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墨書 Inktalez
When I opened my eyes again, I was one year old.
I lay in bed while my mother played with me, but suddenly my father burst in, wielding a kitchen knife.
He viciously swung it at my mother's dowry, the red box filled with quilts.
He muttered, "Old hag."
"Dog eyes look down on people."
"You don't help me."
"None of you are good people."
My mother, terrified, hugged me tightly and shrank to the innermost part of the bed, trembling against the wall.
Even so, she covered my eyes gently and softly patted my back.
My father was like a madman, his terrifying and twisted face.
I floated in the air, pressing my lips together tightly.
Mom, just get a divorce!
It wasn't until my father left to go out that the noise outside faded away. Only then did my mother's tense body relax; she had no strength left and leaned back against the bed. The little me had already fallen asleep in her arms.
My mother began to speak less and less.
There was no light in her eyes anymore.
I never saw her genuine smile again after that.
Later, my mother found out that my father had no money and asked my grandparents for help, but they refused.
He even asked my maternal grandparents for money; they didn't agree and said they needed to discuss it with my mother first.
But my father angrily cursed them for not taking him seriously.
After hanging up the phone, he picked up the knife and charged into the bedroom.
The thought of divorce crossed my mother's mind more than once.
But my grandfather always smiled and said, "My beloved grandson. The only beloved grandson in our family. Among all the brothers, I'm the only one with a beloved grandson."
Such words were almost a catchphrase for him.
Unable to take me away, my mother endured it day by day, living through it all.
One time, while my mother was doing housework, my father came home drunk and immediately started cursing at her. My mother didn’t retort; she silently continued with her chores.
Listening to his insults without saying a word, she ignored him completely; she had lost hope in him and no longer expected anything from him.
Seeing that my mother wouldn’t respond only made my father angrier; he cursed more fiercely and grabbed a stool to smash things with it—first hitting the nearby table and then directly aiming at my mother.
When she dodged, it seemed to make him even more furious.
I saw Little Bean rush over and hug her mother, but her father yelled at Little Bean, "Get away, or I'll smash you too!"
The look on the father's face truly frightened Little Bean. Held in her mother's arms, the terrified Little Bean began to cry loudly.
The father paused for a moment, then put down the bench he was holding and stormed out.
The mother hurriedly checked if Little Bean was hurt, and when she saw that Little Bean was fine, she started to cry.
Her tears fell onto Little Bean's shoulder, and I felt those tears burning hot against my skin.
My heart ached from the heat.
In the pain, my consciousness began to blur.
When I regained my senses, I felt like my eyes were about to burst.
I saw a shovel swinging towards my mother's head.
Domestic violence is either zero times or countless times.
The shovel was raised high, cutting through the air with a whoosh.
I was so scared that I rushed forward to intercept it, but I passed right through the shovel and could only watch helplessly as it came down.
Just a fist's distance from my mother's head, it was stopped by a villager's large hand.
Only then did I manage to catch my breath.
The villager advised, "No need for this, calm down. No need to resort to violence."
The father said, "I was just trying to scare her."
The mother stood there, her body slightly trembling, her eyes filled with disbelief and deep despair.
Seeing someone watching, the father pulled little me away.
I watched as my mother stood there in a daze, unable to regain her senses for a long time.
I thought my mother must have been terrified.
Anyone would be scared if something fell on their head.
My mother walked away in a daze, aimlessly murmuring to herself, "He wants to kill me. He actually wants to kill me."
She turned around and left home, walking alone along the road.
In the night wind, her figure appeared particularly lonely.
Without an ID or any money, she wanted to return to her maternal home seeking some comfort but found that she couldn't even afford the most basic transportation fare.
She wanted to find a place to make a phone call but realized that even two cents per minute for a call had become a luxury.
I saw Mom squatting in the bushes, surrounded by endless darkness and silence. Her cries were suppressed, afraid to let them out, fearing to disturb the indifference of this world. The bushes became her sanctuary; she curled up there like an abandoned child, helpless and desperate.
