Chapter sixteen;"Cleaning”

I haven’t been able to get myself to go anywhere .

So that meant I had to spend time with my partner in a love-hate relationship—my head. He’s telling me I should go vegetarian. Maybe I should.

For months, I’ve found myself eating less and less. Eating has become tied to uncontrollable gagging, dizziness, and the feeling that my stomach might explode.

Concerning? Sure. I think it’s just my head.

Appetite changes are pretty normal when someone’s mental state isn’t too stable—or so I’ve heard.

I still love food. I just can’t eat as much as I used to, which brought up some deep memories.

I was real difficult with meals as a kid.

In kindergarten, I was always the last to finish my food—at home, at school,

everywhere. When I was a stinky, fat baby, my mom force-fed me.

But as I got older, I started refusing food. I wasn’t picky; I just hated meals altogether.

I would pick only vegetables and plain rice, drank the soup, and left everything else. I hated meat—the textures of animal skin, the bloody stench coming from boney meat—each taste disgusting in its own unique, nasty way.

I’d hold food in my mouth—just hold it there. No chewing, no intention of swallowing. Just a quiet protest. Usually chicken from soup. Sometimes beef.

I was slapped out of my life once by my dad, on both cheeks, for the very same reason. On my 7th or 8th birthday.

Guess he’d had enough. And maybe I deserved it. So I kind of stopped doing that after.

Then came the “打包扔掉” method—pack it

up and toss.

I’d wrap the meat in tissue paper and dump it in the trash, or flush it down the toilet when no adults were near. I was usually the last one at the table, so it worked for a good while… until it didn’t.

I left a tiger prawn in the toilet and didn’t flush it.

Not because I forgot—give tiny me some credit—I wasn’t a fool.

You see, my mom knew the stunts I pulled. So the sound of a flush when I was supposed to be at the table meant dollars going down the drain like human droppings.

Mom didn’t have much patience for little me.

Meals became torture. I was beaten, thrown out—all the rich, generational Asian traditions.

Haha. Good old times.

I did get better after. I wasn’t picky. I’d say I’m less picky than almost everyone I’ve ever known.

I just somehow still take longer with food than the average person.

Now I want to eat and can’t. How ironic is that?

Many say people start replacing parts of their life for real when they lose their appetite.

Good news: I don’t. I started doing that a long time ago.

Well, Mom noticed my recent “rebellious” behavior.

Everyone finishes their meal—mine is almost untouched.

I got a couple of huge yellings for that.

But I really, really can’t force food down.

So to avoid any further suspicions or deeper theories on why—not that my mom would think that deep anyway—I decided

to go vegetarian.

First, eating vegetables is easier than fatty meat. I can force more of them down without my face spelling the word “help.”

Also, I’ve never been on a vegetarian diet before. I’d love to try.

God, I’m a difficult person.

I woke up today feeling like absolute ass—like I just fought the Hulk and lost.

My dream last night? Stabbing my own father to death, then telling every female in my family, “I have to be the man now.”

Then I found a job as an OSINT worker for some guy wanting to start a plastic company.

I heard my alarm—the default Samsung ringtone that could give anyone a panic attack. I, however, couldn’t even move.

My mind was wide awake, already throwing philosophical equations at me.

Meanwhile, my body was still doing a

factory reset.

I was stuck—mind calculating the binaries of turning off the alarm—while clearly hearing the sound of my sister leaving for school, my dad’s loud political podcast (oh great, he’s alive—I was afraid I actually killed him), and my mom blending some mystery juice with nuts and berries.

Since she got that damn blender, it’s been nonstop warm, thick Chinese liquid for everyone.

No, I’m not complaining. Some of them are good.

But I was nailed to my bed.

My second alarm went off. Still sleeping beauty.

Then came the knocks on my door.

I always get super annoyed when I hear them because I’m awake. Don’t wake me again.

Can’t blame them. I’m no different from a

dead man on the outside.

So I started twitching my fingers and toes. Tried to roll myself off the bed.

The feeling of falling jump-started my body—fear of cracking my skull open does wonders.

Not the first time. Been happening for a while.

My damn head runs on a 3-hour military sleep schedule.

