My mother is a porcelain artist. She taught herself human anatomy just to break my bones more accurately.
She said that a slight bone fracture can perfectly fool the hospital's X-rays, and can heal quickly within a month, without affecting the next start of work.
After being knocked off by her thirteen times, I became a semi-expert.
I will even take the initiative to remind her:
"Mom, last time it was the tibia of the left leg. Let's replace it with the ulna of the right arm this time. Otherwise, there will be too many old bone injuries and it will wear out."
Every time I successfully extorted a large amount of money, she would reward me with a cheap popsicle, which was the only sweetness I could taste in the endless pain.
For this reason, I even began to look forward to every bone fracture.
Until that day, when we crashed into a nondescript van.
The car owner squatted down, and I squeezed out tears skillfully, preparing to recite the lines of "The leg is broken".
But he walked around my legs, gently held up my arms, suddenly raised his head and stared at my mother's face, and asked an irrelevant question:
"Do you remember Li Jing?"
My mother's wails stopped abruptly.
Li Jing is her first daughter who died "accidentally" many years ago.
The man stood up, his eyes as cold as knives: "I am the forensic doctor who was responsible for the autopsy. I have been looking for you for ten years."
