Chapter Three: Candy
第三章：一顆糖
As a child, all I wanted was a single piece of candy, the kind other children took for granted. Every time I went to the supermarket with my parents, I would go with a heart full of anticipation, only to return in silent disappointment. Not once did they ever buy me one. So, I stole their money, and they found out.
They stripped me of my clothes and bound me to a heavy, old-fashioned square wooden table that stood exactly as tall as I was. Together, they whipped me mercilessly with bamboo switches. They yelled at me for my wrongdoing, harsh and unyielding, frantically demanding that I admit my mistake, threatening that if I didn’t confess immediately, the beating would continue.
Tears blurred my vision, but I remember keeping my lips tightly sealed. I was waiting. I was waiting for them to ask me just one question: Why did you steal the money? But they never asked. They just kept whipping me. In the end, I simply collapsed into unconsciousness amidst the bloody blur.
Years later, after entering the workforce, a colleague casually asked me what kind of snacks I liked. At that moment, an overwhelming sense of blankness washed over me; I had absolutely no idea how to answer. For nearly twenty years following that day, I had never developed the habit of eating snacks. Or perhaps, the self that once yearned for candy and harbored illusions of tenderness had already died in that bloody, brutal beating.
From then on, my parents badmouthed me to anyone who would listen, airing every flaw and shortcoming they perceived in me to warn me to be obedient and “sensible.” They constantly complained, reminding me of how excellent the neighbors’ children were, as if they would only be satisfied if I were one of them. In this environment of endless negation, I slowly grew up.
When I was ten, my father got into his third car accident. I packed up the bone broth my mother had simmered for him and rode my bicycle under the scorching, blistering sun—a one-hour ride each way between the hospital and home. By the time I finally made it to the hospital, I hadn’t even caught my breath before dragging myself and the heavy container of broth up to the sixth floor to find his ward. My mother and cousin were already there. As I moved to place the broth on the bedside table, my mother caught me completely off guard, unleashing a torrent of criticism because I hadn’t greeted my cousin the second I walked in.
I quickly gathered my wits and paid my respects. But it was too late. For the rest of my visit, my mother did nothing but complain to anyone within earshot about how inconsiderate, disrespectful, and ill-mannered I was. On the lonely bike ride back home, I gritted my teeth and prayed silently in my heart: I need to become independent as soon as possible, so I can escape this curse of a home, and leave behind this place of endless blame, criticism, and abuse.
By the time I was ten, my father had already been in three major accidents. The most severe one happened before he even married my mother, leaving him with a shattered thigh bone. They had only recently been introduced by a matchmaker. My simple, pure-hearted mother was likely worried that breaking things off at such a moment would make her look heartless and ruin her reputation, so she chose to stay and marry him anyway. Years later, I asked them why they had chosen each other. “I thought your father was pitiful,” my mother said. But my father countered, “The girl I actually had my eyes on back then was the factory director’s daughter. But my own circumstances didn’t match hers, so I settled for your mother.”
What an utterly foolish man. He muttered these words right in front of my mother and me, wearing a pensive, regretful expression. If he was this thoughtless and unfiltered at home, there was no telling how many people he had offended outside in the society. It was no wonder that, while most of his colleagues and friends climbed the ranks, made fortunes, and moved into better houses, my father remained entirely dependent on my mother, cultivating that same tiny plot of land. He left all of his mediocrity out in the world, and brought the remnants of his cowardice home to his family.
Meanwhile, my mother once casually told me that when I was eight months old, she decided to abruptly wean me because I bit her nipple and caused her pain. As I grew older, her personality underwent a drastic shift. The woman she used to be would fly into a rage over not knowing how to use the latest pressure cooker my father had brought home, slamming it down and storming off, leaving my father and me frozen in shock. Yet, by the time I entered high school as a boarding student and only returned home on weekends, she suddenly began offering to walk me out. Stepping past the threshold, she would want to keep walking with me, matching my pace. To me, there was really no need to go so far. When she finally stopped, her eyes would be rimmed with red, looking like a heartbroken, lost mother who couldn’t bear the sorrow of parting.
I always believed that back then, she saw no hope in my father, and with her only daughter frequently away, she felt profoundly lonely and helpless. But it was too late. I had long since grown accustomed to their chronic neglect. For years, I had raised myself in solitude, buried in the hundreds of books my grandfather had left behind.
