My mom is my homeroom teacher, and she loves using me to establish her authority. When I passed an eraser to a classmate during class, she slapped my face swollen in front of the entire class. When I sneakily ate a few crumbs of a classmate’s chips during break, Mom dragged me to the podium and stabbed my mouth with a needle until blood poured out. Later, when the dean caught some students dating, Mom insisted it was me without asking any questions and dragged me to the hallway, stripping off my clothes. Then she went to the dean’s office, all smiles and apologies: “I’m so sorry, Dean Morrison. I haven’t educated Nina properly. Don’t worry, I’ll punish her severely this time!” Dean frowned: “What Nina? The student who was dating isn’t this girl.” Mom froze for a moment, then said dismissively: “Oh, it’s fine. Nina breaks rules all the time anyway. One more punishment won’t hurt.” But what she doesn’t know is that every time she hits me, I secretly deduct a point from her score in my mind. Just now, I’ve accumulated 100 points. Without hesitation, I leapt from the sixth-floor hallway window. Mom, is using death to establish your authority enough?
I walked into the classroom holding my midterm exam paper, my right cheek swollen like a bun, traces of blood at the corner of my mouth. The students around me whispered: “Nina got beaten again, just because she didn’t get a perfect score in math. So tragic…” Wendy rolled her eyes: “Tragic? Her mom’s the homeroom teacher. She has access to the best resources and still can’t get a perfect score. Who else should get beaten?” I paused, swallowing the bitterness at the tip of my nose, and walked into the classroom. Just now in the office, Mom had slapped my face swollen in front of all the teachers and students. “98 points? Should you have lost those two points? Speak up!” Mom’s furious roar still seemed to echo in my ears. The beating left my right ear ringing so badly I could barely hear. But Mom still didn’t stop the punishment: “If you make such a careless mistake again, I’ll slap your left cheek swollen too!” Then she looked at the students behind me: “Those of you who also lost points due to carelessness, did you see that?” I didn’t know how the students behind me reacted. I just kept my head down, my fingers nearly drawing blood from my palms. After the other students left, Wendy stepped forward with a smile, acting cute with Mom: “Ms. Sterling, I didn’t mean to be so careless. I won’t do it again next time~” Mom smiled at her indulgently: “You’re always like this! Don’t do it again, understand?” Wendy stuck out her tongue playfully. I pressed my lips together, my fingers digging deeper. “Alright, you can all go now!” Mom waved her hand. Only then did I dare to slowly turn around, expertly pulling up my hoodie to hide my numb, beaten face. The second before leaving the office, I heard a teacher from another class say admiringly to my mom: “Wendy really is Ms. Sterling’s favorite class representative. You wouldn’t even touch a finger on her.” “Ms. Sterling really knows how to raise children. Your daughter just lets you hit her without making a sound!” Mom said proudly: “Wendy’s not dumb, she just doesn’t use her cleverness in the right places! As for my daughter, she’s been this obedient since childhood. She never talks back.” But Mom doesn’t know. Someone who doesn’t fight back when beaten or cursed is either a dog or a corpse. Because Mom uses me to establish authority, no one in class dares to be my friend. Enduring the pain in my right hand, I returned to my seat and pulled out a miniature notebook from my sleeve. “Face slapped swollen for scoring 98 on math test. Deduct 1 point from Mom.” I wrote it down silently. This is the 99th time already. That means Mom has used me to establish her authority exactly 99 times. One more time, and I’ll be free. For a warrior, making a life-or-death decision takes only a moment. But I’m not a warrior. I’m an ordinary person, cowardly and weak. I carefully tucked the notebook back into my sleeve and took out my math paper. Even though it was break time, I wasn’t allowed to play with others. Listening to the sounds of classmates laughing and playing around me, the wound on my right cheek seemed to hurt even more. Wendy walked over to me, sneering with contempt: “Nina, Ms. Sterling treats me like a real daughter. You must be an orphan Ms. Sterling picked up, nothing more than a punching bag.” I clenched my fists tightly, staring at her coldly: “Someone whose mother abandoned her loves stealing other people’s moms.” Wendy’s mother ran off with someone else when she was four years old. This wasn’t a secret in class. At these words, Wendy’s eyes widened, instantly furious: “Nina, you just wait!” “I’m waiting.” I said coldly. She would just go whisper in Mom’s ear and get me another beating. Perfect. That would be doing me one last favor.