I got up, stood on two feet—bang. Total darkness. Lost balance.

Many say it’s normal. I haven’t quite figured it out. Low iron, maybe.

No, I’m not pretending any of this isn’t worth reflecting on or acting on.

Just… well?

Would you care if a carrot looks a little crooked on the outside when you’re just gonna cook it anyway?

I ate everyone else’s leftover breakfast

during lunchtime while Mom spread her wise words.

I forgot what I said—but it set her off.

Then I listened to her scolding.

Some say never take a person’s words seriously when they’re under strong emotion.

That the things they say are meant to hurt, to win an argument, or to trigger a reaction.

Well, what percent of that is actually true?

Maybe “I hate you” or “You’re the worst” is just anger.

But what about specifics? Stuff directly related to my life and choices?

Is it something that’s been on her mind for a long time but too unpleasant to say on a peaceful day?

Is it something she hears or talks about a lot?

Is it just really obvious and I somehow miss it?

Should I take her words into consideration?

Oh yeah, I remember what started this.

The night before, I was cleaning my room.

I wanted to leave it clean—keeping only what’s important. What I want them to remember.

There were books and test papers all the way back from eight years ago.

Childish drawings—mostly dogs. I love dogs.

Found a little paper telescope I made. I pointed it at Addie—it was filled with dust and webs. Couldn’t see a thing.

Then came the stuff from secondary school.

What a mess. I found an “appreciation card” a classmate wrote me.

Let me show you the exact words:

TO: BOEN

YOU MAY NOT HAVE MADE A POSITIVE INFLUENCE IN MY LIFE,

NEGATIVE IF IT MATTERS.

BUT I FEEL THAT YOU NEED A LOT OF HELP,

‘CAUSE YOU HAVE AFFECTED A LOT OF PEOPLE NEGATIVELY.

NO THANKS TO YOU

It wasn’t serious. It was a joke—I hope—from someone I hung out with a lot at the time.

She helped me a lot, but didn’t hold back on any overly offensive insults directed at me.

Some of them burned way more than they were supposed to.

She probably didn’t know how much they hurt. But I always laughed along.

“Duuuuuude, that’s insane.”

Or “Nah ugh.”

My go-to lines.

She said she used all capital letters so my blind ass could read it. Very thoughtful of

her.

Then came the not-so-pleasant stuff.

Rocks. They always magically landed on me.

My shorts were decorated with different colored gum.

Gum isn’t even legal here.

I found out the meanings of “faggot” and “ladyboy” in the worst ways possible.

So many flashbacks. Was I in a skirt? Oh God, don’t remind me.

Some boys joked about f**king me in chemistry—for four days straight.

I got told, “Just ignore them.”

So I slammed the boy who started it and pinned him to the wall like cheese on a cheese grater.

Some girls had beef with me, so I bitch-slapped the hell out of one of them.

Maybe that’s why I was treated the way I was.

And come on—I was weird as hell. Still am.

Some girls thought I was a pick-me because I stuck with the boys and avoided girls like they were radioactive.

I don’t get it. Not like I looked like anything worth picking.

Maybe it’s because I’m a dude?

So I believe I kind of deserved all that. It built character. In a hardcore way.

I got the achievement of “edgy” in return.

But teens are scary creatures.

Back to reality—I showed Mom the card, translated every word.

Didn’t tell her it was a joke.

She asked me if I ever thought about why I was singled out—why kids decided to push me down the stairs.

I said, “Because I’m a weirdo.”

She agreed. Told me if I acted “normal,” none of it would’ve happened.

“There are 2,000-plus kids. If they choose

you, then the problem is you.”

She told me that countless times throughout my secondary school life.

I never questioned it. I agreed with it entirely.

But recently—just very recently—I brought it back up from the sealed boxes of my mind.

“If a girl was raped, out of four million women, the man picked her. Then she’s the problem?”

How is she the problem? Isn’t it the man?

So I questioned back.

Yup—that set her off.

“She’s stupid. She should’ve avoided the timing. Or dressed better.”

Yup. This conversation’s a no-go…

I was going to stand and leave.