In 2010, two years after the Wenchuan earthquake, I graduated from high school. I had finally made it to the moment where I could go to university and leave home. Back then, half of my classmates were weeded out during the transition from junior high to high school, and another two-thirds failed to make it to university.
Hard work pays off; my scores were high enough for admission. Looking back, every single achievement of mine was built on relentless, almost masochistic effort from dawn till dusk. Yet, when my father heard that I intended to go to university, he said in a half-joking tone, “Why does a girl need a college degree? The family has no money for your tuition.”
The moment those words left his mouth, it felt as if a bolt of lightning had struck my mind; my entire world went numb. Crying, I called my maternal aunt, begging her to reason with my father and persuade him to let me continue my education.
My father had always listened to my aunt and uncle because they lived in the city and held respectable jobs at the National Tax Bureau and the central oil refinery. They spoke and carried themselves with propriety, and handled matters with civility. To my parents, they belonged to an entirely different social class. Thanks to my aunt’s intervention, my father eventually conceded to my wish to attend university. It was from the very night of that phone call to my aunt that I began keeping a diary—a place to vent all my frustrations with life, and to record my confusion and grief.
Having secured a final lifeline, I poured over the thick university registry of the time and chose the institution with the cheapest tuition, eventually gaining admission to two schools. One was a university for finance; the other was a college for hydraulic engineering. Because the brochure described the hydraulic engineering major as involving geological surveying, my naturally free-spirited disposition led me to choose the college. Midway through the admissions process, however, the school abruptly called to inform me that the hydraulic engineering major was full. My only options were to transfer to animal quarantine or forfeit my admission entirely.
Driven by a desperate need to leave home, I would have accepted any major. Besides, after flipping through the directory, I found that an animal quarantine degree offered a wild chance of working in disease control or customs in Germany’s Black Forest. Clinging to that naive illusion, I registered. Only long afterward did I realise the truth—my major had been forcibly swapped because a school official wanted my engineering spot for their own child.
But I was finally out. Earning my first part-time paycheck brought me immense joy; it was my first real taste of independence. During my studies, I worked three jobs at once, ranked top of my class, won the highest award along with a 5,000-yuan prize, and actively led campus activities, all while regularly participating in and donating to charity.
Similar instances of bullying and being forced to change my major happened once again later on, when I was applying for postgraduate studies. Only by then, I was no longer that helpless seventeen-year-old child who knew nothing of the world and could be easily slaughtered. I stood my ground, fought through layers of institutional red tape, and refused to yield the position that rightfully belonged to me. Yet, once I truly stepped inside the high walls of academia, I realized that higher education in mainland China was fundamentally barren of any real academic value. It was entirely a mouthpiece and a hired gun for politics; the overarching mandate of the university was always to place political obedience above all else. Finding this utterly absurd, I saw clearly that certain environments were not worth wasting another moment of my life on.
After entering the workforce, my company provided me with an urban SUV for my commutes. During a trip back to visit my parents, the car caught a nail, and my father and I went to a nearby repair shop to patch the tire. Along the way, my father was completely immersed in a shallow, vain joy—proud that his daughter was driving what rural folks considered a luxury vehicle. As I drove the SUV down the countryside roads, he excitedly leaned out the window to wave and greet the neighbors, his ego thoroughly gratified in front of the village. The shop owner was a man nearly ten years older than my father. As he worked, he sighed and remarked that among people born in his generation, practically no one back home farmed anymore. I instinctively glanced at my father—a man ten years younger than this blacksmith, yet still farming to this day, wasn’t he? I expected my father to feel some sort of resonance or self-reflection upon hearing this casual observation. To my surprise, he was entirely indifferent. He just stood there, smiling foolishly one moment, and tracking the mechanic’s movements with an intensely focused gaze the next. In that moment, I understood that his poverty and limitations were not a cruel twist of fate; it was simply that he inherently lacked any capacity for reality-testing or deeper reflection.
In 2019, I suffered two mild epileptic seizures. During the period of the second episode, I went to visit the grandparents (my first grandfather’s brother and his wife)—Grandpa You and Grandma Liu. In their youth, my grandfather and Grandpa You shared a profound brotherly bond; they would talk through the night, drink wine, compose poetry, and play music together.
