Spot

A sudden, spreading stain catches me off guard—something I never see coming. I always fail to predict it; it eludes me, constantly changing its pattern—never settling on one form, never preceded by any warning sign of its imminent arrival. Others envy me for being spared the agony they endure, while I envy them for that very pain—a warning that holds them back from foolish acts they might later regret, or perhaps renders them too incapacitated to even attempt such follies in the first place!
I do not know if they stopped envying me, or if they viewed me as the heroine of that day I slapped the classroom teacher right in the middle of the schoolyard—retaliation for the time she had yanked my hair to force me into line. I had writhed in pain that day, certainly, but it was not *that* kind of pain.
— "When it hits you, lock yourself in your room and have no dealings with a single soul!"
That is what my mother told me once, after I deliberately spilled a cup of hot tea on her. She had been complaining about having given birth to *me* instead of a man who could help her weather life’s hardships; what use was a daughter who forgot even to add sugar to the tea before serving it? It was not the first time she had pounced on my mistakes, using them as grounds to regret granting me a life I supposedly didn't deserve. Usually, I didn't let it bother me much—sometimes I even laughed it off, telling her she wouldn't last two days without me, and that a thousand sons could never take my place in her life. But that time... that time, it wasn't really me. "There’s no hope for you; you’re a stupid woman. You’ll never be like other women. May God forgive my mother for saddling me with you—she died and left you, along with your children, to suffocate the life out of me."
Perhaps it would have been wiser had I heeded her advice today, but that was a luxury I did not possess—for who else was there to tend to the house? I do not recall how the argument began, nor what it was about; every quarrel between us ended with that same exchange. He would return later to apologize, claiming he hadn't meant what he said—that it had been a moment of madness—and I had grown accustomed to his words, just as he had grown accustomed to my forgiveness. Neither of us foresaw that this time, things would play out differently. It was not my doing, but rather a knife that knew exactly where to strike, and a spreading red stain upon his chest.