"Mom, don't cry. Everything will be okay," I tried to comfort her, even though she couldn't hear me. Watching all of this, my heart ached. I wanted to give her a hug, to give her strength. Mom was in the bushes, tears blurring her eyes. Looking at her tears, my heart shattered along with hers.
Dad was really too much. Really too much. At that time, I could already walk and eat the same meals as Mom. She always fed me first; protected by her, I was unaffected, running around while eating. It took at least half an hour to finish a meal, and the food would get cold. Mom could only take a big bowl, half rice and half vegetables, holding it while eating cold food and running after me.
Mom's smiles became fewer; in places where little me couldn't see, she stopped smiling and spoke less and less. She loved going out even less; she would play games with one-year-old me and laugh with little me. As long as little me's gaze wasn't on her, her smile would disappear. When my gaze turned to her, she would smile.
I floated around Mom watching all of this, my heart starting to ache for her. I realized things I couldn't notice when I was younger. In the middle of the night, Mom would sit dazed at the head of the bed; she couldn't sleep. She spent whole nights awake, losing clumps of hair. The dark circles under her eyes were deep, and her face was waxy yellow.
Mom often stared blankly, hollow, helpless, and sad. Even so, in front of me, she never spoke ill of Dad; every time she talked about him, it was how good he was. But Mom's condition worsened day by day; she often gazed into the distance lost in thought. Sometimes she would suddenly burst into tears; she occasionally couldn't smile at young me anymore.
I floated around her, not knowing what to do. Mom was sick. She would suddenly cry uncontrollably. But a child is ultimately just a child; young me couldn't relieve Mom's worries or troubles.
I could only wipe away my mother's tears with my hands, saying, "Don't cry, don't cry."
As a little child, I didn't remember much and continued to live a carefree life.
Until that day, when my mother looked into the distance and suddenly burst into tears. I shook her awake; she looked at me and held me tightly while crying.
She took me home, and on the way, we ran into an acquaintance who asked her, "Did you have another fight with your husband?"
My mother shook her head, saying, "No, he hasn't come home."
"Then why are you crying?"
"My eyes are uncomfortable."
My mother quickly held me close and rushed home.
Her condition worsened.
I circled around her.
As a child, I couldn't notice it, but now I could see her soul's state.
My mother's eyes were vacant; she often stared off into the distance. As a child, I thought she was looking at me, but that wasn't true. Although her eyes were on me, they lacked focus.
The hand that stroked my head was gentle but trembling. I thought it was because she was scared and didn't want to hold me too tightly, which made her hand shake.
But that wasn't it; my mother's hand trembled because she couldn't control it. She harmed herself by pinching her own skin; she was trapped in her own world.
When I called out to her as Little Bean, she didn't respond.
Only when Little Bean cried loudly would my mother wake up.
I floated beside her with a bad feeling.
The first thing my mother did upon waking was to pick up Little Bean and comfort her.
That day, my father yelled at my mother in the yard.
"What are you thinking about every day? When I ask you to work, it's like you didn't hear me at all! Do you believe I'll throw you out and let you die? No one will care about you."
After saying this, my father turned and left, while my mother stared blankly at his retreating figure.
She then turned to look at me playing nearby and smiled. This smile was different from before.
In the past, when my mother smiled, her eyes would smile too; this time, her eyes did not smile—her smile was fake and perfunctory.
My mother forced a smile in front of me, but her gaze was not on me.
She began to pinch herself again, this time more severely than before; she set me aside.
She ran around the yard, scratching her scalp with both hands, pulling out a lot of her hair.
I floated in the air watching all of this unfold; I wanted to shout for her to stop, but she couldn't hear me.
I forgot that I was now a Soul Body, witnessing scenes from the past.
I wanted to hug my mother, but my hands passed through her body; I could only watch helplessly as she abused herself.
After a long time, my mother finally calmed down. She held me tightly and cried.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have acted this way, but I couldn't control myself. I'm so sorry."
My mother kept apologizing to me.
When my father returned home and saw my mother's state along with the hair on the floor, he became very angry. He blamed my mother and called her a madwoman, a lunatic.
My mother didn't argue back; she just held me tightly and cried softly.
After a while, my father, exhausted from yelling, turned and left the room.