One day, I had set out dragging a small folding grocery cart, intending to go to the supermarket. But after walking around the mall for a bit, I sensed that something was wrong with my body. Terrified of having another seizure while living alone, I sent a text message to Grandpa You and Grandma Liu, asking if I could visit, and headed over after they agreed. When I reached their house, Grandpa saw how disheveled and desperate I looked, arriving at my age dragging a grocery cart. He hurriedly told me to sit down, while Grandma Liu went to the kitchen to prepare a steaming bowl of fried egg noodles for me. Halfway through the meal, images of being beaten and abused as a child began flashing uncontrollably through my mind. My eyes and nose stung with a sudden, overwhelming surge of grief, and I could no longer swallow another bite. Just then, Grandpa You came into the room to ask if I needed anything else. Looking at his kind, gentle face, the dam holding back decades of suppressed sorrow completely broke. I wept and poured my heart out to him, recounting how my parents had stripped me naked and brutally whipped me with bamboo switches just because I stole some money. Grandpa You looked at my sobbing, choking frame with deep sorrow. After listening in silence, he let out a long sigh and said, “They shouldn’t have been so cruel.”
In September of that same year, I suffered a third epileptic seizure. In the grip of severe physical convulsions and clouded consciousness, I was rushed to the emergency room. Due to a complete lack of a thorough neurological evaluation at the time, the mainland doctors hastily and carelessly diagnosed me with schizophrenia. Strangely, this absurd and heavy label of a “severe mental illness” became the very armor that protected me in reality. Upon learning of the diagnosis, my parents grew wary and fearful of me, terrified of triggering another episode. For an entire year, they ceased forcing me to conform to their values and expectations—demanding that I get married, have children, and make them grandparents like the rest of their relatives and neighbours.
