All he wanted was a place to live – all he got was…child abuse.
He sits up, drawing shaky breaths. His pajamas disarrayed, showing stitch scars and discolored skin. Breathing hard, he tugs at his clothes to cover up as best as he can. It is near dawn from the smell of wind. He hates this time the most because it brings back memories - memories that haunt his dreams every time he closes his eyes.
He hugs his tear-soaked pillow and squeezes. Tears start to roll; he bites on his fist, desperate, trying to muffle his cries, lest they attract unwanted attention. Even as a ten year old, he could understand the horror in their eyes, some fades to disgust, some to pity, others plain uncomfortable. He is shunned by the others in the orphanage because of his appearance and gloomy distrust of others.
The memories of the cruel grip of his cousins holding him down, the torrent of hot oil splashing on him, a numbing sensation, and then a sea of white-hot pain courses through his body. He bites down harder, teeth starting to scrape skin off his knuckles. He breaks into cold sweat as he starts to rock front and back, trying to choke the shrieks of anguish and bloodlust. He is drowning in darkness.
His single mother was imprisoned and as the legal guardian, his aunt had to take him in. Her constant complains of having to feed another mouth never ceased. He dreaded living with his new family who seemed to despise his intrusion into the cramped three-room flat.
Ann was the only one in the family of four who did not ignore him. She would secretly pass him some meat and beans when he was given half a bowl of rice, smuggle some cookies for him, share some of her pocket money so he could get a packet of milk during recess in school.
One night, Ann snuck to the kitchen to boil an egg to ease her hunger. She quickly peeled and disposed the eggshells down the chute before hurrying back to her shared room to eat. He woke up to the smell of gas and stumbled to the kitchen, fiddling with the stove knobs. His aunt came out to investigate the smell and saw him. Yelling murder, she grabbed a ladle and hit him with it. The din woke the other two sisters and their neighbors.
They quickly opened the windows to disperse the smell and surrounded him, ready to vent their frustrations at having woken up at such an hour. Aunt told them to hold him down while she started to heat some old oil up.
“How does a fried boy taste like?”
His eyes widened with panic, struggles intensified. His vision turned black. He remembered hearing laughter, someone crying, the door banging, the ambulance siren shrieks, and hushed voices…
“Are you all right, Xing?”
Xing looks up and slowly his vision starts to clear. Ann holds his hand and smiles sadly.
“We’ll be okay. They are not coming out from jail anymore.”
(498 words)
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