but I stood there dumbly while she took off my mask, brought her mouth area up to where mine used to be, and pressed. I felt the light touch of skin, then pressure, then warmth and moisture — I even felt the tip of her tongue. I pulled back in shock, ran my own tongue over my lips, and found that my mouth had come back. I asked Fung why she didn’t go do this for her boyfriend. She wiped her mouth and told me firmly: “Remember — never let a man take advantage of you!”
SF’s Strange Ordinary was originally published in Chinese in ebook format in 2025. Following it’s serialization in English translation, an English ebook version will be published. If you want to buy the Chinese version (USD 7.99), please click the link below:
Translated from the Chinese original with Claude
Picture generated with Midjourney