Following this incident, I slowly faded from the family’s view, settling into a much more peaceful life of my own in Chengdu. Still, during holidays, I continue to provide for them as usual, buying the food, clothing, and daily necessities they require, and sending them money.
When it comes to that place called “home,” every single conversation with my parents yields nothing but endless accusation, resentment, and emotional extortion. In the past, after talking to them just once, it would take me a full week to recover from the psychological drain they inflicted on me. Later, that recovery time shortened to three days; then, to a single day. Today, when I bring up these memories again, my heart remains undisturbed. I only wish to establish a definitive, rational boundary for this relationship: From this day forward, aside from fulfilling my financial obligations to support them, I will no longer invest a single shred of emotion that exceeds my physical and mental capacity.
小時候的我想像其他小孩一樣，有一顆糖吃。每次和父母一起去超市，我都帶著滿滿的期待而去，失望沉默而歸——沒有一次，父母為我買過一顆糖。於是我偷了他們的錢，於是他們發現了。
他們扒光了我的裹身衣物，將我捆綁在和我一樣高的一張厚重的老式方形木桌前，雙雙用竹子做的荊條狠狠地鞭打我。他們嘴裡訓斥著我的錯誤行徑，嚴厲苛責，氣急敗壞地要求我認錯，並威脅如果不盡快認錯，就繼續狠狠抽打。
淚水模糊了我的視線，只記得我始終緊閉雙唇，因為我在等，等他們問我一句：為什麼要偷錢？然而他們沒有問，只是繼續鞭打。最終，我只是在血肉模糊中昏厥了過去。
工作後，有一次我的同事隨口問我喜歡吃什麼零食，那一刻我竟感到無比茫然，完全不知道該怎麼回答。因為在之後近二十年的歲月裡，我不再有吃零食的習慣。或者說，那個曾經對糖果滿懷期待、對溫情抱有幻想的自己，早已在那場血肉模糊的鞭打中死去了。
此後，父母逢人便說那些在他們看來的、關於我的缺點和不是，以此警示我要乖乖聽話，做一個懂事的孩子。他們總喜歡用埋怨的語氣告誡我鄰居家的孩子有多優秀，彷彿如果我是那些孩子，他們才會滿意。就這樣，我在無休止的否定中慢慢長大。
十歲那年，父親第三次出車禍。我打包好母親為他熬製的骨頭湯，在烈日暴曬下，騎自行車單程一個小時，往返於醫院和家。好不容易騎到醫院，整個人還沒緩過神來，就提著骨頭湯一口氣爬上醫院六樓，找到了父親所在的病房。此時母親和堂姐已經在病房裡，我正準備先將湯放在病床旁的櫃台上，不料母親劈頭蓋臉的就是一頓指責，怪我沒有跟堂姐打招呼。
我急忙緩過神來，向堂姐問好。這下可不得了，在接下來的整個時間裡，母親一直在病房中不斷向旁人埋怨著我如何不懂事、不知道問候大人、沒有禮貌。獨自騎行回家的路上，我咬著牙，默默地在心裡祈禱：盡快自立，離開這個魔咒般的家，離開這個受盡指責、批評與虐待的地方。
在十歲那場車禍之前，父親其實還出過兩次車禍。最嚴重的一次是在與母親結婚前，大腿粉碎性骨折。當時他們剛由媒婆介紹相識，純樸的母親大概是擔心在此時提出分手會顯得不仁不義，也會破壞自己的名聲，於是她還是選擇留下來，與這個男人成婚。後來我曾問起父母，當年為什麼選擇了彼此。 母親說：「我看你父親可憐。」 父親卻說：「當時我看上的女孩是廠長的女兒，但自己條件配不上對方，於是才選了你母親。」
真是個極其愚蠢的男人。這些話，他居然是當著我和母親的面，帶著一種若有所思的遺憾神情說出來的。在家裡尚且如此口無遮攔，在外面更不知道得罪過多少人。難怪身邊的同事朋友都升官發財、遷居良宅，父親卻仍然只能依賴著母親，耕種著家裡的那一畝三分地。他不僅把所有的平庸留給了外界，也把殘餘的懦弱留給了家庭。
母親無意中告訴我，自從我8個月大，她就決定給我斷奶，因為我咬疼了她的乳頭。隨著我漸漸長大，她的性格有了極大的轉變。從前那個她，會因為不懂如何使用父親買回家的最新款高壓鍋而大發脾氣，摔鍋而去，以至於嚇得我和父親在一旁愣住。到我上高中成為寄宿生、只有週末回家期間，我的母親竟然會主動提出要出門送我。走出家門口，她仍然想和我同步多走一段路。在我看來，實在沒有必要走太遠。當停住腳步時，她的眼睛泛紅，像是一個無法忍受離別而要傷心落淚的失落母親。
