I Would Die for You, Again

My name is Yolanda Wendell. Until I was seven, the world was earth-toned. The village was nestled in a mountain hollow, with a rutted dirt road right outside the door. When it rained, murky puddles formed, reflecting the gray, overcast sky. I lived here with my mother, Salome Martin. To be precise, it was my mother who was imprisoned here. The man I called "father" was Terrence Wendell, the one who had bought my mother. I rarely saw my mother smile; her eyes were always red, like a rabbit injured by the wind. Terrence Wendell would lose his temper when drunk, smashing bowls and breaking things, and sometimes even hitting my mother. I hid in the haystack in the woodshed, covering my ears and daring not to make a sound, only able to hear my mother's muffled sobs. Once, my mother tried to sneak away, but Terrence Wendell caught her and tied her to the locust tree in the courtyard. The sun was harsh; my mother's face was sunburned until it peeled, her lips cracked and bled. I carried a half bowl of water over, but Terrence Wendell kicked it aside, and the bowl shattered on the ground. "You little b*tch, how dare you help her?" He glared at me, his eyes as if ready to devour me. My mother cried, "Don't hit Yolanda. If you must hit someone, hit me instead." That was the first time I realized that Terrence Wendell was not my father; he was our enemy. My mother would always secretly teach me to read at night, writing with burnt charcoal on stones. She told me that her home was in the city, where there were tall buildings, clean streets, and parents who loved her. "Yolanda, when I find the chance, I will definitely take you away from here." She held me close, her voice soft, like a whisper in a dream. I believed her because in her eyes there was a light I had never seen before in the village. In the autumn when I was seven, a group of people dressed in clean clothes came to the village; they carried photographs and asked questions. I saw my mother's eyes suddenly brighten. She pulled me to hide behind the door, her finger turning white from gripping tightly. When those people reached the gate of our courtyard, my mother suddenly rushed out, calling out, "Brother, brother." A man in a suit turned around, and the moment he saw my mother, tears streamed down his face. That was my mother's elder brother, my uncle. Terrence Wendell rushed out carrying a hoe, trying to stop us, but the men brought by my uncle held him back. My mother grabbed me, stumbling as we ran; even after losing her shoes, she did not dare to look back. Only after getting into that black car did my mother hold me tight and cry aloud. The car departed from the village, and the scenery outside the window grew increasingly unfamiliar. The earth-toned world gradually gave way to shades of green and gray. My mother stroked my head repeatedly, saying, "Yolanda, we are free now; we are home." But I did not realize that this was not a return home—it was merely the beginning of another chapter of suffering. My uncle took us back to the house in the city. It was a very large home, with floors so polished they reflected one's image. My grandmother held my mother as she wept for a long time, while my grandfather sat silently on the sofa, his eyes rimmed with red. They bought me new clothes, new shoes, and many snacks I had never seen before. I thought better days were coming, but my mother seemed to have changed. She was always sitting alone, lost in thought, her eyes vacant; sometimes she would suddenly clutch her head and scream, "Don't hit me." My grandmother said that my mother had been deeply traumatized and needed time to heal. Not long after, my mother moved out. My uncle said she wanted some tranquility.