My mother despised women. Even me, her own daughter. From the moment I was born, she seemed to wish me dead. I’d get beaten for wearing lipstick, for wearing a dress, and especially for getting too close to my father. Just before my college entrance exams, my misogynistic mother spread a vicious rumor at my school, claiming I was seducing my own father. She pushed me until I jumped from the fifteenth floor. And my mother, she was satisfied with that result. 1 In the hospital, the doctor joyfully took me from the neonatal specialist and announced to my mother: "It's a girl! Her skin is so fair and bright, she'll be a real beauty when she grows up!" At those words, my mother's already pale face twisted. She lunged, grabbing the young female doctor by the hair and slapping her across the face, her voice a raw shriek that echoed down the hallway. "You bitch! Did you switch my son? I ate all those dried geckos! It was supposed to be a boy!" It took an older doctor and a paternity test to finally convince her. The moment she saw the report, she broke, her eyes fixed on me, filled with a venom that could kill. It was my aunt who, with quick thinking, called my father to de-escalate the situation. My mother never forgave my aunt for that phone call. When she was well enough, my father took her home. My aunt, worried, came to visit. From the hallway, she could hear my faint, weak cries. In the bedroom, my father was patiently feeding my mother a bowl of freshly cooked porridge. "David," my mother pleaded, "swear to me. Swear you'll only love me for the rest of your life. You can't love her more just because she's your daughter. You can't hold her. You can't kiss her." A moment passed before my father quietly agreed. The warm glow of dusk filled the room, painting a scene of domestic harmony that sent a chill down my aunt's spine. My father, to his credit, kept his word. In all my memories, we never once had any physical contact. But that wasn't enough for my mother. When I was seven, I walked the three miles home from school only to be met with a stinging slap across the face. The reason? She had found a picture of me on my father's phone. "Learning such trashy things at your age! Who taught you this?!" she screamed, jabbing the phone at my nose. I didn't understand what she was talking about. I looked around the room, desperate for my father's help. All I got was a brutal beating. After that, my picture never appeared on my father's phone again. I'll never forget the triumphant, possessive look on my mother's face. When I was thirteen, for my father's birthday, I snuck into his study early in the morning and left a gift on his desk—a sweater. It wasn't expensive, but it had cost me more than half a year's worth of allowance. That evening, I came home to find the light on in his study and my mother in the living room, a cold sneer on her face. The floor was littered with shredded fabric. "Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do, you little slut!" A rain of fists and feet fell upon me. I writhed on the floor in agony. The light in the study stayed on, but the door never opened. My mother often complained to the neighborhood gossips: "Such a misfortune! My own daughter is a little seductress, can't even leave her own father alone!" Everywhere I went, I was followed by whispers. I grew used to it. Then, a new woman moved in upstairs. Mrs. Gable was kind, with a gentle voice and a warm heart. Whenever my mother kicked me out, she would bring me snacks. For me, she was one of the few rays of light in my life. But heaven didn't let me keep that light for long. One day, I was waiting outside our apartment for my mother to finish her mahjong game. Mrs. Gable came downstairs and, after greeting me, noticed my chapped lips. She went back up and returned with a brand-new lip balm. I had never worn makeup before and didn't realize it was a color-changing balm. I happily applied it, and then my mother returned. When she saw the rosy tint on my lips, her hand flew out and struck me across the face. 2 The blow sent me sprawling, my vision filled with stars. A front tooth, loosened by the force of the slap, wobbled in my mouth, the taste of rust spreading across my tongue. Her words were vile, so vile that neighbors poked their heads out to watch the spectacle, but no one intervened. In their eyes, I suppose, I really was the disgusting creature my mother claimed I was—a wretch trying to seduce her own father. Mrs. Gable heard the commotion and came downstairs. I didn't want her to see me like this, broken and humiliated, or to hear the filthy rumors about me. I tried to shrink into the corner, to make myself invisible, but my mother dragged me out and shoved me in front of her. "Was it you? Did you give her this lip balm, you bitch?" "Are you trying to help her seduce my husband?" "You're both disgusting!" I stumbled, my head bowed in shame. But Mrs. Gable stepped in front of me, shielding me with her body. I saw the pain and self-blame in her eyes. "I gave it to her," she said, her voice firm. "She's