我一直認為那時的她，在父親身上看不到任何希望，唯一的女兒又時常不在身邊，她倍感孤獨和無助。但太晚了。我早已習慣了父母對我的長期忽視，多年來，我只是在讀爺爺留給我的幾百冊書籍中，獨自長大。
2010年，也就是汶川地震後兩年，我高中畢業了，終於熬到了可以讀大學離開家的時候。那時候，初中升高中有一半的同學被刷掉，高中升大學又有三分之二的同學沒考上。功夫不負有心人，我的分數足夠上大學。回想我所有的成就背後，都是自己從早到晚近乎自虐般的付出。然而，當我的父親聽到我還要讀大學時，卻用一種玩笑式的語氣說：「女孩子讀什麼大學，家裡沒錢給你讀。」聽到這番話的瞬間，我的頭腦裡就像五雷轟頂，整個世界都懵了。我哭泣著給大姨打電話，請求她規勸父親准許我繼續唸書。
父親向來聽大姨和大伯的話，因為他們住在城裡，有著國稅局和油脂總廠的體面工作，說話、接人待物都彬彬有禮，處理事情也更加妥當。對父母而言，他們是另一個階層的人。在大姨的勸說下，父親後來應允了我讀大學的願望。也就是從給大姨打電話的那一夜起，我開始寫日記，發洩我所有對生活的不滿，記錄我的困惑和難過。
爭取到了最後一線生機的我，翻遍了當時厚厚的大學名錄，選了其中學費最廉價的學校，並最終被兩所學校錄取。一所是正式的大學，財經專業；另一所是技術學院，水利工程專業。因為招生簡章上描述水利工程專業可以考察地質，我那嚮往自由的天性便主導我選擇了技術學院。然而在錄取半途中，校方突然打來電話，告知水利工程專業名額已滿，給我的選項是要不然轉到動物檢疫專業，要不然就不予錄取。
為了離開家，當時的我任何專業都可以接受。更何況，我翻看名錄後發現，這個動物檢疫專業畢業後居然有機會到德國巴伐利亞的黑森林做防疫或海關邊防工作。帶著這樣幼稚的憧憬，我辦理了入學。直到很久以後我才發現真相——原來是該校某位領導的親戚小孩想讀水利工程，於是我的名額便被強行頂替了。終於離開家的我在拿到第一份兼職工資時，十分高興，那是我獨立的象徵。 讀書期間的我同時做3份兼職，獲得年級最優成績，榮獲最高獎項和5千元的獎勵，已經積極投身並組織校園文娛體育活動，也定期參加慈善活動並捐款。
類似仗勢欺人要求我換專業的事，在我後來申請讀研究生期間再次發生。只是此時的我，已不再是那個十七八歲、未經世事只能任人宰割的孩子。我據理力爭，沒有讓出原本屬於我的位置。然而，當我真正進入高牆之內才發現，大陸高校的教育沒有進修的必要，大学教育完全是政治的槍手或傳聲筒，高校的宗旨向來是服從政治高於一切。這讓我感到荒誕，也讓我徹底看清了某些環境不值得我繼續浪費生命。
工作後的我，公司給配了城市SUV用作出行。在一次回家看望父母的路上，車子紮了釘子，我和父親一起到就近的修車鋪補輪胎。沿途，父親完全沉浸在女兒開著一輛在農村人看來相對豪華的汽車的一種略帶虛榮的喜悅裡。載著父親開著城市越野車行駛在鄉村道路上，他興奮地透過車窗與鄰里街坊打招呼，極大 地滿足了父親在鄉鄰面前的面子。修車的老闆是一位比父親年長近十歲的人。老闆一邊乾活一邊感嘆道，他們這個年代出生的人，家鄉早就沒人種地了。我下意識地看了看父親——比老闆年輕十歲的父親，至今還在種地，不是嗎？我以為父親聽到這句不經意的感嘆會有些觸動。沒想到，他完全無動於衷，只是一會兒傻傻地笑，一會兒看似認真地用眼神追蹤著老闆補輪胎的操作。那一刻我明白，他的貧困與局限並非命運不公，而是他本身缺乏對現實的敏銳與反思。
2019年，我先後兩次犯了較為輕微的癲癇。在第二次犯病期間，我去拜訪了祖父年輕時最要好的堂兄弟夫婦——遊爺爺和劉奶奶。祖父年輕時和遊爺爺兄弟情深，關係甚好，他們曾徹夜交談，飲酒作詩，彈琴歡笑。
一天，我本來拉著買菜的折疊小拉車想去超市，結果在商場逛了一圈，感知到自己的身體有些異樣。我害怕因為獨居太久而再次發生癲癇，於是我發簡訊告知了遊爺爺和劉奶奶拜訪他們的意願，經得同意後我前往。到了屋後，爺爺看到我非常狼狽地在這個年紀竟然拉著個買菜小車就來了，趕忙吩咐我坐下，劉奶奶則是貼心地趕忙為我做上一碗熱氣騰騰的煎蛋麵。我吃到一半，腦海中不斷浮現出小時候挨打受虐的畫面，在眼眶鼻子漲得通紅的一陣酸楚後，再也吃不下去了。此時遊爺爺進屋問我是否有其他需要。看著他慈祥的面容，我壓抑多年的委屈瞬間決堤。我向遊爺爺傾訴了小時候父母因我偷錢而用荊條鞭打我的事實。爺爺十分不忍地看著哽咽著說話的我，聽完之後，他長嘆了一句：「不該如此殘忍。」
同年9月，我的癲癇症狀第三次發作。在極度的身體抽搐與意識混亂中，我被送進了急診室。由於當時缺乏全面的神經科排查，我被大陸的醫生草率地診斷為精神分裂症。然而，這個荒謬而沉重的「精神重症」標籤，在現實中反而成了保護我的鎧甲——得知診斷結果後，我的父母開始對我心生忌憚，生怕再次刺激到我。在一年內，他們不再直接強迫我去做符合他們價值觀和期望的事——結婚、生小孩，讓他們像親戚和鄰居一樣當上外公外婆。
這次事件後，我慢慢淡出了家庭的視線，更加安心地在成都過自己的生活。只是逢年過節，我依然照常給他們買衣食住行所需的物資，以及給他們拿錢。對於那個所謂的「家」，每一次與父母的對話，得到的都是無盡的指責、埋怨與情感索取。過去，與他們談話一次，我需要整整一周的時間來撫平他們對我的精神消耗；後來縮短到了三天；再後來是一天。時至今日，再提起這些往事，我只想對這段關係做一個徹底的、理性的定位：今後除了在經濟上履行應盡的支持，我不再對二位付出任何超身體負荷的情感。