That evening, I pushed open the front door and smelled the familiar aroma of food. The living room glowed with warm yellow light. Mom sat at the dining table with a salad and pizza in front of her. I changed my shoes very quietly, trying to hide my swollen right cheek and the blood traces at the corner of my mouth in the shadows. But the moment I moved, Mom looked up. “You’re back?” Her voice was still stern, but carried a trace of barely perceptible concern. “Does your face still hurt?” I lowered my eyes, shook my head, and sat down at the other end of the table, taking small bites of food. Each bite was torture. Every chew pulled at my facial muscles. It hurt so much. I just swallowed the food whole instead. Suddenly, Mom put down her fork and knife and walked over. My body instinctively stiffened, the muscles in my back tensing. But she just knelt down beside me, reached out her hand, and with cool fingertips, lightly touched my burning, badly swollen cheek. I flinched like I’d been electrocuted. Her fingers paused, and she sighed deeply: “Nina, it hasn’t been easy for Mom to raise you alone.” As she spoke, her eyes gradually reddened. Shedding the daytime armor of a homeroom teacher, she became a struggling single mother. “Mom’s a homeroom teacher managing over fifty kids. Without authority, I can’t function. Discipline falls apart, grades drop, the principal comes after me, parents complain about me.” “You’re Mom’s daughter. If you perform the best, behave the most properly, excel the most, only then will the other students respect me, fear me. Mom needs to establish authority.” Her rough fingers caressed the corner of my eye. That area was dry. I hadn’t cried. I just looked at her slightly red eyes, at that old house dress washed until it was faded and white. Something inside my heart seemed to break open. After a long while, I heard my own dry voice: “Today… Wendy told me I’m just a punching bag, that you don’t see me as your daughter at all.” Mom’s hand froze. The sadness and vulnerability on her face receded like a tide, replaced by an offended severity. “What nonsense are you talking about?!” Mom’s voice suddenly rose, the caring mother image instantly swept away: “You must have said something provocative to Wendy first. Even if you’re jealous of her, you shouldn’t lie!” I closed my eyes, but couldn’t help opening my mouth to sneer: “What am I jealous of? Her bad grades? Her absent mother?” “Slap!” A vicious slap rang out. I was struck so hard my head whipped to the side. My already swollen right cheek swelled even higher. For a moment, my right ear seemed to go deaf. “How can you talk like that? Such vicious words, I can’t believe they came from my own daughter’s mouth!” “Own daughter…” I repeated the words in a murmur, suddenly finding it absurdly funny, almost wanting to laugh. “So I deserve to be beaten the hardest? Deserve to have no dignity?” “You!” Mom’s chest heaved with anger, her pointing finger trembling. “You’re so ungrateful! I’ve worked so hard…” I expertly tuned out her tearful complaints. Once, these words could instantly soften my heart, make me think Mom had it so hard. But today, those words passed through that hole like wind, leaving no trace. For my own good—so she had to slap my face swollen, had to stab my mouth with needles. So “for my own good” was this kind of bone-scraping, dignity-crushing pain. After she finished scolding, she wiped her face, stood up, and returned to that exhausted calm, as if her earlier rage was just my imagination: “Alright, hurry up and eat. You need to get up early tomorrow.” I lowered my head and continued eating the pizza that had long gone cold. Under the table, my fingers curled, rubbing the miniature notebook hidden in my sleeve. Soon. I said to myself in my heart.
