The Book My Mom Burned, I Wrote Again

When I was fourteen, my mom said, “If you don’t do your homework, I’ll burn your books.” I didn’t wait for her to do it. I piled all my homework on the kitchen floor, doused it with oil, and lit it myself. As the flames leapt up, she stood beside me chopping vegetables. Her knife thudded against the cutting board, once, twice, three times. She didn’t stop me or scold me. She didn’t even look over. That was the first time I spoke with fire. Later, while I was away, my whole class signed a petition demanding that I be kicked out of the honors class. Later, the girl I liked cried in the snow and said, “My heart loves you, but my reason forces me not to.” Later, I walked the streets with a fake camera, tricking parents out of their money. My boss withheld my wages, and an old woman hit me with her car, then accused me of fleeing the scene. Every time I tried to speak up, someone told me it was my fault. Then I opened a blank document and typed the first line. I poured the first half of my life into it: burning my homework, being made to stand facing the wall and count the tiles, not having enough money for a one-yuan bus fare. I didn’t write it to gain sympathy. I wrote it to bring back, piece by piece, the fourteen-year-old me who stood in the kitchen holding fire. If you’re going through something difficult too, maybe this book can keep you company for a while.