Canvas of a Short Life

"Hey, how can you talk like that? What do you mean by saying I'm unreasonable?" Mom said over the phone.

I no longer knew how to feel about Mom.

Back then, Grandma looked down on me because I was a girl and urged Mom to have a son. Mom argued that having a second child would cost her her job. She believed her life was meant to shine in the medical field, and she would never let herself be trapped in pregnancy again.

But when it came to me, she told me, "Your dad divorced me because we didn't have a son! You must give Grayson a boy!"

Her life was split in two. She kept the best for herself and left all the hardship to me. I was a fool to see through her only when it was already too late.

…

After finishing the call, Mom went out in high spirits. Before long, she returned, carrying several large bags.

She muttered to herself, "This bag of acidic ingredients is for Grayson, and this alkaline one is for Beatrice. Within six months, they will surely give me a precious grandson."

I found it hilarious. "Oh, Mom, just open the fridge and take a look. Your wonderful son-in-law already chopped me into 28 pieces, yet you're still dreaming of a grandson."

It was truly pathetic. I laughed so hard that tears ran down my face on their own.

After a flurry of activity, Mom suddenly opened the refrigerator. She snatched the bag containing my head and threw it onto the floor, grumbling, "What is this junk? It's taking up the whole fridge. I'm throwing all of this out later."

Exposed to the light once more, I greedily inhaled the fresh air. It felt wonderful. The air was no longer cold and damp with the stench of raw flesh; it was crisp and clean.

Just as my eyes welled with tears at seeing the light again, Mom grabbed my head and carried me out the door with the trash from the kitchen. "I'm taking this to the trash collection point right now."

Mom opened the door and stepped outside.

The trash collection point?

Panic set in. I didn't want to go to the trash collection point! I didn't want to rot in filth and stench. I wanted to stay clean.

I screamed with all my strength, "Mom, no! Don't throw me in the dump! Open the bag and look. I'm Beatrice. I'm right here in the bag!

"I'm begging you, please open the bag and see. Aren't you even a little curious about something so round? That is… your daughter…"

I howled and shouted until my throat bled, but Mom never slowed, striding firmly toward the trash collection point. I could already smell its stench, and I sank into true despair.

Suddenly, Mom stopped. A woman stood before her, greeting her. I recognized her as my neighbor, Dorothy Brightwell. She had once knocked on our door to stop Grayson when he was beating me severely.

After exchanging a few pleasantries, Dorothy suddenly asked tentatively, "I haven't seen Beatrice in a long time. Is something wrong?"

Looking blissful, Mom replied, "She's staying indoors to prepare for her pregnancy. There's too much pollution outside, so she doesn't come out much."

Dorothy finally seemed relieved and said, "That's good. The other day, your son-in-law beat Beatrice so badly that she screamed all night. I thought she might have been seriously hurt and ended up in the hospital."

Mom grew annoyed. "What nonsense are you talking about? How could my son-in-law hit Beatrice? He's a man of honor. He would never do such a thing!"

Dorothy scoffed. "He wouldn't? Stop lying to yourself. It's only by sheer luck that Beatrice wasn't beaten to death."

Dorothy rolled her eyes at Mom and started to leave, but Mom wouldn't let her go, grabbing her by the arm. "Don't you leave. Explain it clearly. How exactly did my son-in-law beat—"

Dorothy swung her arm to shake Mom off. Mom stumbled, losing her balance, and the trash in her hands spilled everywhere. A round object rolled out.