The next day at school. After the lunch break bell rang, I pressed my face against the desk, my right cheek against the cool surface, trying to ease the pain. Wendy suddenly walked in with her head held high, leaned close to my ear, her voice full of undisguised glee: “You’re finished.” I looked down indifferently, thinking carelessly. If I died, Mom would probably adopt Wendy as her daughter. After all, she loves Wendy most. I just wonder if Wendy can withstand her authority-establishing methods. Just then, the door was suddenly slammed open with such force that everyone looked up. Mom stood in the doorway, chest heaving violently, face ashen. She walked to the center of the classroom, her gaze like a poisoned probe, slowly and coldly piercing through each panicked face one by one. Finally, that gaze locked firmly onto me. My heart suddenly sank, plunging into an ice cellar. “Our class has really outdone itself.” She suppressed the terrifying storm in her eyes. “Someone’s thoughts aren’t where they should be, learning those low-class things—dating! And got caught red-handed!” Dead silence. Everyone held their breath. “Nina, get out here!” Blood instantly rushed to the top of my head, then drained completely the next second. “I didn’t…” My voice trembled. “You didn’t?!” Mom sharply interrupted, stepping forward, her shadow looming over me. Just then, came the slight sound of a chair moving from the front row. Wendy stood up. She lowered her head slightly, fingers anxiously twisting the hem of her clothes, cheeks flushed with difficult red. She first looked timidly at the furious Mom, then quickly glanced at me, her eyes incredibly complex—seemingly reluctant, yet resigned. “Ms. Sterling…” Her voice was thin and trembling. “Wendy, tell me. What do you know? Don’t be afraid, just tell the truth.” Wendy seemed encouraged yet more troubled. She bit her lip, finally raising her watery eyes: “Last Friday after school, I saw Nina and that boy from Class 7 kissing behind the school’s back gate…” Instantly, I felt the surrounding air sucked out, cold suffocation gripping my throat. “You’re lying! Wendy, you’re making false accusations!” I jumped up, trembling all over with anger and injustice. “I don’t even know—” “NINA!!” A roar exploded like thunder over my head. Mom had already stepped in front of me, raising her hand and delivering a full-force slap to my already swollen right cheek.
The world instantly flipped, roaring. Intense pain exploded, spreading from my cheek through my entire skull in an instant. My vision went black. Warm liquid gushed from both my nose and mouth. The sweet metallic taste of rust filled my mouth. “How dare you talk back?! How dare you lie?!” Mom’s voice became shrill and distorted. She grabbed my bangs forcefully, dragging me toward the podium like a dead dog, stumbling and lurching. Tearing pain came from my scalp, but I couldn’t feel it anymore—only the burning sensation on my face and the overwhelming humiliation. “Everyone look closely!” She slammed me hard against the solid edge of the podium. My waist hit it, the pain making me groan as I curled up. She yanked my hair, forcing me to expose my blood-covered, rapidly swelling face to the entire class. “Look at this face! This is what happens when you break school rules!” “I didn’t… Mom… I really didn’t…” Tears mixed with blood covering my face, I even forgot to call her “teacher” in my desperate state. I struggled futilely, crying out, my voice broken beyond recognition. Through blurred vision, I saw countless frightened and curious eyes below. Wendy stood at her seat, lips slightly curved, eyes full of satisfaction, piercing through my heart like madness. “Didn’t? The witness is right here and you still dare say you didn’t?!” She suddenly grabbed my arm: “Come out! Get to the hallway! Let everyone see what happens to those who don’t follow rules and have filthy thoughts!” I was half-dragged, half-pulled out of the classroom. Then her hands reached for my school uniform jacket zipper. “No… don’t! Mom! Please don’t do this! I was wrong, I really know I was wrong!” Unprecedented terror seized me instantly. I broke into piercing screams, struggling with all my strength, both hands desperately protecting my chest, fingernails digging deep into the fabric of my uniform. “Now you know you were wrong? Too late!” Her voice was utterly cold: “Today I’m going to make you remember! Everyone will watch too—this is what happens when you date!” “Riiip—” The cheap school uniform zipper burst open under brute force. Buttons were torn off, flying away. The fabric was roughly ripped open. A large expanse of shoulder and collarbone was suddenly exposed to the cold air and prying eyes. “Ahhh!!” I screamed in complete breakdown, desperately curling my body, futilely trying to cover myself with the torn fabric and trembling arms. Cold, so cold. Every pore was screaming with cold. But even colder than the temperature was that inescapable, stripped-naked-for-display humiliation. At the end of the hallway, students from other classes had already come to investigate the noise, peering from a distance, pointing and whispering. But Mom stood like a victorious general. She panted, looking at me—curled up in the corner, clothes in disarray, face covered in blood, shaking like a leaf in the wind—full of authority and satisfaction. “Kneel here and reflect! Don’t you dare stand up without my permission!”
