I poured all the freshly boiled herbal medicine into the toilet. With a whoosh, it was all gone. Mom rushed in, trembling with anger, and slapped me hard across the face. "Fiona! We bought the medicine with the money that your father earned from selling his blood! Are you crazy?" My face burned with pain. I clenched my teeth and didn't cry. I had to act worse, so that when I died, they wouldn't be too sad. This morning, I saw the ultrasound report. It was twins. How nice. Our family could only afford two kids, not three. I was the extra one. "The medicine is too bitter! I hate it! I hate you two!" I shouted, shoved Dad away, and crawled into bed. Under the blanket, I pressed my hand over my mouth so I wouldn't make a sound. It hurt again. Something inside me was biting and chewing, and I couldn't stop it. It was okay. Ferryman had already come once. In a few days, they would be able to raise those two little babies. "Good night, Dad, Mom. This is the last time I make you angry." *** The bathroom was full of the smell of herbal medicine, bitter and astringent. The dark liquid ran down the white porcelain and was finally swept away by the water. Mom stood at the door, breathing heavily, still holding the empty bowl. "Fiona, do you know how much this bowl of medicine costs?" I lowered my head and looked at the hole in the toe of my shoe. I'd worn these shoes for three years. My big toe always poked through. "Two hundred." Mom slammed the bowl to the ground. The bowl broke, and one piece cut across my calf. Blood seeped out, warm and sticky, but I barely noticed. Nothing could compare to the agony twisting inside my stomach. "Your father works at the construction site and even sells blood, all just to keep you alive!" Mom rushed over and grabbed my shoulders, shaking me. She was five months pregnant. Her belly bulged, trembling under that old sweater from anger. "I'm not drinking it!" I lifted my head and tried to make my eyes look fierce. "It tastes awful, like pee!" Mom slapped me again. This time she slapped me on the other side of my face. Both sides were swollen now, perfectly symmetrical. "You heartless ingrate!" The door was pushed open. Dad came back. He was wearing dusty work clothes, holding two steamed buns. When he saw the spilled medicine and broken pieces on the floor, he froze. His eyes were bloodshot. "Bella, what happened?" Dad's voice was hoarse, completely drained. "She poured the medicine away." Mom burst into tears and pointed at the toilet. "Freshly boiled, all poured away. She said it tasted awful." Dad walked over. The smell of sweat and cement rushed into my nose. That smell reminded us of his fighting desperately for this family. He looked at me. His gaze went from fatigue, to disappointment, and finally to anger. "Fiona, I was drawn 400 cc today." He rolled up his sleeve. There was a bandage in the crook of his arm, needle marks everywhere, bruised blue and purple. "In exchange for this batch of medicine." He squatted down so his eyes were level with mine. "You poured it away?" I looked at his bruises, my heart twisting in pain. I wanted to ask him to stop selling blood, because the doctor said I was about to die soon, and no medicine could save me. I wanted to tell them that they had to save money for the two new babies. But I couldn't say that. If I said it, they would go borrow money again, beg people again, sell their lives again. I had to be a bad, ungrateful child. "Yeah, I did." I lifted my chin stubbornly. "I don't wanna take the medicine bought with blood-selling money. TV says selling blood isn't allowed." Dad raised his hand. That hand was rough, full of calluses and dirt. I closed my eyes and waited. But the slap never came. Instead, he punched the wall beside me. Bang! A bloody mark was left on the wall. "Get lost." He pointed at my room. "Get back to your room! Don't let me see you." I turned around and ran into the storage room that was less than five square meters. That was my bedroom. I closed the door and slid down against it. My stomach churned violently. I coughed up blood into my palm and quickly wiped it away with my sleeve. I couldn't let them see. Outside the door came Mom's sobbing and Dad's heavy sigh. "This child is ruined. We can't raise her right." "We still got two babies on the way. Gotta educate them properly. Can't raise another kid like her." I curled up under the blanket, tears flowing into my mouth. It was salty. That was exactly what I wanted. I wanted them to hate me and despise me. And when I died, they wouldn't be sorry. In the corner stood a tall uncle in a black suit, his face pale, holding a notebook. He was the Ferryman, guiding souls to the other side. Only I could see him. "Fiona, three days left." "I know." I pulled the blanket over my head. "Can you make it faster? I wanna leave tonight." "No. The time hasn't come yet." Ferryman closed his notebook and disappeared into the corner of the wall. The pain gnawed at my stomach again. I bit the corner of my pillow and swallowed my sobs. Three days left. In these three days, I had to make them completely give up on me.
