I was awakened from my sleep by a series of "thud thud thud" noises.

I got out of bed to check and found my mom chopping things in the kitchen.

It's the hottest time of the year now, but my room's air conditioning is set to 22 degrees.

Yet here's Mom, in a red down jacket usually worn only during Chinese New Year, in the kitchen where the lights haven't been turned on.

Her sweat soaked her clothes, dripping down her trouser legs, forming a small puddle around her slippers.

And she stood in that puddle, chopping away.

"Mom."

I called out to her, but the chopping noise was too loud for her to hear.

I walked over and saw she was chopping a chicken that hadn't been plucked.

She chopped it into tiny pieces, mixing feathers, bones, and meat together, with chicken blood spreading across the chopping board, emanating the foul odor of poultry.

It was disgusting.

I called her again, but she still didn't hear.

I tapped her on the back.

She stopped chopping, but didn't turn around, her mouth moving mechanically:

"Rong Rong, you're awake, I'm making breakfast for you."

Her voice lacked any inflection, like a puppet being manipulated.

After saying that, she resumed chopping with "thud thud thud."

Since my brother died, Mom has been melancholy all day long, and her mental state isn't quite normal.

I left the kitchen and checked my phone.

My brother's messages were gone, as if they were automatically deleted after being read.

"Don't trust Mom."

I wanted to ask Mom if there was any conflict between her and my brother, but her mental state was so poor that I couldn't bear to bring it up again.