I was a premature baby. My mom said that when I was born, I looked like a tiny pink mouse, just a little lump of flesh. She almost thought I wouldn't make it.

"Yu Qing, Mom had a hard time conceiving you. Your dad and I weren't even hopeful anymore,"

my mom often said.

"Jun Brother" is my dad, Bai Jun. My mom always addressed him like she did during their courtship. I never felt they had any expectations for me. If they did, it was probably hoping to beat me for fun!

There is an old photo wall at home. Those frozen moments of happiness and laughter are always meticulously wiped clean by my mom. But I'm not in any of them. For as long as I can remember, it's been endless yelling and beatings.

The abuser was initially my dad, but later my mom joined in too. Fists, brooms, and hangers became the Damocles' sword hanging over my head. A body covered in bruises and a battered face became routine. I once fantasized that the spinning ceiling fan would fall, smashing them into a bloody mess, and hopefully killing me too. However, that never happened, and I somehow lived to see my 17th birthday.

I slowly realized that as long as my dad was there, my mom would beat me harder and more joyfully. She hit me solely to please my dad; it was just one of her many ways to please him. She treated my dad like a deity, tending to him, serving him, satisfying him. She said it was love, something a child couldn't understand.

My mom was the owner of a meat stall at the Ronghe Market. After Ronghe Market was renovated into the Youyomei Supermarket, my mom rented a meat counter there. She worked hard from dawn till dusk, and business was fairly good.

We had no savings at home. All the money was taken by my dad, either for business ventures or to buy alcohol. Bai Jun liked to eat pig ears with his drinks, so my mom would bring them home for him every day. Sometimes she'd even bring home the liquor, and they'd eat, drink, and beat me together.

My dad liked drinking baijiu and never touched beer. The more they drank and ate happily, the harder they beat me. My mom told me to scream and cry out loud.

I refused! I gritted my teeth and kept silent, sometimes biting my lips so hard they bled. My mom called me an ungrateful little beast.

I started dreaming about my mom's corpse ever since then.

I never talked to anyone about these dreams. I just tried to get rid of them myself. When milk, medicine, and amulets all failed, I began trying to stay awake all night. But it didn't work. As soon as my consciousness slightly dipped into darkness, the dream would slither in like a snake.

Later, I thought that maybe the corpse lay buried in the endless darkness of my subconscious. How could I ever escape myself? I started learning to live with it, and by now, I've made peace with it. If I don't dream about that corpse for several days, I even start to secretly wonder why.

On those nights when I was beaten by my parents, I would curl up under the table and silently weep. When I started to doze off, I would see the corpse and blooming red azaleas. Sometimes I could hear voices, gentle as if speaking or singing, incredibly distant and indistinct, no matter how hard I tried to make out what they were saying.

That dream became my secret.