Book Synopsis
Book Tags
Donation Rankings
Comment
0 Comments
You May Also Like
墨書 Inktalez
Time passed slowly.
At three years old, I, Little Bean, was about to start kindergarten.
My mother found a job to earn money; she approached everything with seriousness and responsibility, and was proactive in her work.
Soon, her efforts paid off, and she got promoted.
As she began to engage with society, she became more cheerful and gentle, like a little sun.
Even though my father often asked my mother for money under the pretext of needing capital to start a business, life remained comfortable.
With money available, my father restrained himself. He no longer erupted in sudden anger or resorted to violence.
Life went on in a bland but steady manner.
The resentment within me also started to dissipate during this time.
If life continued like this, it wouldn't be too bad; there are many couples without feelings for each other.
A simple life without troubles is also a form of happiness.
When I turned six, my mother realized that I would soon be starting elementary school and that we needed money. So when my father asked for money again, my mother refused.
My father, who had long treated my mother like an ATM, was furious.
"You've gone too far! Working has made you forget your place."
"If you won't let your husband spend your money, are you planning to support a Sugar Baby?"
"You ungrateful woman, I've given you face."
The scolding that had subsided for years erupted once more.
Later, my grandparents called my mother: "Xiaofang! Xiao Xuan is six now; you should consider having a second child. I heard the country encourages having two children now."
"I can't even support one."
"Don't worry about it; just give birth. We are still healthy enough to take care of it," my grandfather said confidently.
Thinking back to those two years when I took care of Xiao Xuan alone, feeling isolated and helpless, my mother laughed in anger: "It's easy to talk big when it doesn't cost anything or take effort; anyone can do that."
In the end, both sides parted unhappily.
With conflicts arising, life was no longer harmonious. My father tried to build connections with my mother's colleagues, expressing his desire for a child.
Competitors at work used this against her; the leadership feared that if my mother got pregnant, she wouldn't keep up with the workload and removed her from the promotion list despite her excellent performance.
"Sister Fang is so lucky; she has such a caring husband."
"Having someone willing to support you is true happiness."
"If only someone cared for me and didn't want me to suffer, I would have stopped working long ago. Who wants to endure this pain?"
Unbeknownst to her, my mother became the target of everyone's resentment.
Bullying and exclusion began to occur.
After being framed several times and making mistakes at work, my mother was summoned by her superiors and encouraged to resign.
She lost her job.
My vision blurred for a moment.
When it cleared again, I saw myself on the bed, looking about seven or eight years old. After I fell asleep, my mother didn't rest; she was tidying up clothes and cleaning the room.
The night was so dark that even the starlight was absent. My mother's figure swayed under the dim light, her gaze hollow. Her memory was beginning to fade; I saw her forgetting things she used to do, repeating them over and over again.
Sometimes, even when no one was around, she seemed to be having a conversation with someone. I didn't know what she heard; she screamed about things she didn't understand. I flew in front of her and saw the pain, struggle, and determination in her eyes.
She picked up her phone and pressed it for a while, seemingly sending a message. I circled around her but couldn't see the content. She looked at little me, touched my head, and murmured, "My dear! Mommy can't control herself anymore; Mommy doesn't want to hurt you. You must be okay."
Hurt what? Just as I was puzzled, my mother went to the storage room, leaned against the firewood, and drank from a small bottle in one gulp. The bottle fell to the ground, and my vision blurred with rage—Paraquat.
I was by her side, screaming; my voice tore through the night's silence, but no one heard me. I watched her convulse, saw blood trickling from the corner of her mouth as she wiped it clean with her sleeve, pressing the blood-stained fabric against herself.
I reached out, wanting to grab the hem of her clothes but only grasped a handful of cold air. "Mom!" My voice echoed in the dream but could not prevent the tragedy from unfolding. I looked at her, my heart aching like a knife, yet I felt powerless.
I flew around aimlessly, hoping to escape this place and find someone to save her. I had heard that children could see ghosts and that dogs could see them too; if only someone came, my mother would be saved.
I flew desperately, but it felt like invisible walls confined me here; I kept crashing into them only to be bounced back each time. I lost track of how long it had been when suddenly I burst out far away and stumbled to regain my balance.
I realized something and dared not look back. Gritting my teeth, I approached my mother’s side and reached out with trembling hands. There was no breath left in her; yet her expression seemed relieved and peaceful.
I stood there in a daze. The cool night breeze stirred my mother's clothes, revealing various scars beneath her sleeves. Memories surged in my mind—details once forgotten or overlooked magnified before me.
Right, sometimes Dad would hit Mom; occasionally little me would hear the commotion and rush in only to find Mom facing away from me while Dad would say he was taking me out to play.
I asked Mom about it. Dad said Mom was tired and needed rest; we shouldn't disturb her and should let her sleep well. Naively unaware, I was led away.
Sometimes when I heard my own voice, the room would fall silent. Grandma would say she would take me to buy snacks. Not hearing anything clearly, I thought I misheard; snacks occupied my mind as naive me followed Grandma out.
When I returned, the room was still clean, and Mom remained gentle as ever. Perhaps there were changes after all—like the broken pieces of wood occasionally found in the kitchen's woodpile or the wooden stool that got hit every two years.
Now that I think back on those moments that went unnoticed by me, what kind of treatment had Mom endured? And yet I remained oblivious under her protection.
I floated in the air watching my younger self; through a haze, I answered Uncle's call and found Mom but pushed her gently without any response. My younger self told Uncle that Mom was sleeping by the woodpile—deeply asleep and unable to wake up.
My uncle's voice choked as he told me not to disturb my mother, that she was tired and I should go to sleep.
As a teenager, I didn't notice anything unusual and climbed into bed to sleep. My uncle rushed over that night and took my mother away. When I woke up, my mother was already gone. All I heard was my father's endless curses. I cried for my mother, but my father, annoyed, said she had run off with another man and didn't want me anymore.
I was heartbroken, thinking I had been abandoned. The bitterness in my heart was overwhelming; yes, she had been taken away by my uncle. Another man. How could he say that? Did he not feel any guilt at all?
When I was seven, I woke up and didn't see my mother. My father told me she had eloped with someone and didn't want me anymore. It wasn't until I was thirteen that a friend teased me about not having a mother. I cried out for her, and my father shouted back that she was dead long ago.
I suddenly opened my eyes, gasping for breath. Tears soaked my pillow.
I remembered so many things about my mother that were off; she often stared at me for hours. I thought she was playing with me, but in reality, she was scared—scared of losing control and hurting me.
I pounded my head with my fists, hating my own foolishness and lack of understanding. If only I had cared more about her, maybe she wouldn't have left. If only I had been a little more mature, perhaps I would have noticed her distress. Why wasn't it me, the unfilial son, who died? Why wasn't it me, the one responsible for all this?
My mother clearly wanted to leave, but I had forcefully blocked her path; she didn't want to hurt me, so she chose to hurt herself instead.
I felt so much hatred—hatred for my father's callousness, hatred for my grandmother's coldness, hatred for my grandfather's indifference, hatred for the world's cruelty towards me. Most of all, I hated my own stupidity and ungratefulness.
Why wasn't it me who died? Why wasn't it me?
The sky began to drizzle lightly, as if mourning something.
My mother left, taking all her pain and helplessness with her from this unjust world. And I—her deeply loved child—was blinded by ignorance, unable to understand her love or her sacrifice, hating her for twenty years.
Comment 0 Comment Count