I started having strange dreams when I was very young. I dreamed that I was killed by my mother, and she buried me in a small, dark corner. I can clearly smell the smell of earth, and the despair and fear used by the tide can knock me down in an instant, and I often wake up crying in my dreams.
I don’t remember when I first had this dream, maybe four years old, maybe five years old, after a day in kindergarten. Whenever I woke up crying, my mother would hug me tightly and ask me softly if I had nightmares.
I never mentioned this to my mother, and even if the feeling in the dream was real, it was nonsense to think about. If my mother killed me, what am I now twenty years old? Not only am I healthy, but my mother also loves me very much. It can be said that she loves me with all her strength.
When I was very young and have no memory, my father died in an accident. Since both families were withered, my mother alone took on the heavy responsibility of raising me.
I think my mother must love my father very much, because I still see my mother from time to time in the dead of night, talking to herself about my father’s photo, and sometimes weeping silently. The water and flowers used for worship are replaced every day for nearly 20 years.
There is no shadow of my father in my memory, the only way to know his voice and smile is through photos. He is very young in the posthumous photo, no more than twenty-five or six years old at most, with clear eyes and a smile on the corner of his mouth, his eyes are very warm, as if he can speak.
My mother said that I looked exactly like my father, so I was much more beautiful than her.
Over the years, my mother has been working very hard. She worked two jobs a day, came back in the afternoon to cook a meal for me, and then hurried to work. She was severely sleep deprived, and her deep eye bags and dark circles made her look ten years older than her actual age.
Although her income is not high, she always tries her best to meet my various requirements. No one knows that my living environment is actually so embarrassing, and some even suspect that my family background is good. Even myself, I sometimes feel that my mother is too doting on me, but this may be her way of compensating for my lack of fatherly love. Thinking of this, I am not only grateful to my mother, but also deeply apologetic to her.
However, that dream still haunts me.
My boyfriend Ouyang said that this was because my mother spoiled me too much. Although I was full of affection for her, I actually had a strong sense of guilt, so this strange dream came about. Dirt and darkness represent returning to the origin, which means that I subconsciously think that if there was no me, if I hadn’t been born, then my mother would not have worked so hard. After my father died, she could start a new life.
Ouyang is a top student in the psychology department, I think I should trust him. But this dream came about when I was very young, when I was a toddler, I shouldn’t feel guilty.
“People will have many dreams in their life, and the dreams are often chaotic and similar. I guess you may have played with flowers and plants when you were young, which led to the dream about soil at that time. This dream is mixed with the dream after sensible, you think it is the same It ‘s a dream.” Ouyang’s analysis was straightforward, he rubbed my hair and told me that he would take care of me and my mother in the future.
In my impression, the day before I first had this dream, I did dig earthworms in the kindergarten to make life come alive . The fishy smell of soil made me feel very uncomfortable. So when the other children were overwhelmed with joy, I fled back to the classroom early.
So far, this dream has come to visit me every once in a while.
But I no longer wake up crying. After all, I have grown up, my grades are good, and I also have a fixed part-time job to subsidize my family after school. Although the mother still needs to work, it has been changed to a relatively easy job. I want to wait until I graduate from college, so that my mother can live a happy life.
If that person didn’t show up, I think I’d think that dream was really just my guilt.
At the school celebration a week later, senior representative Tang delivered a speech on stage. Originally, I was a little drowsy talking to the school leaders and various representatives in turn, but when I saw him, my eyes widened.
He and his father, no, it should be said that the father in the posthumous photo looks almost exactly the same!
I felt so quiet around me, my breathing stopped, watching him speak in high spirits, I seemed to see the living father back then. The same eyebrows, the same smile, the same talking eyes.
He graduated three years ago and is twenty-five years old this year. He is in the first year of his Ph.D. in a famous university abroad. The overly similar appearance makes me think it can’t be pure coincidence, not to mention his surname is the same as mine – both are Tang.
Sitting in the noisy synagogue, I pondered hard, and I remembered that few relatives came to visit in our family, and only my cousin occasionally came to visit my mother. If Senior Tang is a relative on my father’s side, especially a child like a brother, it is also possible that he looks exactly like an uncle.
But if my father’s family still has relatives, why have I never met them? Could it be that they prefer sons to daughters and look down on us, the orphans and widows?
The ceremony was about to end, and I unknowingly followed behind the senior. He was popular, and every now and then people stopped to say hello along the campus boulevard that led to the gate.
At this time, a black car drove by the school gate, and a middle-aged man got out of the car and waved to him.
I stopped to follow his pace and just stared at the middle-aged man in a daze.
If my father were alive this year, I think it would be like this.
The middle-aged man noticed me standing beside them staring blankly at them. His eyes just swept past him, and he probably regarded me as Senior Simu’s younger sister, and didn’t pay much attention.
When I got home, my mother hadn’t finished get off work yet, and I stood alone in front of my father’s spiritual seat. The photo of the last and the senior’s face overlapped, and I gradually turned into the middle-aged man.
I refilled the tea bowls with water and wiped the urn lightly with a clean cloth. These things used to be done by my mother. Today, I ran into senior Ouyang and I couldn’t help thinking about my father.