just a child. What harm could she possibly mean? How can you, as her mother, say such things about your own daughter?" She tried to reason with my mother, to make her see sense. But my mother was beyond reason. She shot me a cold, calculating look that made my blood run cold. She raised her hand, and Mrs. Gable stood her ground, probably not believing my mother would actually strike her. But I knew better. I had seen my mother attack countless women over the years. The thought of Mrs. Gable's kind, gentle face being marred because of me made my whole body tremble. Before the slap could land, I lunged forward. It was the first time I had ever fought back. I only managed to cling to her arm, but it earned me an even more ferocious beating. In the chaos, my forehead slammed against a rusty railing. Blood gushed from the wound. The neighbors, startled, slammed their doors shut. My mother didn't stop. She shoved Mrs. Gable to the ground. My vision blurred. I could hear my father's footsteps coming up the stairs, home from work. I tried to scream for help, but my voice was a strangled whisper. Then our apartment door slammed shut, without a moment's hesitation. Through it all, Mrs. Gable pleaded for me, her initial anger giving way to desperate bargaining. "I'll leave! I'll move out in a few days, I'll never show my face here again! Just please, let the child go!" I managed to lift my head and saw that her face was streaked with tears. My mother, whether she had agreed to Mrs. Gable's terms or was simply tired, finally stopped. She tossed me aside like a piece of trash and went inside. I never saw Mrs. Gable again. Before she left, she gave me a few things. I hid them away, too precious to use. Even with Mrs. Gable gone, my mother's hatred for me didn't wane. With every year I grew older, her loathing deepened. Lately, a new, calculating look had entered her eyes when she looked at me. It was as if I wasn't her daughter, but a rival for her husband's affection. Her stare made my skin crawl, but I found solace at school. Over the years, no matter how many times I had thought of giving up, the sight of my best friend, Tina, always gave me a reason to keep going. It was as if all the suffering I had endured was just to meet an angel like her. Tina didn't know about my home life. But whenever she saw the bruises on my face, she would give me a hug. "It's okay. It doesn't hurt anymore." One sentence, one hug—that was the source of all my strength. My homeroom teacher also valued me for my diligence and good grades. I held onto Mrs. Gable's final words to me—"study hard"—like a lifeline. I believed that if I just studied hard enough, one day I could escape that hell, escape that monster of a mother. Then, when I was eighteen, a senior in high school, my teacher patted my shoulder, a proud smile on his face. "Excellent work. Keep this up, and you'll have no problem getting into the local state university." My mock exam scores came back. I was still in the top ten of my grade. My teacher was thrilled. He treated me and a few other top students to a meal at the cafeteria's second-floor diner. Afterward, I lagged behind the group. I was so happy I could have screamed, but years of repression had stolen my ability to smile. The thought that in just twenty more days I would be free brought tears to my eyes. "Amanda," my teacher's voice was gentle. He must have noticed my emotions. "Don't put too much pressure on yourself. You have a long road ahead of you." Just then, Tina ran up, waving. "Amanda! Let's walk home together!" Seeing her, so vibrant and full of life, a tiny seed of hope sprouted in my heart. Maybe, just maybe, if I could get through this, I could be like her. A bright future, an open road. That night, I came home to find my mother sitting in the living room. The familiar scene made my heart leap into my throat. I tried to hurry to my room, but she grabbed me by the hair from behind. 3 I hit the floor hard, the backpack digging into my spine. My mother kicked me a few times, then stalked over to the coffee table, muttering curses under her breath. "If it wasn't for the junk collector, I never would have known! You little bitch, hoarding this trash!" "Skirts! Lipstick! Stealing money from the family to buy this garbage at your age!" "You're trying to steal my husband!" She grabbed the items one by one and hurled them at me. The lip balm and snacks from Mrs. Gable, and a small dress. The food was long expired, but I had treasured it. Now it was scattered across the floor. I curled into a ball, trying to protect myself, clutching the dress that smelled of mildew from being hidden away for so long. Just hold on a little longer. It'll be over soon. The pain was a dull, familiar ache. Hope was so close. I just had to endure. I kept telling myself that. But then came the parent-teacher conference. It was just a few days before the final exams. I didn't think much of it; they never came to these things. I used to dream of it, but I had long since gotten used to their absence. I just thought of it as a day off. The