My mother watched him go and then laughed bitterly before continuing to hold me.
Then my father hit my mother again, striking her on the head. My mother was stunned and fell to the ground.
I floated in the air, anxious and helpless, watching as my mother lay unconscious on the floor. Tears streamed down my face as I yelled at my father, accusing him of hurting her.
Seeing that my mother was unresponsive, he shouted, "Stop pretending! I didn't hit you hard!" For about thirty seconds, my mother remained unconscious. When she finally woke up and heard his words, her eyes turned red with tears.
"You're crying? You still have the nerve to cry? All you do is play the victim."
"What victim is she playing? Why is she going crazy for no reason?"
I shouted at my father, questioning why he was the one acting insane—flipping tables, breaking chairs, smashing dishes, and blaming my mother for everything.
What infuriated me even more was that my grandmother was standing by with me in her arms, watching coldly.
My mother couldn't take it anymore and started arguing with my father. In a fit of rage, he grabbed a knife and threatened her. Hearing the commotion, our neighbors came over, and my grandmother put me down and stood in front of my mother.
"Are you going to kill your wife? If you want to kill her, you'll have to kill me first." Was my grandmother concerned for my mother? No.
My mother was so angry that she lay down on the bed to rest.
My grandmother tried to persuade my father; it was only because outsiders were present that she intervened. She knew that this daughter-in-law was hardworking and easy to manipulate. If something happened to her, such a good daughter-in-law would be lost forever.
With no talent or money or power to speak of—just a 300-pound figure—he wouldn't be able to find another wife like her. I floated closer to them and heard these words, feeling a chill in my heart.
From that day on, my mother began to resist my father; she no longer submitted to him. My father responded with either violence or insults towards her.
My mother would try to hide or fight back, but it often ended with frequent physical confrontations.
With a height difference of 180 cm versus 160 cm!
And a weight difference of 300 pounds versus 100 pounds!
My mother often found herself at a disadvantage and inevitably bore injuries from these encounters.
One time, while holding me in her arms and working in the kitchen, my father came home drunk and started yelling at her with harsh words.
Ignoring him, she continued cooking for me.
Seeing that she wouldn't pay attention to him only made him angrier; he began throwing things around the house. When that didn't satisfy him, he grabbed a wooden stick and swung it at her.
Enduring the pain, my mother placed me in the bedroom and locked the door before coming out to confront my father.
About three to four months later, when I was almost two years old, my mother really decided to leave my father. She took me back to my maternal home. I knew that my mother's feelings for my father had completely died.
During our time at the maternal home, my mother and I enjoyed a long-awaited peace and happiness. The love from my grandparents made me feel the warmth of home. But it seemed that all of this was destined not to last.
My grandmother kindly asked, "Child, how are you doing?" My mother smiled with a hint of bitterness, "I'm doing well, Mom." My grandmother noticed the bruises on my mother's legs and asked with concern, "What happened?" My mother avoided the question, saying, "Oh, it's nothing. I just tripped. It doesn't hurt; it'll go away in a few days."
I scoffed coldly behind my mother, thinking, what tripping! It was clearly my father's sudden outburst without warning; my mother hadn't had time to dodge and got hurt when he hit her with a shoe.
Unfortunately, the good times didn't last long. Half a month after my mother left, my father came looking for us. His attitude was aggressive, demanding to take my mother and me away. My mother firmly refused to go back.
But my father was persistent; he simply refused to leave the maternal home. He knew that my mother had a soft heart, that she couldn't bear to part with me, and that she cared about my grandparents.
Staying at the maternal home, he played the role well, telling everyone in the village how good he was to my mother and how well he treated my grandparents. The villagers praised him highly.
Sitting in a chair, he said to my mother, "You better come back with me obediently; I haven't been idle these days."
"I won't go back; this is my home," my mother replied defiantly.
My father threatened her, "Don't even think about telling them; just wait and see if I don't take care of those old folks."
Thinking about how he once attacked Grandpa Xiao Xuan with a sickle made my mother relent and agree to go back with him.
Watching all of this unfold beside my mother, I felt anger building up inside me—more and more of it.
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