Chapter 8

Chapter 8

When I got home that evening, I saw my grandmother.

In my previous life, I had been supporting her since I started university, saving money every month to give her “red envelopes.” She had many grandchildren, but she always said I was the most filial.

Whether it was a major illness or a minor ailment, she would always wait for me to take time off work and come home to take her to the hospital. Even on the morning before I jumped to my death, she had called to ask when I was going to pick her up to live in the city.

At this point in time, she was in her sixties. Despite her sharp and energetic appearance, she spent all day grumbling about her health and demanding to be waited on.

Having heard about what happened today, she cornered me at the door, cursing and wailing at the same time.

“What a disgrace to this family! To raise a beast like you! I should have just thrown you in the river and been done with it!”

Memories flickered to life amidst the barrage of filthy insults. I suddenly remembered her favorite thing to do: posing hypothetical scenarios to test me.

For example, she would ask: “When I’m too old to walk, will you carry me to the river to wash clothes?”

When I was young and obedient, I would answer directly: “Yes.”

That would immediately draw a harsh scolding: “I raised you for nothing! If I can’t even walk, you’d still make me go wash clothes?! Do you have no conscience at all?”

It took several rounds of scolding before I learned the correct answer: “Grandma, when you’re old, you should just enjoy your life. I’ll do the laundry and cooking for you. If you can’t walk, I’ll be your feet and carry you wherever you want to go.”

Only then would she nod with satisfaction and say, “Good child.”

I went to a neighbor’s house and borrowed a bucket of tung oil, splashing it all over the double doors. The pungent scent instantly filled the entire courtyard.

Her face turned ashen with fear as I stood before the main gate holding a piece of burning firewood. I asked her only one question:

“My mother… how exactly did she die?”

She hesitated for only a second before spitting on the ground, giving me the same answer she had when I was five: “How else? She died of an illness!”

But on her face, I clearly saw a different word: *Jinx.*

My voice trembled as I screamed, “What kind of illness?!”

The old woman jumped, startled, but since I had been a pushover since childhood, she was certain I wouldn’t dare do anything reckless. She stiffened her neck and shouted back righteously:

“It’s her own fault for having a useless womb! All she could pop out were money-losing goods!”

The blood in my veins seemed to freeze solid.

Oh, I almost forgot. She had given birth to five sons; she had spent her whole life walking tall in the village. She once said: “A woman with sons will enjoy a blessed life even after she dies.”

But didn’t they say Mom was pregnant with a boy?

In my daze, my hand slipped. The torch fell near the threshold, and flames instantly raced along the oil trails. In the dark night, the gate turned a brilliant, glowing red.

This old house was a wooden structure. As soon as it caught fire, the sound of crackling and popping filled the air. My grandmother, who usually walked with a precarious wobble, dropped her cane and actually ran quite fast.

Just as she was about to rush out, I reached into the flames right in front of her and pulled the door rings shut. A layer of skin was seared off my palm, but the piercing pain filled me with an extraordinary sense of excitement.

Because it proved that she, too, could feel real pain.

With a heavy thud, the doors slammed shut. Piercing screams soon echoed from inside the house.

I think she must be enjoying her ‘blessed life’ now. Out of happiness, no doubt.