The next morning at breakfast, there were only two steamed buns on the table, a plate of pickles, and two bowls of steamed egg custard. I quickly finished the bowl in front of me and then stared at Mom's bowl. "I want more!" Ever since my illness was diagnosed, all the family's money had gone to buy medicine for me. Our food got worse and worse, and any good food was saved for me and my pregnant mom. Dad stopped eating and frowned at me. "Your mom is carrying your younger brother. She needs the nutrition." "I want more!" I stood up and reached out to grab that bowl. "Fiona!" Dad shouted. I ignored him and stuck my hand straight into the bowl, grabbing a handful of egg and stuffing it into my mouth. It was hot, very hot. But I chewed desperately, smacking my lips, oil dripping all over my mouth. Then I deliberately tried to knock the bowl over. Mom reacted quickly and caught the bowl, but the soup spilled all over the table, and she burst into tears from anger. Dad stood up and grabbed me by the collar. "You think we won't hit you?" "Hit me then!" I kicked my legs and spat the egg scraps in my mouth onto his face. "Beat me to death and you won't have to spend money on my medicine! Perfect, you can raise those two little brats!" Dad's hands were shaking. He threw me back onto the chair. The chair overturned. I fell to the ground, my tailbone aching terribly. But I quickly got up, dusted myself off, slung on my backpack, and ran out. "Fine! I'll go buy snacks at school!" Dad shouted behind me, "Stop! Where did you get the money?" The moment the door closed, I heard the sound of bowls and plates shattering, and Dad's desperate roar. "This must be punishment for something I did in the past. What kind of sin did I commit?" I actually had no money. In my pocket was only that crumpled photocopy of the diagnosis report. The last time at the hospital, I secretly took it from the doctor's desk. It said late stage and already metastasized. I tore it up and threw it into the trash. Ferryman appeared again, floating beside me. "Why bother doing this? Making them hate you, you won't feel at peace when you go." "What's the use of peace?" I kicked a small stone on the roadside. "If they love me, they'll cry sadly when I die." "If they hate me, when I die they'll just curse me and then go on with their lives." When I passed by a bun shop, I wanted to eat one, but I couldn't. If I ate, I'd keep vomiting. I walked to the school gate but didn't go in. I didn't want to study anymore. I wouldn't be able to take exams anyway. I sat on a park bench all day, watching other kids run around, watching other parents wipe their children's sweat and feed them water. It seemed so nice. In the future, my younger brother and sister could live like that too. When I got home in the evening, there was a thick stack of money on the table. It was Dad's wages for the day, and borrowed money. Dad said while smoking, "We'll go to a big hospital tomorrow. Let's get you checked again. Even if we have to sell the house, we'll treat you." Panic shot through me. I couldn't go—if I did, the money would be wasted. That money should be used on my little brother and sister, for their milk, their survival. I walked to the table and grabbed the stack of money. "What are you doing?" Mom looked at me warily. "I want a new phone. Everyone in my class has one except me." "Are you crazy?" Dad crushed out his cigarette and rushed over to grab the money. "This is life-saving money!" "I don't want treatment! It won't work anyway!" I hugged the money tightly and ran toward the door. "I just want a phone! I wanna play games!" "Fiona!" Dad caught up and kicked the back of my knee. I fell to the ground. My knee hit the floor hard. The money was scattered everywhere. Dad pinned me down and slapped me. This was the first time he'd ever hit me this hard. "I'll beat the crap out of you, you ungrateful brat! I sell blood and risk my life, and you just wanna play games?" "Do you know your mother won't even buy herself a new piece of clothing?" It hurt, but I laughed out loud. "Hahahaha! That's because you're useless!" "Why have children if you're so poor? You give birth to us just to suffer!" Dad stopped. He looked at me, his voice trembling. "What did you say?" "I said you're useless. You deserve to be poor!" Dad slowly straightened up—then, in that single moment, he seemed to age ten years. His back bent, his shoulders sagging under an invisible weight. "Fine. From today on, you're not my daughter!" He bent down and picked up the money one bill at a time, wiping each one clean. Mom sat on the sofa, holding her belly, her eyes hollow. She didn't even have the strength to curse me anymore. I struggled up, limped back to my room and then closed the door. I took out a hundred-dollar bill hidden in my sleeve. I'd secretly slipped it in during the chaos. I pressed it under my pillow. This was the meeting gift I left for my brother and sister. It wasn't much, but I did my best. Ferryman stood at the bedside and looked at me. "Two days left." "Alright." I curled up and gently rubbed my knee. That kick really hurt. But I was okay with it. This way, you wouldn't feel sorry for me two days later.