next day, my mother wasn't home. She seemed to have left early. For some reason, my heart was pounding. It wasn't until I saw her downstairs that afternoon, humming as she played mahjong, that I finally relaxed. I had already contacted my old summer job boss. He'd agreed to take me on again, even providing a dorm room. The summer's wages would be enough to cover my first year of tuition. I was so lost in my happy plans for the future that I didn't notice the strange looks my classmates were giving me. Looks of glee, of disgust. It was Tina, abruptly pulling her hand away from mine, that brought me back to reality. "What's wrong, Tina?" I asked, my voice trembling as I saw the strange expression on her face. "My mom said…" Tina stammered, unable to form a complete sentence, but the distance in her eyes was something I had never seen before. A boy nearby finished her sentence for her. "She said you're a slut who'd even screw her own father!" A roar of laughter filled the classroom. The topic was clearly a hit. The room, which had been emptying out, was suddenly full and buzzing with excitement. "Wow, Amanda, I never knew you were such a freak." "You put on a good act, don't you? After exams, want to try it with us? We're definitely better than your dad!" I saw the cruel delight in their eyes. The words hit me, and the color drained from my face. I grabbed whatever I could and threw it at them. They dodged easily, their taunts relentless. "Whoa, watch out! The whore is throwing a tantrum!" In that moment, all the blood rushed to my head. I wanted to kill them. It was my teacher who stopped me. I followed him to his office in a daze, my body shaking uncontrollably. But this time, he didn't pat my shoulder. His eyes were filled with a mixture of pity and hesitation. "Amanda," he began, "your mother told me everything. Maybe you're still young, you don't understand what love is…" My mind went blank. I suddenly understood why my mother, who always spent her afternoons playing cards, had been sitting right on my path home, humming a tune. A chilling coldness spread from the pit of my stomach. I turned and walked out of the office without a word. I buried my face in my collar, as if that could shield me from the world. The next few days were a living hell. Tina started deliberately ignoring me, finding other girls to walk home and eat with. The boys who collected homework would intentionally hold theirs back, and when the teacher asked, they would stand up and shout for the whole class to hear: "I don't want to touch it. She's dirty!" My teacher, at a loss, had someone else take over my duties. But that person would "accidentally" miss my homework too, and then giggle and repeat the same line. Suddenly, I had no one to turn to. The weight of it all was crushing me, suffocating me. That night, I went home and saw the triumphant smile on my mother's face. And I knew. This was the result she had wanted all along. 4 The noisy crowd below pulled my attention back. A sea of young, vibrant faces stared up at me. The words of those boys from my class echoed in my ears. "What, you can't take it anymore?" My notes from three years of high school, the culmination of all my hard work, were gone. When I finally found them, they were soaking in a bucket of filthy water, ruined beyond recognition. I heard a group of boys snickering behind me. In that moment, a profound weariness washed over me. Even breathing felt like a struggle. All I ever wanted was to live. Why was it so hard? "If you can't take it, just die. A person like you doesn't deserve to be alive anyway." The boy's words were poison. I ignored them and tried to walk away. But one of them grabbed my arm, telling me to "play" with him. In a panic, I scrambled up to the rooftop. My only intention was to escape their harassment. But I had forgotten it was the busiest time of day at school. Students, finished with lunch, were heading back to their classrooms, and they all looked up and saw me. I don't know what my mother told them that day, but I can imagine the school was flooded with vicious rumors about me. Not a single person looking up at me had sympathy in their eyes. Only a morbid curiosity. "Is that the really smart girl from Class One? I heard she's promiscuous, sleeps with a lot of guys." "Her own mother said it. How could it be fake?" "She asked me to get a room with her a few days ago. I turned her down!" "I heard she's good, though." "What do you know? She's dirty!" The rumors were a snowball, growing bigger and bigger, until they had crushed me. A victim's explanation is always so weak, so powerless. Someone from the crowd below shouted for me to jump, that a twisted, immoral person like me didn't deserve to live in this world. I stared at that stranger's face for a long time. Then, amidst a chorus of screams, I jumped. I hit the ground hard. Blood splattered everywhere. The crowd scattered in terror, but their clothes were already stained with my blood. Not a single one of them was innocent.
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