In My Next Life, I Beg for Your Love

From as far back as I can remember, I knew my mom hated me.

She gives me sleeping pills when I'm three. When I'm five, she tries pesticide instead.

But I'm hard to get rid of. By the time I'm seven, I've already learned how to fight back.

If she refuses to give me food, I flip the table so no one can eat either.

If she beats me up until I'm on the ground, writhing in pain, I go after her beloved son the same way, leaving him bruised and bawling.

That's how we stay locked in battle until I turn 12.

Everything changes when my youngest sister is born.

I'm clumsily trying to help with her wet diaper when Mom suddenly shoves me against the wall. The look in her eyes holds both disgust and fear.

"What were you trying to do to my daughter? I knew it. You take after that monster of a father. Why didn't you just die with him?"

I hold my aching head.

For the first time, I don't fight back. I believe she's right. My existence is a mistake. I should never have been alive.

By the time I managed to limp to Granny's house, night had already fallen.

Granny saw the mess I was in and didn't look surprised. She took out her first aid kit and treated my injuries like she always did, then made me a simple plate of carbonara.

Usually, I would eat while swearing I'd get even the next day.

But this time, I just stared at the food and quietly asked, "Granny… I'm not actually Dad's child, am I?"

She didn't answer, but the rejection and disgust flickering in her eyes told me everything I needed to know. She stood abruptly and started wiping the table over and over, right where the first aid kit had been.

That was when I realized that my blood was something they all wanted to stay away from.

I was the son of a rapist. No wonder Mom hated me.

A sickening feeling rose in my throat. I bolted outside and leaned against the fence, retching.

The night air stung the scrapes on my face.

Before, whenever Mom hit me, I told myself she owed me for every bruise she'd inflicted on me. One day, I'd make her pay them back.

But now, I didn't think I could even look her in the eye.

I didn't stay at Granny's. She didn't come after me either. Instead, I wandered the streets with no idea where to go.

That was when I saw a family outside a restaurant. They were celebrating someone's birthday, smiling and laughing. The woman in the middle was probably the mother. She looked so happy that I instinctively took a step back.

Last year, on Mom's birthday, she'd smiled just like that before she saw me.

The moment she saw me walk in, her smile vanished, replaced with utter disgust.

Back then, we had an essay with the theme, "My Mother."

I wrote that Mom was a heartless villain.

My teacher dragged me into her office and lectured me for an entire period. I barely heard most of it. I only remembered her saying, "No mother in this world would ever stop loving her child."

I believed her. I saved money from collecting recyclables and bought my mom a birthday cake.

I just wanted a hug, the same kind she gave my brother, Casper Willis.

But her frigid expression was like a stab in the heart. I felt like a fool, standing there with that cake in my hands.

Anger overwhelmed me. When no one was looking, I went out and caught a couple of frogs in the garden. Then, I hid them in the cake.

I could still remember the way she screamed when they jumped out.

Back then, I felt a twisted sense of satisfaction.

I thought she didn't deserve to be a mother. I thought she had it coming. But now, I know the truth.

The one who didn't deserve anything was me. My existence itself had hurt her.

As I watched that mother's smile through the restaurant window, I made a decision.

This year, for Mom's birthday, I would give her a gift she would truly be happy with, one that would free her completely.

I decided to die.