On the third day, also the last day, I woke up from pain. My whole body hurt. It felt like ants were drilling into the cracks of my bones. I glanced out the window. The sky was gloomy. It was going to rain. Low voices arguing came from the living room. "The doctor said she has to take this medicine, or she won't make it through this month." That was Mom's voice. "Take my ass!" Dad's voice was icy. "She just wants phones and games, and you still wanna save her?" "She's still your daughter!" "I don't have a daughter like that! Ungrateful wretch!" I smiled. Just what I wanted. Dad had finally given up on me. I dragged out a cardboard box from under the bed. Inside were all my certificates from childhood. Outstanding Student. First Prize in Math Competition. Essay Contest Champion. Every one of them had once been my pride. Back then, Dad would flaunt these certificates to the neighbors like trophies. "Look, my Fiona is so amazing!" He used to smile, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes stretching wide. Now, these things couldn't be left behind. Leaving them meant memories. Leaving them meant tears. I picked one up and tore it. I ripped it in half, then tore it into pieces. I piled all the certificates, exercise books, and the wooden little horse Dad had made for me on the floor and took out a lighter. The lighter was left by Dad. I lit it. The paper curled, blackened. Flames leapt up. The smell of smoke filled the room. "What are you doing?" The door was slammed open. Mom cried out in shock. When she saw the fire pile on the floor, her face turned white. "It's on fire! Nick! Hurry!" Dad rushed in and threw a basin of water on it. Sizzle! Black smoke rose. The room was full of a burnt stench. The floor was a mess. Those certificates that once represented glory had turned into black ashes. "Are you crazy?" Dad stepped on the ashes, his eyes almost popping out. "Are you trying to burn the house down?" "I don't like these useless papers." I sat on the bed, swinging my legs. "They take up too much space." Dad rushed over and grabbed my hair. My scalp screamed in pain as he dragged me into the living room. "You don't like this, huh? You don't like this house, huh?" "Get out!" "Get out of the house!" He opened the front door and shoved me out. I lost my balance and rolled down two steps. It was raining outside. Autumn rain was icy cold. The rain hit my body, mixed with mud. The door slammed shut then. Click. It was locked from the inside. I heard Mom crying inside. "It's raining outside! She is still too weak!" "Let her get drenched! I don't care!" Dad roared. I climbed up from the ground, soaked through. Cold wind drilled into my bones. I walked to the window in my room. I saw Ferryman standing inside, looking at me through the glass. "It's about time." He mouthed the words. I knew. I could feel it. My life was draining from my body. My hands and feet started to go numb. My vision blurred. I couldn't die outside. If I died outside, it would cost money to transport the body. It would trouble them more. I had to die at home, die in that small storage room. I started banging on the door. "Open the door! I'm hungry! I wanna eat! I want meat!" I shouted desperately until my voice turned hoarse. "Get lost! Starve to death!" Dad shouted from inside. But I knew he'd soften. Sure enough, ten minutes later, the door opened. Dad stood there with a stick in his hand. "Come in. Dare to make trouble again and I'll break your legs." I lowered my head and slipped in, dripping water all over, dirtying the floor. Mom took a towel and wanted to wipe me. Dad barked,"Don't bother with her! Let her learn her lesson." I didn't take the towel and went straight back to my room. This time, I locked the door from the inside. This was the last time I would lock a door.
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