Severely beaten by my father, bullied by my classmates, I found myself in a tattoo shop tucked in an alley with no way out.
I heard the boss was a hoodlum, known for his violent and relentless fighting; everyone around him was terrified.
Pushing open the door, I pulled out a crumpled ten-dollar note from my pocket.
Gathering my courage, I asked, "Word is, you're taking protection money, so...can you protect me?"
Through the haze of smoke, the man smirked.
"Whose kid are you? Quite gutsy."
But later, for the sake of these ten dollars, he protected me for ten years.
The year I met Micheal, I was fourteen.
Due to long-term malnutrition, I was short and skinny, looking much younger than my peers.
From as far back as I can remember, my father was a habitual idler.
Our family of three relied entirely on my mother's monthly wage of six hundred dollars at the clothing factory.
My father was a gambling addict but was hopelessly bad at it.
He got upset when he lost money, and this bad mood drove him to drink. When he was drunk, he would beat me and my mother.
The floors were often scattered with fragments of broken bowls.
The year when I was five, he lost a lot of money.
At night, full of the stench of alcohol, he yanked my mother's hair, threw her onto the cement floor, pressing her face down, slamming her against the ground repeatedly, when tired, he would switch to kick her in the abdomen.
"Do you think you are better than me because I'm not successful now? How dare you look down on me!
Slut, you didn’t give birth to a boy for me. I feel ashamed when I step out of the house.
It’s all because you've messed up my money making luck. If I hadn’t married you, I would have been successful by now."
My mother curled up on the floor after being beaten up.
Her dark red blood matted her hair, strand by strand.
She didn't dodge or fight back, innocently trying to awaken what might be the last bit of conscience in this man through endurance.
When there was no part of my mother’s body left untouched, his gaze turned towards me.
"A slut gave birth to another slut.
How dare you look at me like that? Do you want to hit me?"
A heavy slap landed on my face, after the intense pain came numbness.
It seemed as if all the ambient noise had been encapsulated within a glass cover, each sound entirely muffled.
I felt as if my eardrums had been punctured by an intense slap.
My mother, sobbing, hid me deep within her embrace, her feeble body shielding me from the storm.
The man's curses and the woman's screams all came to a halt with the exhaustion of their perpetrator.
In the deep of the night, the man's snores mingled with the woman's stifled sobs.
With her red-rimmed eyes, my mother first dressed my wounds before quietly tidying up the mess that lay all around.
We huddled on the small bed with her arms wrapped tightly around me.
I asked, ”Mom, can we leave this place? When I grow up, I'll earn a lot of money and take care of you."
She gazed at the moon outside the window, which was missing a huge slice.
"We can't. Your father was very good to me when we were both young. He would save money to buy me bracelets, carry me for miles just to show me the fireworks, and even buy me many beautiful clothes that I could never wear out."
I reached out and tugged at her discolored, shapeless clothes that were worn from too much washing.
"Mom, you're lying."
She gently touched my head and stubbornly replied.
"No, I'm not. Your father is just a bit possessed right now. He will change for the better. He promised to take care of me for a lifetime, he promised.
Like the moon outside the window, one day it will be round again," she murmured softly.
It was as if he was speaking to me, yet also to herself.
The next day, Dad sobered up from his drunken state, acting as if nothing had happened. He chatted and laughed with Mom, reaching out to ask her for money.
He said, "Rosa, I still love you. I just had a bit too much to drink, and I messed up. When I win some money, I'll give you a good life."
With just a few sweet words, he successfully coaxed Mom into giving him her paycheck.
This familiar scene was disturbingly unsettling.
I watched as Dad pocketed the money, wanting to ask Mom. Hadn't she promised me that when she got her paycheck this month, she would use it to send me to kindergarten?
I was already five years old, yet I had not even started kindergarten.
But Mom was laughing so happily, her eyes only on Dad, completely forgetting about me.
So, I stayed quiet.
It was okay, next month Mom would definitely remember my study.
But even when I started primary school due to the national education policy, Mom still didn't remember.
Just like that, I missed out on my entire kindergarten experience.