Mom didn’t look at me again. She smoothed her hair, which had become slightly disheveled from the violence, straightened the wrinkles on her clothes, and restored the solemn expression belonging to “Ms. Sterling” to her face. She turned and walked toward the dean’s office. I shook like a sieve, my heart aching as if being tortured by a thousand cuts. I didn’t understand why I had to endure all this. Why my dignity was just a tool for establishing authority. I don’t know how much time passed. Maybe just a few minutes, maybe a century. My left arm could still move. Slowly, extremely slowly, I raised my trembling hand and reached into my school pants pocket. My little notebook. I used every bit of strength remaining in my body to write with trembling hand: “Falsely accused of dating, publicly stripped and humiliated. Deduct 1 point from Mom.” Closing the notebook, I leaned against the wall, bit by bit, supporting my body that no longer seemed to belong to me. My knees hurt so much, my face hurt, the exposed skin stung from the wind. But my head felt light and floating. Like breaking free from some incredibly heavy shackles embedded in flesh and blood. I struggled to sit on the hallway window ledge. Before me was the sun-drenched green lawn and field. I could faintly hear the happy voices and laughter of students. So nice. I thought, gasping. The next second, my hand gripping the window frame released. My body leaned forward, out the window. The wind instantly became violent, roaring as it filled my ears. The sensation of weightlessness enveloped my entire body. Mom. I’m using death to help you establish authority. Is it enough? The door to the dean’s office was slightly ajar. From inside came Mom’s apologetic voice: “I’m so sorry, Dean. I haven’t educated Nina properly. Don’t worry, this time I’ll definitely punish her severely, teach her a lesson, and set an example for the other students!” Dean frowned, looking at the pair of male and female students hanging their heads before him, puzzled: “What Nina? The students who were dating aren’t from your class.” The smile on Mom’s face froze, but she quickly recovered, awkwardly waving her hand: “Oh, it’s not Nina? Never mind, never mind. It’s all the same. Since we caught a dating case, we need to make an example. Nina can serve as a warning to all students.” Dean’s frown deepened. Nearly fifty years old, he’d seen all kinds of teachers, but this was the first time seeing one like Ms. Sterling who, knowing she’d gotten the wrong person, still insisted on using her own daughter as a scapegoat to establish authority. “Ms. Sterling, this isn’t appropriate. These two students made the mistake and should be handled accordingly. If Nina didn’t do anything wrong, how can we punish her unjustly? That’s not fair to the child.” At these words, Mom’s expression soured, but she quickly put on that “everything’s for work” serious face: “Dean, Nina is my daughter. If I punish her, the students will be more afraid, will know I’m impartial. Nina will understand my good intentions.” When she said this, her tone was certain, her eyes even carrying a trace of “sacrificing the small for the greater good” self-satisfaction. Dean wanted to say something more when the office door was suddenly slammed open with a “bang.” A female student, face bloodless, voice carrying a sob and trembling disbelief: “Ms. Sterling! Something terrible happened! Nina… she jumped from the building!”
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