chapter 8

She took me into the room while Father was away, pinching my eyelids with her long nails and plucking out my eyelashes.

She said that my eyes looked just like Mother’s, and that I would surely become a shameless woman like her, a woman who would sleep with anyone. Sooner or later, she would gouge out my eyes and feed them to the dogs.

It hurt so much, but I did not cry. I stood obediently in front of her, letting her abuse and curse me, forcing myself to hold back the liquid welling up in my eyes.

I refused to cry in front of her. One day, I would make her cry before me, make her weep and wail in pain-at the very least, she would suffer more than I did.

One day, I simply could not endure it any longer. She brought a candle flame close to my eyes, and the sharp pain was unbearable. I remember trying so hard to hold back, but the tears just kept falling.

I hated myself for it. I was so useless. How could I cry in front of her?

Then I smelled blood, and suddenly I felt happy-it turned out I was bleeding.

Bleeding was better. Bleeding was always better than crying.

Sometimes, when I could not bear her abuse, I would tell myself over and over: I must remember this pain. Only by remembering the pain would my hatred for her killing Mother not fade as I grew older.

I was so afraid-so afraid of forgetting that day, when my whole body was cold, and the pain made it impossible to breathe or even retch.

I hated my memory. Mother was so good to me, and yet I was gradually forgetting what she looked like.

I must not forget. I would suppress the instinct to let memories fade as I grew up. I would always remember Mother’s kindness and her face.

And also, the hatred of that day.