“If you decide to make the changes—the right changes—to yourself, no—”

I’ve heard it a thousand times.

If I made the right choices. If I just restyled myself.

No, Mom. That’s not—

Fine. Why do I bother?

Then came the whole river of stuff.

Before I knew it, there were more red lines in front of me.

Some dropped on the table.

God, not on my bedsheets, is it?

Nope. Okay, that’s a relief.

Second drawer. Alcohol. Spray.

Hold my breath. Wipe. Cream. Hold. Done.

It’s okay.

It’s better this way.

No one should or needs to understand. It’s all just me.

I don’t hate my parents. Not at all.

I’m sorry I caused them so much… whatever I cost them.

They won’t have to worry about that in a couple of months.

Then Mom burst into my room, asking me to help buy hot pot base for the guests tonight.

I told her I had work and no time.

But she insisted. I wouldn’t even be there for dinner. My work ends at 9, and I have to leave now.

She didn’t care.

My dad and sister were at home—but she always chooses to ask me.

I’m not complaining. I’m honored.

But my tone and face never show that.

Plus, we low-key just crashed out at each other hours ago.

She might’ve moved on. I hadn’t yet.

So I just told her no—and left.

Heard her telling me to come home early for dinner.

My shift ends at nine. I can’t just be early.

Ten minutes late—two packages of hot pot base flew in through the front door out of thin air.

I just can’t.

I love my mom. Way too much.

while I was walking this dog, his name was Newt. Seven years old, fully black, looks like a stick man, no exaggeration.

His owner went overseas for work, left him with his abuela too old and too weak to handle his walks. Newt is reactive, he hates kids, other dogs, joggers and Black men—funny, ’cause he is Black as well.

I don’t blame him. He was rehomed five times, which is definitely considered a rough puppyhood. Heard he bit his first owner so hard he had to get stitches and popped Newt right back into the shelter. Some Black man took him. Every time, he was returned to the shelter.

Newt LOVES me, so I don’t care.

The owner said Newt hates most people—men and children specifically. I seem like both and he still adores me, rubbing his head on my shorts, leaving them smelling like raw defrosted chicken.

“He don’t usually like men, how come?”

“Yeah, I wonder why…”

Newt knows my secret. From the second we met, he kept it—or I will say, he had no choice but to keep it.

Been three months now, we’re practically friends.

“Hey Newt, have you ever rode on a ferry before?

’Cause I didn’t. I’ve never ridden a ferry before—a cruise ship, a yacht, sure—but never a ferry.

Maybe I perhaps should ride it sometime.”

Newt chomped down on a snail.

“EA! AY! No! Newt!”

I grabbed his head, forced his mouth open, right hand grabbing his top snout.

“Let it GO!”

He shook his head—up and down, left and right—like a bottle of champagne unopened since the ’80s.

“Spit it out, goddamn it, please!”

I pulled out his tongue, wiggled it in the air, liquids flowing out from his throat to my hand and dripping to the floor in a huge clot.

The snail slid off, smashed into the grass, into a pile of slimy mush.

“EWWWWW, Newt, that’s DISGUSTING!”

His saliva, the snail’s “juice,” trapped my hands.

I looked down. The snail was still moving, shell crushed into countless pieces, barely recognisable as what used to be a snail.

Newt tried to grab a round two. I pulled him away and stomped on that poor snail—ended his misery.

“You are nasty, man.”

I glanced around—okay, no one watching. I wiped my hands on Newt’s blue shirt.

“Sorry bro, my bad.”

He’s been eating “questionables,” so I’m not even a little surprised. This is relatively normal compared to that 2 by 2cm hard transparent plastic and the quarter of a bamboo chopstick.

I arrived home at 8:30.

Don’t ask me how.

I heard the loud talking from outside.

I heard my name.

I stopped. Just listened from the outside.

Then—I didn’t want to listen anymore.

Was I disappointed? Not exactly.

Sad? Not entirely.

I don’t know.

So I entered and repeated some of the things I’d heard—mockingly.

I heard a loud “AWKWARD” from someone.

But they were weirdly supportive of me going vegetarian.

So I let it go.

Again, it’s better for them to see me that way.