Suddenly, I started screaming.
I looked around in panic and fear, searching for horrors that weren't even there.
I turned and scanned the room, then looked beside me…
And saw a pair of eyes staring back in shock.
Damn it.
I've been exposed. In front of my baby.
This is exactly what I was afraid of.
Actually, I'm lying—I did expect this to happen.
Just not so soon.
I wanted to hold onto my dignity for a little while, at least with this child.
It's like trying to comfort a grieving family by saying, "Everyone dies eventually," only to drop dead yourself right after.
You become a joke.
You meant to soften the blow of death, but it turns around and slaps you in the face, proving everything you said was pointless trash.
Anyway, I got up and walked to the bathroom.
I started washing myself.
I'm seriously obsessed with cleanliness.
No, wait—that's a lie.
I just believe I'm washing away my sins.
And somehow, that soothes me.
I came out and nursed the baby.
When I finished, I put on modest clothing—because I'm a proud and decent woman.
Ha! What a nice joke.
The real reason is: I'm afraid my enemies might recognize me.
Why am I so obsessed with torturing myself?
I don't even allow myself the tiniest bit of rest.
No comfort, no ease.
Maybe I believe that suffering will bring me salvation.
If that's the case, then the first people who deserve salvation are serial killers—
Through their torment, slicing their victims, and their mental illness.
I'm even trying to ease my suffering with this kind of cheap, ridiculous metaphor.
God, help me. I've truly gone mad.
And once again, this crazy mother appears—
Sometimes trying to kill me,
Sometimes nursing me with love.
Then suddenly, she screams in her sleep, turns to look at me, and blushes like a twenty-year-old girl.
What the hell, old lady?
You've got a baby now—stop acting like a silly teenage girl.
Okay, maybe I went too far.
She doesn't look older than her thirties.
But that doesn't give her the right to act like a teenager.
Also, what's going on with her body?
Literally just last night she gave birth to me,
And now she's walking around, cooking, and almost killed me?
What is this madness?
Has gender equality become so real that the masculine excuse no longer works?
Even if she had the strength of a man,
No strong man could do what she did—
Giving birth and walking around like it was nothing.
Like she just let out a fart and moved on.
Where the hell did those monsters come from?
It didn't sound like any normal animal.
Its roar was terrifying.
And when she covered my mouth to silence me, the monster went away.
At first, it came directly toward the house—like it knew exactly where we were.
Does it track by smell?
No way.
If that were true, we'd already be protein in its stomach.
So maybe it's sound?
And when I panicked, she clamped her hand over my mouth so tightly—
Even her desire to kill me started when I screamed.
Before that?
She nursed me.
Cleaned me.
Bathed me.
Put me to sleep.