They Burned My Name From the Family: Now I'm Untouchable

3: 3

How I walked out of that memorial hall that day, how I made it back to the rented place, I don't remember anymore.

For days afterward I was too furious to sleep.

Then a vicious cramp tore through my stomach.

The pain rolled me right off the narrow bed and onto the floor.

I gritted my teeth and called an ambulance.

The doctor stood over me with the surgical consent form.

"Acute appendicitis with perforation. You need surgery immediately. Your condition is dangerous. You have to have a family member here to sign and pay."

I lay slumped against the bed, weak, the room going dark in waves.

"Doctor, can I sign it myself?"

The phone rang for a long time before someone finally picked up.

Through the receiver came the knock of a wooden fish drum and the faint crackle of incense burning in the censer.

"Why are you calling in the middle of the night?"

My mother had dropped her voice, every word thick with irritation.

"Don't you know you can't go disturbing the deities at this hour?"

The pain was so bad I couldn't get a full sentence out, gasping between the words.

"Mom... I'm at the hospital... acute appendicitis, it's perforated... I need surgery..."

"Oh, be quiet! Today's the day your brother's civil-service exam results come out. We're honoring the deities and praying for his future!"

"Anything with blood in it, you don't report it. It offends the deities."

"Mom, I could die..."

"You won't die. Take some anti-inflammatory pills yourself! I'm hanging up!"

The line went dead.

And right then, Paul posted on social media.

The photo was a whole table of a lavish seafood late-night feast.

Steamed crab, raw marinated shrimp, a roast meat platter, packed edge to edge.

The caption read:

"Thank you Mom and Dad for staying up late with me to wait for the results. Tonight the whole family drinks till we drop. Here's to passing!"

In the corner of the photo, the three of them raised their glasses, beaming.

The doctor stood beside me, looked at my white face, and sighed.

"Did you reach them?"

I snatched the pen out of his hand and signed my own name right there in the family signature line of the consent form.

"I'll sign it myself."

I lifted my head and looked at him.

"If anything happens to me on that table, it has nothing to do with anyone."

In that moment, the Caroline Head who had still held on to one last shred of hope for the Head family died in the corridor of that emergency room.