After Buddhist Mom Invented the Merit System, She Went Mad

2: 2

My chest went tight, and my body moved faster than the thought. I was already at the entryway.

I chased after her, trying to explain, that I really hadn't meant to make a mess of the house.

I just... I didn't have any strength left.

I'd wiped at it with my sleeve for so long, but the blood kept coming, kept coming, and no matter what I did I couldn't get it clean.

It wasn't that I didn't want to clean it up. I just couldn't wipe anymore.

Mom, please don't be angry.

I knelt down in front of her, tilting my head up to look at her, but she didn't look at me.

Her gaze passed over me and landed on the bedroom door at the far end of the living room, standing slightly ajar.

I reached to catch the hem of her clothes, but my fingers were like a gust of wind, closing on nothing.

She stepped forward, and I wanted to stop her, wanted to beg her not to go in yet, to hear me out first.

But the next second, she walked right through me.

......

I froze, still kneeling where I was, and for a long moment I didn't move.

Only then did it come back to me.

I was already dead.

Mom reached the bedroom door, the corner of her mouth curving up, a certain smug certainty in her voice.

"I only docked a little of your merit, and you're sulking, won't even come out to welcome us home?"

"If you don't come out, I'll report it to the Bodhisattva, tell them you don't respect your elders. And then every merit you've earned gets wiped clean!"

Before, I would have already sprung up off the floor, stumbled over to the door, bowed my head to admit I was wrong, carefully tugged at her sleeve and begged her not to take away the merits I'd saved up.

Those merits, she knew how much cold I'd endured, how much I'd swallowed to gather them.

But today, there wasn't a sound from the bedroom.

Mom's brow furrowed. She put her hand on the doorknob, about to push it open.

The next second, Florence's voice came from the doorway, coaxing and impatient.

"Come on, let's go, we still have to make the concert tonight! Keep dragging your feet and we'll miss the train."

Mom's hand stopped.

She glanced back at Florence, hesitated for a second.

Then her hand came off the knob.

"Coming, coming~"

The smile rose back onto her face, and she turned toward the door.

Before she shut it, she tossed one last line toward the bedroom, like a final sweet scrap, or maybe a handout.

"Don't say I'm not good to you. I bought you your favorite cupcake."

"When we get back from the concert, I'll decide whether to dock your merits based on how you behave."

The door closed.

I hovered where I was, staring at the small cupcake on the table, dazed.

It sat there quietly, the cream piped into one crooked little flower, a thin sliver of lemon set on top.

Just one, delicate, and very alone.

The truth is, I'd lied to Mom.

What I'd wanted was never a cupcake.

When I was little and we passed the bakery, I'd press against the window and stare at those big round cakes, cream ones, fruit ones, chocolate ones. Under the lights they were beautiful, like the lotus lanterns set out before the Bodhisattva.

I used to dream of having a whole big cake of my own on my birthday.

But every year, right before my birthday, my merits always got used up by Florence, right down to the last.

She broke a vase, docked from me. She tore up the neighbor's flowers, docked from me.

She was loud in the temple and offended the Bodhisattva, still docked from me.

So I settled for the next best thing, trading what little scraps of merit were left for one small cupcake.

Every year, the same.

And so Mom thought I loved cupcakes.

I drifted closer, closer to that small cake.

The cream on its paper cup trembled faintly in the draft leaking in from the balcony.

Without thinking, I wanted to block the wind for it, but my body was too light, too light to hold anything back.

The cake wobbled on the table, then rolled off without a sound, flipping over, landing upside down on the floor.

I reached out on instinct to catch it, but my hands touched nothing.

I just crouched there, hands still held out in the shape of catching, staring blankly at the smear of cream on the floor.

The tears came all at once.

No sound, just falling drop by drop, crying like a stray cat that had lost its way.