Charles's foot slammed down on my prosthetic leg.
"How can you be so ungrateful, Vicky?"
He stood behind me, his voice climbing higher and higher.
"Today's our birthday, and it's the day Mom suffered to bring us into the world! How can you upset her like this?"
"You know perfectly well we'd never let a cripple like you go out and earn money. We'll take care of you your whole life. And you go and spout that garbage about supporting yourself? You want the whole neighborhood pointing fingers at Mom and Dad behind their backs?"
My eyes stayed on that job offer.
Before I could say a word, my brother stomped down on my prosthetic again.
"Dad went begging to everyone he knew just so you wouldn't fall out of step with the rest of the world, and now the job's beneath you?"
The prosthetic wrenched sideways, and my stump twisted with it into a sickening angle.
The pain blacked out my vision. I dropped into a chair, reaching to get the prosthetic off.
By the time I finally worked it loose, the stump underneath was a wash of red.
My strength gave out, and the prosthetic slipped from my grip and hit the floor with a jarring clatter.
My father suddenly brought his hand down hard on the table.
The bowls and chopsticks jumped.
"Victoria, what do you think you're doing!"
He pointed at me and roared,
"You disrespect your mother, you turn up your nose at the job I found you, and now your brother can't even say a word to you? You rip off your leg and throw it on the floor. You looking to bring the roof down?"
I tried to speak, but the pain in my shoulder wouldn't let me breathe.
My mother rushed to hold my father back, crying as she spoke.
"Enough, enough, this child hasn't been herself since she lost the leg..."
"She took the prosthetic off on purpose, just to make us feel guilty..."
Before she finished.
She raised her hand and slapped herself twice across the face.
Then she looked at me, and said each word slowly and deliberately,
"Mom shouldn't have scolded you just now. Mom's sorry. If you don't want the job, you don't have to take it. That's settled, isn't it?"
"Are you satisfied now?"
"If you're not, I'll go dish up your rice right now and kneel here and feed it to you!"
And then she turned and went to the kitchen and came back with a bowl of rice for me.
Just as her knees started to bend, my father grabbed her and wouldn't let her kneel.
"Making your own mother slap herself and get down on her knees. Victoria, you've really outdone yourself. What's next, you want me and your brother kneeling to wait on you too? Have you no fear of cutting your own life short!"
"I didn't make her hit herself, and I didn't make her kneel. The reason I don't want the job is because—"
"Shut up! You still have the nerve to argue!"
My father couldn't take any more. He kicked me square in the arm.
Right on the injured shoulder.
But I didn't feel the pain.
I sat there staring at my mother's right cheek, where there wasn't even a red mark, my mind gone completely blank.
Then three years of being a cripple came flooding back.
The first time I fell, my stump struck the corner of the coffee table, and the blood soaked through my pant leg.
I said, Mom, it hurts so much.
She slapped herself once and said she was sorry.
I bit my lip and went quiet, letting the taste of blood fill my mouth rather than say another word about the pain.
When I came back from a checkup at the hospital, the doctor said I needed counseling.
I said I wanted to see a therapist.
She slapped herself twice again, said a therapist cost several hundred a session, said she deserved to die for not taking better care of me.
So I let it go.
Later, when I could finally walk on the prosthetic, I asked her if she could buy me a new one, because the old one rubbed me raw and hurt to walk on.
Her eyes went red again and she slapped herself once, said that to fix my leg my father worked overtime every day, so much he might as well sleep at the office.
So I gritted my teeth and got used to the pain of metal grinding against bone and flesh.
Before, I thought that if I was obedient, if I was good, if I never caused them trouble, I might earn a sliver of love.
I even thought her slapping herself was proof that she loved me.
But now, I finally understood. It was emotional blackmail.
Every time I cried out in pain.
Every time I said I was hurting.
Every time I wanted them to look at me a little longer.
She would turn it on herself like this.
Because she knew it would shut me up.
But the truth was, every time she slapped herself, she never put any force behind it.