The urn was unexpectedly light, shaking gently, and there was the sound of paper rubbing in it. I became curious, and after praying to my father, I carefully opened the urn.
Instead of the ashes I imagined, there were some photos cut into pieces, as well as two necklaces and a ring. There are not many photos, and it is not very difficult to put together. It turned out to be a group photo of my mother and father when I was young.
Is the father really dead?
In the face of my questioning, my mother was only slightly surprised.
“Your father is indeed not dead.” She made herself a cup of black tea and answered me calmly, “I learned that your father used to have a family after I became pregnant, and his wife is very powerful and has a strong career. I helped him a lot. So I can’t affect his future, I decided to raise you alone. The reason why I told you that he died is to prevent you from feeling inferior and hatred, and to stop thinking about him. idea.”
I was sad that I turned out to be the fruit of an affair, but seeing Hua Fa, whose mother was born early, all my complaints were indescribable.
After that day, that dream came to me again and again. I have a dream almost every other day, and the picture in the dream becomes clearer and clearer. Not only could I feel the dread of death coming, the stench of the earth, the despair of falling into darkness, but I could clearly hear my mother’s cry.
A low, repressed cry, like the one I used to hear so often, late at night in front of her father’s throne.
There was a sudden sense of distance between me and her. I recalled every detail of the dream, and I could even feel the sweat dripping down my cheeks as my mother lowered her head and shoveled the soil.
Why is she killing me?
About half a year later, an unexpected person came to the family – my father.
As expected, he was the middle-aged man who picked up Senior Tang that day. He was well-dressed and had an arrogant expression. His mother sat upright under his head, her brows lowered, as if she couldn’t lift her head.
He looked me up and down, and said in a cold tone: “What happened to her? I gave you a sum of money to abort the child, why is she still here? We agreed that it was just a simple physical relationship. That’s it, do you think you can threaten me by giving birth to a child? You are an unreasonable lunatic!”
He said so much, all blaming his mother.
When the conversation changed, his tone suddenly became gentle: “However, thanks to you, I have the opportunity to save my A Yun.”
It turned out that just three months ago, Senior Ouyang was diagnosed with blood cancer and needed a bone marrow transplant. However, whether it is relatives or the national bone marrow bank, the matching has not been successful. Although it was only a glimpse at the school gate that day, my father found that my appearance was quite similar to his. After investigation, he learned that my surname was also Tang.
“You’ll go for a blood test tomorrow, and I’ll give you a sum of money when it’s done.” He pointed at me, got up and looked around, sighing, “It seems that your environment is not good in such a simple house. Haven’t you remarried? “
I refused on the spot, but at the begging of my mother, I reluctantly went to the hospital. What makes me happy is that my bone marrow does not match that of Senior Ouyang.
After that, my father never showed up again.
After this incident, my mother seems to have aged a lot. She became ill from overwork and soon died of a sudden cerebral hemorrhage.
After the funeral, Ouyang helped me sort out my mother’s belongings at home. Since there is no mother in this house, it can’t be called home. I decided to move back to the dormitory to reduce the cost of rent, and in the future my relatives will only be Ouyang.
I found a small locked box on my mother’s bedside table, and I couldn’t find the key to unlock it anyway. The box isn’t delicate, but it’s surprisingly solid, like it’s designed to keep a secret. I carefully cut the top cover with a saw, and inside the box was a stack of slips and a photo of me as a kid.
These documents are dated 20 years ago, one is for the purchase of medicines, and the other is her medical record card and discharge summary in the obstetrics and gynecology hospital. Somehow, I could smell a disgusting bloody smell from the box, probably because the box itself was made of iron.
Not only did I feel nauseous, but I also felt blackness in front of my eyes and pain in my lower abdomen, as if all my bowels were cluttered together.
After Ouyang helped me sit down, he picked up the photo and said with a smile, “Your mother must really want a son. Look, she dressed you up as a little boy.”
I took the photo, which showed me with short watermelon hair, wearing a boy-only jacket and jeans.
This is not my picture, this is “his” picture.
The smell of earth filled my nostrils again, and the thick sadness passed from the photo, surrounded me, and made me burst into tears instantly.
Mother killed him.
At that time, the mother was pregnant with twins. Her original intention was indeed to have a miscarriage, but for some reason, he left in the end, but I survived strong. Judging by the dates on the medication receipt and medical record card, he and I were six or seven months old at the time.
My mother buried not me, but him.
I think the reason why I can perceive these is because of blood relatives. I have experienced his pain and despair, and the helplessness and sadness of my mother. Through my mother’s belly, I stared deeply at him, who was gradually buried in the soil. The smell of the soil was unforgettable in my mind, and it would reappear and linger after a little stimulation.
There was absolutely nothing in my mother’s heart that let him go, or I wouldn’t have treasured this picture of me in men’s clothing for my fourth birthday. Maybe she was fantasizing about what he would look like if he grew up.
Where is he buried? In my impression, in order to find a house with lower rent, we moved a dozen times. Unless my mother was born again, I don’t think I would be able to find him. But after the tears this time, I no longer have any fear and anxiety, and I want to connect with him and live a good life.