Seven Days of Reading｜My Xianglin Sao

"She is very much like Xianglin Sao created by Mr. Zhou," said her little daughter.

She is a single woman, a single mother, raising three children alone: ​​an eldest daughter, an eldest son, and a youngest daughter who accompanied her when she left China a few years ago.

Unlike Xianglin Sao's audience, they could listen to such a tragedy and walk away satisfied, picking their teeth.

The little girl was different. She was her youngest daughter and the only child by her side. She felt that she had an obligation to know her story - how she was abused, how she resisted, how she was abandoned, how she took care of three children by herself, how she took three children to the market to buy vegetables - that is, she hugged one in her chest, carried one on her back, and held one with her right hand.

The little girl was not used to listening to her stories, she didn't like them, she was extremely disgusted and also extremely scared.

Her stories and her complaints are like porridge cooked over a slow fire. She cooks down the story of how she raised her children over the years until it becomes soft and mushy, and then sprinkles in a handful of curses and abuse on the children's father.

Whenever she told those stories, my daughter's heart would beat faster, her face would turn red, and she would feel like something was stuck in her throat. It was as if she was allergic to tragic life stories, and a sneeze would spray blood all over the wall.

This fear was sown in the little girl's childhood, and with the irrigation of her and the incomplete family atmosphere, it has grown into a thorny vine. This vine has wrapped around the little girl's neck, circle after circle, circle after circle.

Every day, every minute, every second, she complained, cried, and cursed when she talked about the children's father. Her voice was so low and her words were so fierce that the little girl had never gotten used to it.

"Someone came to collect a debt and they were arguing loudly. I was afraid that it would disturb your sleep, so I asked them to be quiet... He slapped me in the face... It hurt so much..."

Every word, every decibel of crying, every frame of imagination, was like a very thick and very thin needle, fiercely piercing the little girl's five fingertips. It hurt so much, but she couldn't scream, and she was too numb to cry.

It was just like a normal day, listening to the spring tip of my ballpoint pen, ticking in and out. But in fact, my thoughts were no longer on the tip of the pen.

The Pacific Ocean separates her from her eldest daughter and eldest son. She often watches the short videos and photos of her grandchildren sent by her eldest daughter, scrolling through them one by one and watching them over and over again.

Watch it again. Watch it again.

I watched and muttered to myself,

My little baby, grandma misses you and loves you so much.

I don’t know when, but the eldest son, who is only two years older than the younger daughter, decided to get married with his girlfriend and get a marriage certificate on Valentine’s Day next year.

The four or five members of the family were all proud and pleased that their eldest son had taken such a big step in his growth.

One day, in her dream, the little girl saw her, the eldest daughter, and her father. Under a very dark sky, in a very dark room, she and the eldest daughter sent her father away. The little girl waited at home for a long time, but her father did not come back, nor did her mother and sister. They must have fought, they must have used knives, they must have died, and there was a lot of blood. The little girl kept crying and crying.

I'm so scared, what should I do?

Until you wake up.

The little girl lying on the bed quickly covered her mouth before she cried for fear of waking her up.

It was just dawn.

The little girl heard her low tone, deliberately lowered volume, extremely fast speaking speed, and fierce words. Oh, she was cooking porridge over a long-distance phone call from her eldest son.

“It hurts so much…”

What the little girl covered up was not only the fear from her dreams, but also the extreme boredom and fear of her endless tragic stories that she would never get used to, and the anger towards one of the culprits who caused the incompleteness of her family.

Stop making noise!

The words were about to burst out of the little girl's throat.

Only then did the little girl hear clearly,

"You must be good to that girl... The gift money can't be too little, it must be a few thousand more than the average of others... You must be honest and kind to that girl, be nice to her, buy her whatever she wants... Don't hurt her feelings, don't be unfaithful... Don't be like your father treated me..."

The little girl hasn't let go of her hand that's covering her mouth.

It seems to be off topic, but it also seems not to be. Because there is really no place I dare not go again, so I wrote about the deepest trauma in my heart that I dare not touch.