After the Countdown

I was locked up, not given any food or water.

I could hear the sounds outside. I could hear my mother cooking in the kitchen. I could hear my father's footsteps when he returned from work. I could hear my sister complaining loudly that her leg hurt.

No one mentioned me.

I curled up on the cold bed, shivering, my cheek swollen high. My body was burning with a high fever that wouldn't go down. My consciousness was slowly fading.

This time, I really thought I was going to die.

Death didn't sound so bad. It would be a relief to die.

18 years of memories flashed through my hazy mind like a movie.

Ever since I could remember, I could tell that my parents looked at me differently.

At first, I didn't understand the meaning of this look. It felt like they were looking at a porcelain doll that would break at any moment. Their gazes were cautious and immensely complicated.

Later, I understood that it was a mix of pity, helplessness, and grief.

They never mentioned my future.

Our family had always been living around a countdown.

The aunties in the neighborhood praised me for being well-behaved, saying that this boy was always quiet, never noisy or making trouble.

What they didn't know was that I simply couldn't be bothered to make trouble.

I was well-behaved from a young age because there was no reason to throw tantrums.

The other kids at my kindergarten would cry over a piece of candy or throw a tantrum because they didn't get a flower.

I wouldn't. My candy was always the biggest one, and I always got the first flower.

The teachers liked me, saying that this boy never gave them trouble.

Only I knew I wasn't really obedient.

I was just waiting for the day the number counted down to zero.

Later, my sister was born, and I could see even more guilt in my parents' eyes.

When Heidi was five years old, she secretly ate the meat in my bowl. When my mother found out, Heidi was beaten.

She cried and shouted, "Why can Brandon eat it, but not me?"

My mother didn't answer and just continued hitting her.

After the beating, Heidi hid in the kitchen and cried for a long time.

"Brandon," my sister said softly, "Are you going to die? Mom said you're going to die. Brandon, I don't want you to die. I'll give you all the meat from now on."

The memories of my mother and sister's eyes intertwined with their current selves, giving me a splitting headache.

Did they love me?

They did love me, but this love had a time limit. It was built on a countdown and was meant to end.

After 18 years, the countdown ended, and the love vanished.

If I died, the love would have remained perfect in my memories.

We would all be our most gentle selves.

In my memories, my mother lovingly stroked my head and said, "Brandon looks so handsome in this little suit."

My father held me up high, saying he wanted to take me to see the most beautiful scenery in the world.

My sister secretly saved her precious yogurt for me.

These memories seemed so close, yet so far away.

I struggled to open my eyes. I was still in that storage room.

No light came in. The room was empty.

I moved my fingers, wanting to feel the letter under the pillow.

It was a letter I wrote to my parents and sister.

I wrote it a while ago, but I didn't die. My lips curled into a bitter smile.

There was also a golden piggy bank. There wasn't a lot of money in it, but there was enough to buy a small toy for my sister.

I fell asleep again.

When they find me and see these things, surely they won't be angry at me anymore, right?

This time, I slept soundly, without any dreams.

I heard my own heartbeat.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Then slowly, slowly, it faded away.

The storage room became completely quiet.

No one realized.

No one came to check.

The boy waiting for death could finally stop waiting.